by J. R. Rain
Russell Baker was in his mid-twenties, which put him about the age I had been when I was rendered into what I am to this day. Physically, we looked the same age. But we weren’t. Seven years had passed since my attack. Seven crazy, long, nightmarish years.
I finished the packet of blood and wiped the back of my hand across my mouth. Blood streaked over my knuckles, and, like a true monster, I licked it off my skin.
Such as ghoul, I thought.
The map actually had an ‘X’ marked on it, along with a dashed line that surely indicated a path to follow. It was an old-school map, drawn by someone who’d seen far too many Errol Flynn movies.
Riddles were written neatly in the four corners of the map. Four riddles, in fact. Scrawled in bold letters across the top of the map were the words: CATALINA ISLAND.
No mistaking that.
I’d been to Catalina, which consisted of one main town of about four thousand people and very few cars. Golf carts and Segways dominated. Last I’d heard, there was a fourteen-year wait list to own a gas-powered vehicle on the island. Catalina rested some twenty-odd miles off the coast of Southern California. A nice place to visit, although pollution levels were notoriously high there. Then again, unless the water was laced with high amounts of silver chromium, I didn’t have much to worry about.
The chaotic spirit of Adam Rose’s father, Cleo Rose, had disappeared the moment his son had left my house. Truth was, I could have reached out to the spirit for help in this matter—if the spirit could form coherent enough thoughts for me to interpret.
But I didn’t want to reach out.
No, I wanted to solve this damn riddle on my own, old-school style. No psychic help. No telepathy. Nothing supernatural. Just me and my brain and one crazy-ass map.
I looked at it again. There were four riddles on the map, each written by hand, one in each of the four corners. I assumed solving one riddle would lead to the next. But which was first? And which was next? I decided to start with the upper left-hand riddle, as that made sense to me. Then again, what made sense to me, might be far different than what made sense to the nonsensical ramblings of a man with dementia.
I rewrote the four riddles on a pad of paper in front of me, writing them in the sequence I assumed they went.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
Ten days a week, have a peek.
Nine into eight, love or hate?
Twenty to one, run run run.
I lit a cigarette now because I could. I lit a cigarette now because the damn things wouldn’t kill me. Sure, no one liked cigarette breath—but tonight, it was just me and the map.
The trail that led to the ‘X’ had exactly twenty dashes. Twenty steps?
I didn’t know. In fact, there was no way of knowing until I arrived at Catalina Island tomorrow. Still, that didn’t stop me from poring over the map into the wee hours of morning, while somewhere out there a werewolf roamed his palatial estate, and a new vampire learned the fine art of the kill...
* * *
The ferry from Long Beach to Catalina Island took just over an hour.
I’d recently been on a ferry up in Washington State, where I’d visited the world’s creepiest island, officially. Although the menace that haunted it—and the resident family—was now long gone, I suspected it was still out there, searching for its next host.
God help anyone foolish enough to allow it in.
Anyway, I exited the ferry in the late evening with other tourists and residents. Sunburned and exhausted tourists streamed past me in the opposite direction, heading back to the mainland. Interestingly, as I exited onto the dock, my inner alarm began to ring softly.
I paused and looked around, but nothing caught my eye.
Curiouser and curiouser.
My life was different now than it had been just a few months ago. I no longer possessed the emerald medallion...that golden disk that enabled me to live comfortably enough in sunlight. No, that medallion and another just like it, had been purposefully destroyed by me. Now I sought the fourth and final medallion, the one worn by Fang, of all people.
Synchronicity, I thought, at its best.
Or worst.
I had left the kids alone at home, as they had proven to be capable of watching themselves, at least for a few hours at a time. Then again, my kids were not like other kids. My kids could take care of themselves. And, yes, my sister was on high alert should her services be needed asap.
As tourists and residents streamed past me in both directions, either heading to the ferry or to the small town of Avalon, I realized that I hadn’t a clue where to start looking.
No, that wasn’t true. I did have a clue. The first riddle.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
Sure, that didn’t sound crazy at all. I sighed and bit my lip and saw something curious directly in front of me, at the end of the landing. It was a glittering mass of electromagnetic energy collecting at the far end of the landing dock. I often saw spirits. In fact, it was a rare day when I didn’t see a spirit or two. Most ghosts didn’t fully form, often appearing only as bundles of light, at least to my eyes.
Although only partially formed, I recognized the spirit immediately as Cleo Rose. I could recognize his spiritual signature, so to speak, even though the physical details were lacking. That, and I sensed the craziness wafting off the entity. Incoherent, rambling thoughts that somehow reached me.
Lucky me.
As I drew closer, Cleo Rose took on more shape. He went from looking like a fuzzy ball of light, to something humanoid. I stopped before him as a family with kids continued on excitedly, and for a brief moment, I was alone with a man who’d died ten years ago, a man who had been crazy in life, and, apparently, just as crazy in death.
“Hi, Cleo,” I whispered.
The glowing shape briefly scattered, then reformed again, like a startled school of fish.
“Yes, I can see you.”
Cleo briefly took on more shape. I saw shoulders, a head, ears...perhaps even a robust beard. Random, incoherent thoughts reached me. Strange images flashed through my thoughts. These were his thoughts, I knew, that I was picking up on. So crazy that I shielded myself from most of them.
I said, “I’m going to find your treasure, Mr. Rose. But I don’t want your help.”
He continued regarding me silently. His crackling, sparkling, light-filled body formed and reformed, seemingly blown about on ethereal winds that I could neither see nor feel. I sensed a great sadness wafting from him. I also sensed other emotions coming from him as well: fear, regret and love being the top three.
But mostly sadness.
I wondered why.
* * *
Avalon was hopping.
Since Catalina boasted a respectable nightlife, live music issued from many of the bars and restaurants as dozens of tourists strolled the beaches and boardwalks. Catalina was a popular destination for Southern Californians.
And apparently, pretend pirates, too.
I strolled along Pebbly Beach Road and looked across the harbor toward the beautiful, polished dome of Catalina’s most famous attraction: the Casino. It sat east of the city and dominated the landscape. It was beautiful and gaudy and seemed oddly out of place. And yet, it still worked, too.
I still had an audience, of course. The spirit of Mr. Rose was following behind me, keeping his distance—but keeping his ghostly eyes on me, as well.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
A riddle, obviously. I liked riddles, which is probably why I wanted to become an investigator in the first place. As I stood there at the beginning of town, as the smell of cooking fish and suntan oil wafted over me, it occurred to me that Catalina Island was surrounded by the Pacific Ocean. Not a sea. A clue? I didn’t know. Loud laughter erupted from a restaurant nearby. I ignored the laughter. What if the crazy old goat had purposely misspelled ‘sea’?
I continued standing there in town, suspecting—and perhaps this was an inadvertent psychic hit—that this is
where I should be starting this treasure hunt. I studied the landscape...searching, searching. I searched signs and landmarks for a man by the sea.
Nothing.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should give the poor guy his retainer back. Or maybe I should just reach out with my various heightened extrasensory abilities.
Maybe...or maybe not.
I strolled through downtown casually, just another tourist here to see the sights...and to find one crazy man’s treasure. Tammy would have loved it here. Same with Anthony. Of course, right about now, both would have had me regretting bringing them. Still, it was hard not to stroll through such a charming place and not think of them.
I need to show them more of the world, I vowed to myself. I’m a bad mom.
No, I’m a busy mom. A single mom.
I continued turning the first riddle over and over in my mind. As I did so, I strolled past a directory of the island. I noted many island features and landmarks and roads, but the thing that stood out the most was the name of one particular street. In fact, the moment I saw it, I knew I had figured out the first clue.
The key with any riddle was to solve part of it, any part. Once done, the pattern for the rest of the riddle might emerge.
Might being the operative word here.
I had done a little research on the island today. Okay, my research consisted of reading the Wikipedia page of Catalina Island on the ferry ride out. Anyway, I had learned one or two things I hadn’t previously known about the island. One was that Wrigley had owned most of it in the 1920s. Yes, the chewing gum people. One long street had been named after them, Wrigley Road.
One man by sea, chaw on me.
Chaw was, of course, a variant of chew. In fact, as I stood there, I did a quick search of the word on my iPhone to be sure. Yup, there it was: Chaw...something chewed, not meant to be swallowed.
Something like...gum?
One man by sea...
How about: One man buy C...
“C” as in Catalina. Or...
One man buy Catalina, chew on me.
I headed immediately for Wrigley Road.
* * *
No, I didn’t know what I was doing, but at least I knew where to start. And since Wrigley Road covered many miles along the north side of the island, I figured I would do what any good investigator would do: start at the beginning.
I wasn’t winded or anywhere near to being tired as I headed up the winding road through town, passing many charming homes and condos and various properties designed strategically to catch a glimpse of glittering blue water.
Twenty minutes later, I stood at the crossroads of Wrigley Road and Clemente Avenue. As I stood where one residential street led into another, I considered the second riddle:
Ten days a week, have a peek.
As I stood there, perplexed, I felt stronger than ever. It was early evening and I was alive. I was tempted to count off ten homes down Wrigley Road, but that seemed too easy. Of course, the very person—or entity—who had concocted this riddle was presently watching behind me a few houses down. I could march over to him and ask what the hell he meant. I could have—but I didn’t.
Ten days a week would be, what, one and a half weeks?
What if I started on Sunday and counted ten days from there? That would be, what, Tuesday of the following week? Then again, if I started on a Monday, that would be a Wednesday. Except most calendars start with Sunday.
Have a peek...at a calendar?
Tuesday, I thought. It’s definitely Tuesday.
I scanned Wrigley Street some more, wondering if I’d gone down the wrong road, literally. I scanned homes and golf carts and a smattering of cars. Above a golf cart closest to me was a street sign. I stepped over and read it. Or...had a peek.
Street Sweeping, Tuesday, 8 - 11 a.m.
Coincidence? I didn’t know, but near the bottom half of the sign was an address. A place to pay a ticket. Right, parking tickets for golf carts. Would wonders never cease? Anyway, the address was the local sheriff’s office here in town.
I might have ignored the address and the Tuesday coincidence if not for something else: Someone had carefully underlined the address with something that looked suspiciously like red fingernail polish.
Bingo.
I swiped on my phone, checked Google Maps, located the sheriff’s station, and headed off.
* * *
As I hurried back down toward town, passing charming homes and not-so-charming golf carts, my cell phone chimed. I glanced at the faceplate, a text from Tammy:
Anthony’s being a pill.
I smiled. Not because my son was being a pill, but because my daughter sounded exactly like me. Poor Anthony. Just when he thought Mommy had left...there was a whole new Mommy in town.
What’s he doing? I texted back.
He’s just bugging me.
Bugging you how?
I don’t know. He’s just being weird.
Weird how?
He smells.
Smelling isn’t being weird, I texted.
But it’s a weird smell.
I sighed and told her to finish her homework and to leave her brother alone, and when I finished texting and hit send, I looked up and found myself standing at the sheriff substation.
215 Sumner Avenue.
* * *
Nine into eight, love or hate?
I ran my fingers through my hair as I parked my rear on a bench across the street from the station and really thought about this one. Watching me from a hundred feet or so away was Mr. Cleo Rose. I sensed he was smiling. Or perhaps laughing at me.
Geez, the things I do for a paycheck.
As I sat there and considered the third riddle, I did the obvious and pulled up the iPhone’s calculator feature. 9 into 8 was, according to my iPhone, 0.8888888888888889.
Okay, now that hurt my brain.
I counted all the 8s. Fifteen of them, followed by a trailing 9. I played with the numbers, adding them, subtracting them, rearranging them. Nothing stood out.
My brain hurt some more.
Briefly, of course.
Nine was also the homonym of ‘nein,’ the German word for no. I played with that variation a little and came up with nothing. Tourists drifted past me. I could hear ocean waves crashing from the nearby beaches. The sheriff substation itself was quiet. I considered going inside and looking for clues, until I realized that that would the last place a crazy man with a crazy beard would venture into willingly. I tapped my fingernails on the bench’s wooden arm. The sound of it echoed around me. I wondered how busy the deputy sheriffs were in a town of four thousand. Then recalled that the town attracted its share of knuckleheads from the mainland. Knuckleheads tended to keep cops busy.
Nine into eight...
Well, if I hadn’t had a calculator, I certainly wouldn’t have been able to come up with the sequence of fifteen 8s, with a final 9 taking up the rear. Had the crazy old goat expected his son to carry a calculator with him? I didn’t know. But I decided to switch gears and assume the old bastard hadn’t used a calculator.
So, what the hell did it mean?
I looked around the street, studying the various homes and buildings and sidewalks, listening and smelling and tuning all of my considerable senses into my surroundings.
Nine into eight...
I was on a street called Sumner, just a few blocks from the ocean. As I sat there, and as more time seemed to pass, and as nothing occurred to me, I realized I was stumped. I hated when that happened.
Perhaps even more frustrating was that the crazy old goat who had me going in circles was watching me from under a streetlamp not too far away.
I rubbed my head and considered the clue again, knowing that with each minute I sat here, my kids were closer and closer to tearing each other’s hair out.
Think, Sam.
It suddenly occurred to me to double-check the math, especially if the old man had used an older calculator. That is, of course, if the rid
dle was a math problem. Using my cell phone, I found a different calculator online. I got a different answer.
0.88888888888.
Eleven 8s, all in a row, this time with no trailing 9.
118?
Maybe, maybe not. I chewed my lower lip, considering, looking, searching...then got up and went across the street and looked from the sheriff station out toward the ocean...
Directly in front of me was a mailbox, a library book return bin and a streetlight pole.
And something else...
More red paint.
Painted neatly at the bottom of the mailbox, small enough to not be noticed, and official enough to not be considered graffiti were the numbers: 118.
On the library book return bin, in the same position at the bottom was the word, Sumner.
And on the pole next to them was an arrow.
Pointing further down the street.
Bingo.
* * *
118 Sumner turned out to be the address to a shopping center.
Although I loved shopping, now was not the time. I scanned the names of the stores, but doubted the crazy bastard would have used a store’s name...especially a store that might go out of business. Tourists streamed past me. Most ignored the crazy-looking vampire mama scanning storefronts like her life depended on it.
Not quite, but I could sure as hell use the bonus money I had been promised.
Nine into eight, love or hate?
Well, if given a choice, I would pick love...always love.
So, with that thought in mind, and trusting my gut, I set out looking for...God only knew what.
* * *
Twenty minutes later, I found it.
It was a heart chiseled into some brick work near the base of the first store. Yes, the store itself might change, but the classic brick work would have stayed the same...and the inconspicuous heart carved into it would have gone unnoticed by most people.
Grinning, I knelt down before the inscribed brick and ran my finger over the chiseled faint.
