Walk Hand IN Hand Into Extinction : Stories Inspired By True Detective

by Christoph Paul

  Sheriff Bone only had the two deputies, not even enough personnel to secure the crime scene, so as soon as Wilkins and Hart showed up, first thing they did was call in for State Police Patrol cars to come and mark off the perimeter.

  “Hold on one second,” said Sheriff Bone. “Me and my deputies got this thing handled.”

  “The three of you?” said Wade, and he smirked, even though he shouldn’t have.

  That sent color into the Sheriff’s face.

  “Just hang tight here, Sherriff,” said Freddy. “Officers are on their way. They’ll give you backup to help keep this area clear.”

  They stood on the edge of a thick patch of woods running off as far as you could see. The sun lay just on top of the rows of corn plants across the road. Flashers on the patrol cars lit up faces. You could hear crows in the treetops calling one another, like they were commenting on the scene below.

  “You say the body’s on back through here,” said Wade with a nod at the clutch of trees.

  Sheriff raised his chin. “Can’t miss it.”

  “Your deputy told us some boys riding a minibike through here found the deceased.”

  “That’s right.”

  “We’ll need to talk to them.”

  “Whatever you want, detective,” said the Sheriff.

  Wilkins and Hart started into the woods, clicking on their flashlights as they went.

  When they were out of earshot, the Sheriff turned to one of the deputies. “Get on the radio,” he said. “Call the state police and have them call back those prowlers. We don’t need them.”

  “Right away, Sheriff,” said the Deputy.

  Wilkins and Hart tramped through the underbrush, sweeping flashlight beams left and right. Those woods get humid, and sweat beaded on their foreheads. Wilkins kept slapping at bugs, left and right, but they didn’t seem to bother Hart.

  “You oughtn’t have done that,” said Freddy.

  “Done what?”

  “Laughed back there.”

  “What, at the bumpkins?”

  “This is what I’ve been telling you, Wade. You lack insight into people. You have no psychological acumen whatsoever.”

  “Bullshit, I got no insight into people.”

  “That’s why you’ll never be a true detective.”

  Wade looked over at him in the fading light. “Yeah? That’s what makes a true detective—psychological acumen?”

  “That, along with reason and observation. You learn to observe what others don’t see, to pick up the clues. Reason helps draw the thread of causality from those bits of information left behind back to the necessary unfolding of events. And a keen grasp of psychology allows you to determine motive and find the perpetrator. It’s as simple and perfect as a quadratic equation. Solve for x.”

  “It’s as neat as math, huh?”

  “It is, as long as you have a firm grasp of the true nature of humanity.”

  “Which is what?”

  “Man is a predator, born to hunt, to overpower, to consume what he desires, even—and I’d say, most especially—his fellow man. People live to prey on one another—that’s what we’re genetically designed to do. Their motives are as predictable as any stone rolling down a hill.”

  “You know, Freddy, I’m surprised you don’t have any friends, with as sunny a disposition as you got? Jesus, man, life of the fucking party—that’s what you are.”

  “The truth is ugly, as Nietzsche once said.”

  Their path led them to an opening in the trees carpeted by a layer of soft grass and leaves. A circle in the middle of the area some six feet in diameter had been burned into the grass. The body lay, limbs outstretched, in the center of the circle, like one of Da Vinci’s human figure drawings. The flesh had been stripped from the corpse, but it was still identifiable as belonging to a woman.

  “Number three,” said Wade, jotting down notes.

  Freddy knelt down to have a look.

  “Ligature marks on the wrists and ankles,” he said, pointing. “Same as the others, only they’re cleaner. Must have been tighter, done faster, so she didn’t struggle as much. He’s improving.”

  “Should’ve brought a lantern,” said Wade, wiping sweat and glancing around at the encroaching darkness. He could just see the circle of trees at the perimeter and nothing beyond.

  “Also, looks like the razor cuts are smoother, less hesitation,” said Freddy.

  “So what’s that tell you, Mr. Psychological Acumen.”

  “Tells me our predator’s got a taste for this work and he’s getting better at it.”

  “Yeah? Genius. My retard cousin could’ve come up with that conclusion.”

  Freddy stood, brushing off his hands.

  “What would your retard cousin say about the fact that none of the three victims had pierced ears?”

  Wade looked over at him.

  “They didn’t?”

  Freddy shook his head, though Wade could hardly see him do it in the dark.

  “German Baptists?”

  “Could be,” said Freddy.

  “Means we’ve been looking in the wrong places to find where our victims came from.”

  “Also begs the question of why these girls weren’t reported missing.”

  “All right, that’s not bad,” said Wade.

  “What’s that fellow’s name, one in forensics, who talks about his German Baptist relatives?”

  Wade looked up at the tree branches overhead. “Steinhaus.”

  “Right, Steinhaus. Let’s talk to him, see if he can give us a way into that community, some kind of liaison.”

  “Listen, I’ll tell you what makes a true detective,” said Wade. “And it ain’t no psychological acumen.”

  “All right. What is it then?”

  “Gut instinct. It ain’t no more than that. You can sharpen instinct with training and experience, but it has to be there in the first place, otherwise, you need to find yourself another occupation.”

  “Instinct, huh?”

  Wade slapped his own cheek and examined his palm for the bug. He’d missed it.

  “Yep. Nothing more than that. Psychology’s horse shit.”

  “Horse shit, huh? You want to know what my psychological acumen tells me about you?”

  Wade grinned. “I can’t wait to hear this.”

  Freddy turned towards him.

  “Tells me you’re one highly insecure individual, always looking for something to give you confidence, either the job or some piece of ass you meet at a bar or the bowling alley.”

  Wade scoffed and started to say something.

  “Let me finish,” said Freddy with a wave of his hand. “You’re an only child, and I’d bet top dollar that one or both of your parents were alcoholics—most likely both. Daddy didn’t abuse you physically, but he sure as hell ran you down every chance he got. Whenever Daddy got rough with Mommy, she sought solace with you, didn’t she?”

  Wade’s jaw hung slack. “Fuck you.”

  “Your ex-wife and your kids couldn’t fill that void at the center of your being, so you fall desperately in love with every Jenny wearing lipstick, don’t you, Wade? You’re always hoping they can make you feel like a man, instead of a whinny little boy.”

  “Fuck you, and what you think you know about me and my life.”

  “Like I said, truth is ugly. It ain’t easy having somebody hold a mirror up to you, so’s you see yourself for the first time.”

  “You know, I’m glad we’re finally having this conversation,” said Wade in the darkness. He held his flashlight pointed to the ground. “Gives me a chance to express what I think about you.”

  “Be my guest.”

  “Your soul is sick. It’s all shriveled up. You don’t know nothing about love or friendship or happiness, or anything thing that gives a man pleasure or fulfillment. You probably never had a real friend. All you got is hate—for yourself most of all, but also for the rest of the world, because you can’t stand yourself. You like to thi
nk of it all as some big existential statement, some philosophical position on the human condition, but really, Freddy? You’re just sick in the head, emotionally sick.”

  “Well, shit, Wade, your retarded cousin could’ve come up with that diagnosis.”

  “Yeah, and when somebody calls you on your bullshit, all you got is some witty comeback like that. You never want to take any kind of a hard look at yourself, ‘cause you’d see what a piece of shit you are.”

  Freddy swung his flashlight beam over, so it hit Wade in the face.

  “I guess we’re both fucked up,” he said. “Maybe we deserve one another.”

  Wade let out a chuckle, shading his eyes. “Yeah, maybe. Now get that light out of my face.”

  Freddy lowered the beam.

  “Let’s get on back to the car and see what the hell’s taking those cruisers so long.”

  “Yeah, and we got to get the ME and evidence team out here.”

  They heard movement in the woods and saw a lantern coming towards them.

  “’Bout time you all got here,” Wade called out.

  When the light and noise arrived at the edge of the clearing, they saw Sheriff Bone appear, not State Troopers. The Sheriff had a blue steel automatic pistol in his hand, pointed at the two of them. Beside him, coming into the light, stood a hulk of a man in overhauls, with a boyish, misshapen face.

  “These here are the two I was telling you about,” said the Sheriff.

  The hulking boy-man grinned and raised his hand. He held a straight razor.

  10

  THE MAN WHO COLLECTED CHAMBERS by William Tea

  "Have you seen me?"

  I'm looking right at her, but, no, I haven't seen her. Doubt I ever will.

  She has pigtails and a warm smile. A stuffed animal is clutched tightly to her chest. There's a staple sticking through the top of her head.

  My eyes move away from the girl and scale the rest of the taxi service’s front window. She’s not alone. The glass is wallpapered with flyers for missing persons. More than a few are children. It’s depressing, but not unexpected after all this city’s been through as of late.

  It gives me an idea. Something about a creature on the loose in New Orleans in the aftermath of a hurricane. Looking around, it seems like this would be paradise for a predator. People going missing left and right in the storm, who would notice a few more? Maybe I can tie it into the local Voodoo culture somehow. I whip out my moleskin and jot down a few notes. Hope I can turn 'em into something later on. Filler for my next collection, if nothing else.

  This whole trip is treading dangerously close to being a waste of time.

  "I've got some good news and some bad news," the lawyer on the phone said. The good news: Deacon Steen is dead, and he's left his entire collection to, "someone who'd appreciate it," i.e. me. The bad news: The storm that claimed Deacon's life had destroyed his home, including his library. The collection was in shambles.

  "I'm sorry, there's nothing that can be done," the lawyer said. Said I was welcome to come down to New Orleans when the clean-up was done to salvage whatever was left, but ultimately the executor of the will didn't have any responsibility for the state of the inheritance in instances of "acts of God."

  Nothing to be done? Hell there isn't. Wait for the clean-up? Yeah, wait for some piece of shit to get one good look at some dead famous author's house and decide to loot it, then make off with what rightfully belongs to me. No, I'm not wasting any time. I have to get over there now.

  I have to find The King in Yellow.

  “Fiction is a fabrication that reveals reality.”

  I waited for the applause to die down before continuing.

  My third novel, Widows of the Gyre had met with modest-at-best sales, but I hardly cared about the tastes of the mainstream book-buying public. They were too busy drowning themselves in the banality of Jane Austen-meets-zombies pop-art mash-ups and jumbo-sized shock tabloids trying to pass themselves off as ‘true crime novels’ to delve into the caustic nightmares of legitimate literary horror. Those who knew something about the genre knew my work and appreciated it, so much so that Widows of the Gyre was in contention for several “Book of the Year” awards.

  So it was that I was asked to appear as the guest of honor at New Orleans’ Weird Menace Con. I even had my own Q&A panel: “A Mirror Darkly: Horror as Human Reflection, with Quint Megan.”

  As the claps subsided, I finished my thought.

  “Storytellers use lies to tell the truth. The best horror fiction, real horror fiction, isn’t just a mélange of gory descriptions and supernatural implausibility. By nature, horror and weird fiction are symbolic genres. No other genre has the gall to use symbolism as a scalpel to cut away the layers of self-deception we sift through every day as much as horror. Some people think of horror as escapist entertainment, but it’s just the opposite. Truth is ugly, and horror is ugly. Thus, horror is the truest of all genres of fiction.”

  More applause. More cheers. I took a sip from the water bottle that had been left for me.

  “Okay,” the moderator beside me said, “let’s open it up for questions.”

  An overweight man stood up, hand raised over his head. The moderator pointed to him. He mumbled something about “influences” which I took to be the same question I’d heard a thousand times before, and began reciting my stock answer.

  “I’m influenced by everything, and I don’t just mean everything I’ve read, I mean everything. Daily life, the news. The genesis of Widows of the Gyre was the persecution of Muslims in America that continues even today. Having said that, I’m most attracted to the bleak worldviews of classic weird and dark fantasy storytellers like Lovecraft, Blackwood and Machen. Thomas Ligotti is probably the best living writer working in the field today.

  “If I had to point to one writer as a major influence, though, it’d have to be Robert W. Chambers. I’m a rabid collector of his work, completely obsessed. I actually spent the first advance from Widows on a rare German edition of The King in Yellow stories. For those unfamiliar, Chambers was mid-19th century author whose masterpiece was a collection of short stories, The King in Yellow.

  The King in Yellow is also the title of a fictional play, featuring a pallid-masked mystery man in yellow robes. The play is a device that links many of Chambers’ stories together, and both it and the masked man act as harbingers of madness and misfortune. Chambers’ stories are about peeking behind the mask, literally, and finding something monstrous there. Here, those who pursue the truth rarely find happiness as a result, and that’s something I’ve always felt; the truth, as I said earlier, is ugly. But the pursuit of it, however harrowing, is a necessary journey for all of us.”

  Later, after the panel was over, I sat at my table, signing copies of my book for fans when a familiar voice mumbled something to me about Robert W. Chambers. I looked up, and it took a minute for me to recognize the fan as the fat man from the panel.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, “what?”

  He looked flustered, and took a moment to compose himself. When he spoke this time, he did so slowly.

  “I said my name is Mark. I was at your panel earlier today. Um, I just wanted to say I loved it, and I’m really looking forward to reading Widows. And, um, you said you like Robert W. Chambers? I was wondering if you were familiar with Deacon Steen.”

  My brow furrowed. Steen was a trash-peddler who’d made a name for himself in the early ‘90s with sub-splatterpunk biographies of serial killers, with lurid titles like Blooddrunk and Cannibal Metropolis. I looked across the room to Deacon’s table. The line of fans before him was short. His heyday had long passed. As I understood it, he was invited to Weird Menace every year simply because he lived in New Orleans anyway.

  I turned back to the fat man, tried to seem interested.

  “Oh really?”

  He nodded. “I read an article once that said he had a huge collection of old books, like all kinds of rare stuff, all old-school horror. And I remember
him saying in the interview that he spent most of his time tracking down Robert W. Chambers stuff.

  Deciding it couldn’t hurt to feel him out, I took a break from my table to talk to the man myself.

  “Hello, Mr. Steen.”

  I extended my hand to him. He didn’t even look up, just signed a copy of one of his books, something called Ghoul Feeding, and held it out to me. I paused, unsure of what to do.

  “Oh… no thanks. I’ve already read it. I’m, Quint Megan, I-”

  “Ah yes, the guest of honor,” he interrupted. He looked up at me at last, peering blearily through his Coke-bottle glasses. He smiled. “Sorry about that. After sitting here long enough, you start to become like an automaton.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “I have to tell you, I really enjoyed Widows of the Gyre. Loved the shades of Frank Long and Bill Hodgson. And your previous two books were fantastic as well.”

  “Oh,” I said simply, genuinely surprised. Perhaps Deacon Steen did indeed know a thing or two. “I didn’t know anyone had read those at all.”

  Deacon chuckled and smiled up at me. I suddenly felt an obligation to return the compliment.

  “It’s an honor. I grew up a big fan of yours,” I lied. “Ghoul Feeding was so… extreme. It’s almost hard to believe it’s a true story.”

  Deacon’s face suddenly changed. His smile stayed, but it showed hollow.

  “There’s no such thing as a true story,” came his reply.

  Corpses. They try to hide them under tarps, but that only makes it more obvious, more grotesque. The imagination works terrible wonders.

  “I thought Louisiana graveyards were designed to prevent this sort of thing,” I say to the taxi driver.

  He doesn’t look back at me when he replies. Doesn’t look out the side window to see what I’m talking about. He already knows, doesn’t want to see it again, just keeps his eyes glued to the road in front of him.

  Or maybe he’s just a very responsible driver.

  In any case, this is what he tells me: “They are. Ya gotta have the crypts above ground, ‘cause of the sea level. When it floods, that’s usually good enough to keep them bodies from comin’ loose and floatin’ out to meet ya. But this storm, brother, this wasn’t no normal storm. Nobody was ready for this one.”