by Anton Strout
“Nooo,” he screamed again, and cowered toward the needle, backing through the railing that surrounded it. Although the jogger was immaterial, he fell back like he had tripped on something, and phased into the base of the monolith, disappearing altogether. The park fell silent around us. Connor hurried over.
“That could have gone better,” he said, looking around with caution on his face.
“Better how?”
“We could have not failed completely,” he said with optimism.
“That’s not terribly mentor-y,” I said, turning to head back down the stairs. “I’m going to . . .”
I was interrupted by something akin to the screech of Godzilla coming from behind Connor. I looked at Cleopatra’s Needle. It took me a moment to identify the sound, but then it struck me—the sound of wrenching metal, coming from the pedestal at the base of the monolith. Not one, but all four of the bronze crabs were pulling free from their moorings, the sound becoming overpowering and painful to listen to. Connor covered his ears.
I shoved the blaster into my coat pocket, threw back the other side of my coat, and pulled out my retractable bat. I thumbed the switch and the bat jumped to full size.
Connor was still facing me, clutching his ears, stunned by the sound.
Not sure of what the hell they were or what to call them, I screamed over the sound of the crabs tearing free. “Umm . . . mecha-crabs behind you . . .”
Connor narrowed his eyes at me as he tried to figure out what I was saying, but seeing the bat in my hand was enough to get him to turn and face our foes.
The crabs hit the ground with an immensely solid clang.
“What was it you said?” I asked. “Nine hundred pounds of bronze? That makes each of the crabs roughly two hundred pounds!”
I looked at the thinness of my hollow bat and collapsed it back down, resheathing it.
“I say we err on the side of actually living and run,” I said. “Not that I’m ordering you.”
“No, that’s an order I can take,” Connor said, and ran for the stairs. “C’mon!”
The tiny legs of the bronze crabs clacked across the cobblestones while their claws snapped like sharp, tiny vises. That was all I needed to get running.
Connor was already down the steps and turning south along the path. I skipped the steps entirely and jumped straight to the ground in two bounds, catching up to him.
Even with my eyes somewhat adjusted to the light, it was tough following Connor through the darkness. The path led under a footbridge, the sound of rapid crab claws echoing against the tunnel walls. On this side of the bridge the path began to wind in and out of trees and my pace slowed a little as I fought to keep from losing an eye to low-hanging branches.
“Don’t slow down, kid,” Connor yelled, and then I heard him begin a low litany of “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit . . .”
I wanted to go faster, but all I could think of was a jagged branch skewering my eyeball or that, like in some movie cliché, I’d trip on an unearthed root that would be my undoing. I shielded my eyes, picked my feet up high, and ran faster. Off to either side of the path, I noticed thousands of tiny lights flickering off in the trees like I was running past a Fourth of July display.
“What the hell are those?” I shouted.
Connor slowed a little as he looked, but he didn’t slow much.
“Beats me, kid. Probably one of the million reasons I hate fucking being in the park at night.”
For a short while they brightened, and I swore I could see a city among them, one much different from Manhattan. It looked part Blade Runner, mixed with a dash of Tolkien, both gorgeous and terrifying to see out here in the middle of the night. I was determined not to fall and returned my eyes to the path. The lights faded away and the darkness of the woods returned. The sight of the speck that was Connor receding up ahead urged me to sprint even harder.
I caught up with him as he came to a stop, wrapped his arms around a tree, and shimmied up it.
I had no idea why Connor had opted to climb a tree at this point in our escape. Surely the crabs could wait around the base until he tried to come down. I congratulated myself for keeping moving and staying on the ground.
Until I saw nothing but lake spread out before me.
19
“Dive in, kid,” Connor shouted from up in the tree.
I dove.
As the ice-cold water nearly sent my body into shock, I propelled myself underwater and out across the lake. When I surfaced, I twisted myself around and looked back to shore. The crabs had left Connor alone up in the tree, having preferred to continue after me as the grounded target. All four charged into the water, clicking their claws as they came. I was thrilled, however, to see that, despite chasing me into the lake, the one thing the vicious little crabs couldn’t do was float. They used their back legs to try to propel themselves as a regular crab would, but the weight of their bronze bodies dragged them to the bottom of the lake. As long I kept myself floating at the surface, I should be fine. I watched as each of them sank into the mud of the lake bed below, their claws frantically clicking toward the surface.
I swam back to shore. When I crawled back onto dry land, Connor was just coming down from his tree. I slowly peeled off my coat. It weighed a ton.
“Son of a bitch,” I said, trying to wring it out as best I could. “What the hell just happened?”
I looked at Connor, but his concentration was mostly focused on the lake behind me.
“Kolb,” he said, “just possessed those things. And here he comes again . . .”
I stood there soaking wet, shivering, and turned myself around. Beneath the water, a faint white light started to form, growing like a searchlight rising to the surface. The water bubbled like it was a giant stew pot of WTF, and out of it rose glowing bubbles full of swirling mist, some as large as basketballs. With an alarming pop, the mist broke free and swirled together until I recognized a distinct shape forming. It was the jogger, gasping for air and clawing his way toward the shore. He still acted like he was human and that breathing was an issue for him.
The jogger pulled himself up onto shore and collapsed. His dark wreath of hair was wet, hanging down on one side at least half a foot from a bad comb-over. Everything else on him was wet, too—running shorts, track shoes, and his “Sherlock Ohms” T-shirt. He lay there, sputtering and catching his breath.
“Why is he wet?” I whispered to Connor. “He’s dead. Doesn’t that mean he’s immaterial?”
Connor shook his head.
“I don’t think he understands that he’s dead,” he said. “Mr. Kolb here thinks he’s alive so his spirit is reacting somewhat accordingly. He expected to get wet being in a lake, therefore he’s wet. Didn’t they teach you anything as a F.O.G.gie yet?”
“I am too alive,” the jogger said, forcing himself up onto his knees, “and it’s Doctor Kolb to you. I didn’t go to MIT just for the parties, I’ll have you know.”
He snickered at what he must have thought was some great private joke, then stood up. With care, he scooped the hanging section of his comb-over back onto the top of his head and arranged it. It was a futile attempt at best, looking nothing more than someone with a wet cat sitting up there, but he looked happy with it.
“Sorry, about that, Dr. Kolb,” I said. Politeness was the cornerstone of the D.E.A.’s training manual Deadside Manner . . . or what I had read of it, anyway.
His initial fear from when we had first seen him tonight seemed to be gone, replaced with fascination. He turned away from us and looked down into the water.
“Astounding,” he said. “Did you catch all that? The way my body broke down on a molecular level, and reconstituted itself by manifesting within those four statues?”
“That doesn’t seem odd to you?” I said.
“Odd, certainly,” Dr. Kolb said, his face a mask of excitement, “but think about the scientific implications of this. This is on par with King Midas or the myth of the philosopher’s
stone . . .”
Before I knew what was happening, Connor had reclaimed his bubble gun from the base of the tree and fired it at the jogger, blasting him with the spirit binding. The ghost’s face went slack.
“What the hell?” I asked.
“Sorry,” Connor said, not really looking like he was. “He was rambling. I need him a little more sedate than that—I’m certainly not going to argue with him whether he’s dead or not.”
Connor had a point. Back when we had found the ghost of Irene Blatt in the coffee shop, she had been pretty adamant that she was still alive, too.
“You were attacked yesterday,” Connor said to him. “You died.”
The jogger, although much more sedate now, still shook his head. “I don’t see how that’s possible. I mean, you are talking to me.”
Connor pulled out his cell phone. He flipped it open and called up one of the pictures he had taken at the scene of the crime yesterday.
“Not to be harsh or anything,” Connor said, “but do you recognize that guy lying there half covered in a sheet?”
The jogger squinted at the tiny screen. His eyes widened, and he nodded. His wet hair fell from its perch and hung off the side of his head again like damp seaweed.
“Hate to break it to you like this,” Connor continued, “but the good doctor? He’s out . . . for good. Someone or something did this to you. Can you think of anyone who would want you dead?”
Dr. Kolb laughed at that. “Want me dead? You’re kidding, right? I’m a scientist. My specialty is developing polycarbonate thermoplastic resins for communications and buildings. Who’s going to want me dead? Someone from a rival nerd consortium?”
Connor looked agitated, but pointed at the camera phone. “Well, scientifically speaking, something made you dead, Doctor. Personally, I’d like to know who. I would think you’d like to know as well.”
Dr. Kolb looked at the picture on Connor’s phone again. He screwed up his face, struggling to remember. If he could recall who had done this to him, or why, I was fairly certain it would be a huge step toward figuring out our case, not to mention helping Dr. Kolb pass on to the next life.
“Anything you can give us,” Connor continued, his voice less harsh this time. “Anything at all, no matter how insignificant.”
“I can almost see it in my mind,” the dead jogger said, still struggling.
While Dr. Kolb gave it a good think, I watched the water for any signs of the crabs, even though the spirit that had been mechanizing them now stood before us. I shuddered at the thought of them crawling back up to shore.
“It was like . . . like a dog,” he said with conviction.
“A dog?” I repeated, then looked to Connor, raising an eyebrow. “Werewolf?”
“Doubtful,” he said. “We’re not even close to having a full moon right now.”
“I said like a dog,” Dr. Kolb said, clearly irritated that he was dealing with two people he felt were his mental inferiors. “Not an actual dog.”
I tried to keep him focused. “Why don’t you describe it to us, then?”
The dead jogger’s attitude morphed as he recalled the creature, his face full of fear.
“Like I said, kinda like a dog, only hairless . . . with sunken red eyes . . .”
Connor perked up at this. Dr. Kolb started to stutter, his fright overtaking him as if he were reliving the experience.
“I couldn’t look away. I wanted to, God knows, but I was paralyzed with fear . . .”
“This creature,” Connor said, “was its back kinda spiny?”
Dr. Kolb nodded. His arms were held out in front of him, trying to push something invisible away.
I moved closer to Connor.
“You know what it is?” I whispered.
He nodded and hit the speed dial on his phone. haunts-general popped up on the display.
“Could it have been a vampire?” I asked. “Can’t vampires take canine form, do that whole shape-shifting thingie?”
Connor rolled his eyes. “Don’t believe everything you see on the SCI FI Channel, okay? Believe me, kid, it ain’t vampires.”
20
I was freezing by the time Haunts-General showed up twenty minutes later. They started going about the business of releasing Dr. Kolb’s spirit. Whatever that entailed, I really didn’t know. My last encounter with them had been over Irene’s spirit, and the paperwork for dealing with a spirit like hers sans body had been enough of an excuse for them to leave her case in Other Division hands. Haunts-General had simply walked away from it. Tonight, thankfully, we already had the body and now the spirit of the late Dr. Kolb. Hopefully they’d be able to send the poor guy off to wherever it was that spirits were supposed to go after death, and Dr. Kolb would be one less apparition running through the park.
As Haunts-General took over the scene, I described what had happened while Connor walked off for a bit. When I was done, I searched around for him, only to find him alone heading toward the nearest exit of the park.
“So, if it’s not vampires, then what is it?” I asked when I was by his side. Connor really didn’t look like he wanted to talk, and when he finally spoke he sounded pissed.
“Dammit, kid. You shouldn’t have reported it as vampires. You said it was vampires in the vision.”
“I know,” I said.
Connor stopped and turned to me. “Now the Enchancellors are probably going to come down on you for blowing the call. I’m sorry—come down on us. You were so quick to call it. Is that what they teach you F.O.G.gies? To make rash judgments? You know, for a secret society, you sure seem pretty keen on showboating.”
I gave up. Connor started walking again, and I followed him.
“So are you going to tell me what type of creature we’re dealing with or not?”
Connor sighed. “Well, from what our dear dead doctor had to tell us—red, hypnotic eyes, a doglike creature with pronounced spinal ridge—I’m guessing we’re looking for a chupacabra.”
I knew the name from the D.E.A.’s three-hour seminar entitled “Fee Fie Foes: A Refreshing Look at Cryptozoology from A to Z.” There had been handouts, but I was sure mine were lost somewhere in the paperwork scattered across my desk. What I did remember of the chupacabra was one key factor. It, too, was a bloodsucker.
“They’re from New Mexico,” I said. We were at the edge of the park now. Connor walked though the gate, moved to the edge of Fifth Avenue, and hailed a cab. “Why would there be one of those in New York City?”
A cab pulled over and Connor got in. He made no effort to move over, leaving me to stand, wet and freezing, on the curb.
“Maybe you’d better read up on them, then,” he said, sullen. “And while you’re at it, why don’t you fill out the paperwork for reporting the missing crab statues? Maybe next time you’ll think before causing a stir in the Department.”
He slammed the door shut and the cab sped off as the horror of more paperwork filled my head.
I stood there, soaking wet, wondering if I’d ever again be able to go a whole day with dry pants. The odds weren’t looking good.
By the time I got back to my apartment, I was shivering involuntarily, thanks to being soaked through. I barely had control of my hands as I went to unlock my door, but I finally managed to get it open on the third try.
Thankfully, Mina was already passed out in my guest bedroom, so I wouldn’t have to deal with her. I considered that my luckiest break in the whole of my night—well, morning. I hadn’t really thought about what I would have told her had she seen me coming in like this anyway. She never would have bought a made-up story about the old version of me getting mugged, but since she held the straight-and-narrow version of me in such low esteem, maybe she would have bought it. It was no matter—she was busy sleeping, something my body desperately wished it was doing.
I counted myself lucky that I wasn’t scheduled to be on the floor at the Javits Center until noon the next day, but I still wanted to get up early to take care of a few t
hings over at the Lovecraft, like seeing if my phone had come in yet or if Godfrey had anything on Cleopatra’s Needle. I peeled myself out of my cold second skin of clothing and took the most scalding shower I could stand in an effort to raise my core temperature back to normal. I hoped it was enough to kill whatever ick I had been exposed to just from jumping into the lake.
The next morning I was up and out the door without having to interact with Mina, though I remembered to slip my lock picks in my coat pocket. The less I interacted with her, the quicker she would be gone when she got what she wanted out of me. When I hit East Eleventh, the front of the Lovecraft Café buzzed with activity, which was no surprise. At this time of day there was always a heavy mix of agents among the locals, which made what I was about to do slightly easier.
