by Pete Clark
Dawes was at a booth that was flush against a window. Prescott would never have chosen such a spot. Too easy to get shot through a window. But he didn’t want to make a scene so he slipped quietly over and sat across from Dawes.
“The British are using ships to blockade harbors now. To watch us basically,” Dawes said. Many colonists had taken to calling those in the government and recently from England British, even though they were all technically British. Prescott had never been across the ocean and he felt no real connection to England. Perhaps many of his fellow countrymen felt the same. No doubt about it; revolution was on the wing.
“Times are what they are, Dawes. But you know why I’m here.” Prescott spoke in a rusty whisper. “Where is my guy?”
“I don’t even know who the ripper is.” Ripper had become the catchall term for any type of monster. Werewolf, centaur, fire elemental, whatever. In this case, they didn’t know what type of ripper they were dealing with.
“Then what am I doing here?” Prescott did not like to expose himself for no reason.
“I do have something. There seems to be a pattern.”
“What kind of pattern?”
“Well, the ripper, whatever it is, seems to be acting rather human.”
“Human? How do you mean?”
Dawes went on. “The attacks don’t seem random. If you check through all of the killings that we can trace, it seems like it only attacks at night and it only goes after women.”
“I’ve never heard of a ripper having patterns. Are we sure this isn’t just a regular old serial killer?”
“The damage to the bodies seems far too significant to be a person. You’ve seen the documentation. You’re the doctor; I’m not telling you anything that you don’t already know.”
“I didn’t know the pattern and I don’t get it. They don’t act like this. If it isn’t a human, then it’s something that we haven’t seen before.”
“We’ve seen everything.”
“Apparently not.” Prescott looked up. They were being watched. Three guys who were trying too hard to appear casual kept looking in their direction. “Don’t turn around, but do you know the three guys who have been sitting in the back corner?”
“I don’t know anyone here. That’s the main reason why we chose this place to meet.”
“They’re giving us the eye. Maybe we should go say hello.” Prescott made a point to make eye contact with one of them. He figured, if they knew they were made, they would either make a move or disappear.
“I thought you wanted to keep a low profile.” Dawes started to shuffle uneasily in his seat. “Who could it be? I don’t have any enemies.”
“We all have enemies nowadays.” The three men rose and approached the booth. Prescott had to decide quickly if he should stand or stay seated. Since Dawes seemed rooted to his seat, Prescott figured he would stay put and see what happened.
The three men formed a small semi-circle at the end of the booth. It formed an effective blockade that prevented either Prescott or Dawes from getting up.
“You Prescott?” This came from the biggest of the three. He was big indeed. He had to be well over six feet. He seemed solid as well and he was only partially trying to hide the axe he had beneath his jacket.
“Prescott who?” Prescott asked.
“Clever, eh? We know who you are,” said the huge man.
“Then why ask?” Prescott was surveying the other guys. The other two were a bit smaller but they still looked like they could handle themselves. Dawes could probably get one to the ground. Prescott eyed the large man’s hand as it gripped the axe. He didn’t appear to be nervous about making a scene.
“C’mon Prescott. We need to talk to you.”
“Talk huh? Talk away.”
“We don’t want to talk here. We have-”
Prescott drove his foot into the large man’s leg just beneath the kneecap. The leg bent back and Prescott was pretty sure he could hear a tendon rip. The man screeched with surprise and lurched forward. Prescott pulled a cylinder from his pocket and lit it with a flick of his wrist. He stood and jammed it into the large man’s mouth and pushed him back in one motion. The man bumped into his cohorts just as the cylinder popped, blasting his head into shrapnel. The other guys were not expecting their friend’s head to explode and so they were slightly taken aback. This gave Prescott ample time to draw one of his pistols and blow a hole first through the guy on the left’s eye and then through the guy on the right’s leg. Righty went down; Prescott grabbed him.
“What is this about? Tell me right now or I’ll see just how far I can get this sabre down your throat.”
“Jesus,” shouted Dawes. He was a little on edge, since he had quite a few bits of skull and brain on him from when that guy’s head exploded. “When did we get involved in some kind of gangster shit?”
Prescott ignored him and pulled out his sword. “Open up.” Prescott began to pry open the guy’s jaw with his sword. It was then that the sword-eating gentlemen in question opted to cooperate.
“de Lavoir,” he said.
“What,” Prescott asked, disbelieving.
“The guy’s name is de Lavoir. I don’t know much about him but he sent us. We met him by the South Church about a week ago. He said we would find you if we followed this guy.” He indicated Dawes. “We were supposed to, you know...”
“Wait a minute. You’re trying to tell me that this was arranged by a French guy?” Dawes seemed to be attempting to change the topic from the part about letting himself be followed.
“Fair point. French guys don’t arrange hits. They sit on riverbanks, sip wine, and insult passersby.”
“I don’t know much about the French, but this guy was serious. To be honest, I’m not looking forward to telling him we didn’t get the job done.”
“Well I can help with that.” Prescott finished feeding the guy his sword, being sure to get a decent portion into his heart and lungs. When he was done cleaning off said weapon, he and Dawes beat a rapid retreat to yet another tavern. This one had ties to the Sons of Liberty and so was unlikely to have assassins who were hired by a random French guy.
“That name mean anything to you? de Lavoir?” Dawes asked.
“No. I can’t say that I’ve heard it before. But he shouldn’t be that hard to track down. How many seedy French guys can there be in Massachusetts?”
“We should try to get a hold of Adams. He knows everybody,” suggested Dawes.
“Maybe, but I don’t know him. Why would he do a favor for me?”
“It could be tied to rebellion in some way.”
“How?”
“Okay, so maybe not, but if we can convince him it is, maybe he’ll help.” Dawes was trying at least.
“No way. He is too busy trying to keep a low profile. He won’t even admit he’s with the Sons of Liberty; there is no way he sticks his neck out for this. There are too many other things that he has to deal with.”
“What about Gill?”
“Who?” Prescott asked. Due to the fact that Prescott liked to remain as anonymous as possible, he was very far out of the loop. He did not know who most of the politicos were and he tried not to get too mixed up into the whole brewing rebellion thing. Still, there was no way to steer completely clear of it.
“John Gill. He is a big writer for the Gazette. He is also a leader of the Sons of Liberty. And I know him.”
Dawes may have struck something here. The Sons of Liberty were the leaders of the underground movement to stir rebellion. They were heavy into anti-English propaganda and were often busy explaining to the people how every law that was passed and every tax they paid was a violation of their human rights. Prescott was on the side of the colonists, no question, but the Sons were a bit heavy handed. Still, if you wanted to start a war, sometimes you had to get a bit pushy. Regardless the SOL were connected. They had people everywhere and, if they could get one of the leader’s ears, they may be able to get the whole group out looking for
this de Lavoir bastard.
“All right, so how do we set up a meeting with Gill?”
“Simple,” Dawes said. “We ask him.”
“Can you do it without me? I’ve already been a little more visible lately than I like.”
“I don’t think Gill goes in for silent partners. He’s going to want to meet you. Besides, what if either of us gets jumped? There is safety in numbers.”
“That’s true. I might need you to catch another guy’s skull for me.”
****
Gill was not a particularly impressive looking man. He was neither tall nor handsome, but he had a nice tie and whatever the hell they were eating was delicious.
“Mr. Gill,” Prescott began. “I realize that you are a busy man and that you have no reason to expose yourself or your connections for me. But please trust me when I say that this is of the utmost importance and I would not ask otherwise.”
“Dawes has told me as much. I would not have met with you if I did not think it worth my time. But favors are not free. The day may come when I will ask a favor of you. And I expect payment.”
Prescott couldn’t argue with that kind of logic, while Dawes once again had the feeling that he had been transported into some kind of gangster tale.
“We’re hoping that you can use your connections to help us locate someone. A man by the name of de Lavoir.”
“de Lavoir. Frenchman, eh? They are tough to recognize as you generally only get to see their backsides as they are running away.”
“This guy seems to be different,” Dawes said.
“How do you mean?”
“We can’t get into too much detail. For your own sake, distance is wise. That being said, it seems as if he may be a bit more aggressive than your average Frenchman,” said Prescott.
“And you need me to find him. What makes you think I can?”
“We know he is somewhere in Boston or just outside. And forgive me for saying so, but the Sons of Liberty have a bit of a track record when it comes to knowing who is whom and what they are doing. Do you think you can find where this guy might be staying?”
“It might be something we can do. But I have to ask. Aren’t you friends with Paul Revere?”
“How do you know that?” Prescott asked.
“As you say, we know everyone.”
“Sure, I’m his friend. Why?”
“He is a member of the Sons of Liberty.”
“He is?” Revere, you sneaky little bitch, thought Prescott. “He never told me.”
“I’ll get back to you when I hear something.” Gill got up to signal the end of their meeting.
“I can’t believe Revere didn’t say anything.”
“Maybe he was deliberately keeping it from you.”
“Revere? No way. He is way too stupid to have secrets.”
****
Revere was keeping too many secrets. The British ship, the Gaspee, was floating out on Narragansett Bay. The Gaspee was one of the primary warships that were blocking the colonists from having free use of the water. It essentially functioned as a mini garrison and regulated all imports and exports. That had to change and Revere was going to be sure it changed.
He had spent the last several years expanding his horizons and making a number of significant connections. He had become close with the rather elusive monster hunter Samuel Prescott and the two occasionally collaborated on weapons manufacturing. But that was far from all Revere had been up to. He had also set himself up as an extremely successful and famous silversmith. In fact, he crafted a number of symbolic items for the ever strengthening Sons of Liberty. A group of which he was not only a member, but a significant one at that. He knew Adams, although they rarely spoke, and he also knew the men whom he sat with at dinner tonight.
Although not exactly a member of the Sons of Liberty, Benjamin Franklin was a patriot. He fought for the cause with better diplomacy than any other man had been able to do. He was also perhaps the greatest inventor of his time. Revere also had several opportunities to work with Franklin on projects of an experimental nature. Franklin was a pretty secretive guy and Revere did not always know exactly what they were working on. They were close to perfecting a new device that could launch a small but very powerful explosive a great distance with incredible accuracy. They were still working the kinks out of it. Revere wanted to call it the flying explodey thing. Or the FET. But Franklin was all hung up on calling it a rocket-propelled grenade. Revere thought that all sounded kind of futuristic and weird, but you couldn’t argue with Franklin. Revere thought that they were here either to discuss the RPG, which was still in very early production, or the Sons of Liberty’s plans for the Gaspee. Neither of these things was happening.
Franklin was talking in hushed tones to some extremely articulate Indian guy and Revere was basically being left out of the conversation. Although it could be a little insulting and sure, maybe he got sad sometimes when he was left out, it had its advantages. Revere could listen closely and pick up on some key bits of information. And Revere had learned over the years that information was power.
“How did you manage to find that out?” Franklin asked.
“It wasn’t easy. I’ve been working on it for a hell of a long time.” The Indian’s name was apparently Guyasuta and he and Franklin seemed to know each other fairly well. Revere could not recall having seen him before.
“Are you sure it’s accurate?”
“I’ve pretty much been going around in circles trying to uncover more, but all of my trails keep leading to the same conclusion.” Guyasuta’s countenance grew grave. “I know that there is a war on the horizon. Do you know what that means? Do you realize how that will affect our mission?”
“Of course I do. Part of the problem is that people have gotten softer over the last ten years or so. Less rippers and the ones that are around are generally weaker; they have forgotten the importance of what we’re trying to do. You’re right, though. If there is a war, that will wake them up.”
“Yeah, wake them up to the sounds of their intestines being ripped out by the monster of the week. We need to figure this out before a full blown war starts or we are going to be balls deep in a nonstop creature jamboree.”
Revere found that particular turn of phrase to be a bit odd. Still, he was quite intrigued by the conversation.
“Are you guys saying that you have some kind of a lead on where the monsters originally came from?” Revere asked.
“Nice quick exposition, Revere,” said Franklin.
“Can we trust this guy?” Guyasuta pointed to Revere.
“I would say it’s too late to ask that; you’ve been talking in front of me for an hour.”
“We could always kill you,” Guyasuta said.
“I’m trustworthy.” Revere offered up a hearty smile. All it did was make him look like a rapist.
“He can be trusted. We have been working on a number of projects together. So, give me the skinny, Guyasuta. You know,” Franklin paused, “we have to come up with a nickname for you.”
“I don’t know about that,” said Guyasuta. “One of my principal contact’s names is Arms of the Lightning Bolt. But do you know what nickname he was given?”
“What?”
“Bob.”
“What did you finally find out from Bob?” Franklin was a busy guy and wanted to wrap things up.
“As I discovered a while ago, the origin of these creatures stems from an incident about 200 years ago. And I seem to have uncovered not only a rough location but also the name of the Indian tribe that is believed to have cast the spell that started the whole thing.”
“Spell casting. Isn’t that bullshit?” Revere asked.
“Remember that time a centaur kicked you in the chest?” Franklin reminded.
“Yeah,” Revere rubbed his chest with the memory.
“Okay, so you can get kicked by a centaur, but you don’t buy into a little mysticism?”
“I guess. So, what are we gonna do about
it?”
“The location is a little out of the way for me. I’m done traveling for the most part. Franklin here has to go to Europe to try and keep this war from starting before we can solve this thing. That leaves you.”
“Me?” Revere knew he was not up for this. He had silver cups and bowls to make. Maybe a launchable bear trap. But he was no detective, no frontiersman. “I’m no good for this. There has to be someone better.”
“Okay,” smiled Franklin. “Who?”
****
Daniel Boone had opted to take up drinking. Sure, he loved blazing trails and he spent quite a lot of time the last few years doing that. But man, at some point trees just start to piss you off. He figured, hey, Massachusetts has got a city or two. Maybe I can go and chill for a while and not have to do any goddamn trailblazing for a while. He still loved the Virginia territory and was going to head back, but for now, a bit of time drinking and getting in fist fights seemed like a nice vacation for him. He was in a tavern as they were good for drinking. This one was called the Apoplectic Armadillo.
He had recently gotten a letter from Simon Fraser. The letter essentially talked about how America was a bunch of uppity ungrateful bastards who needed to shut up and pay their taxes. He also added how much he liked being back in England because there weren’t any fucking werewolves. That guy always did hate werewolves.
Boone didn’t have such a problem with werewolves. Over the past several years, Boone managed to make a decent living selling furs. He frequently went on long hunts to gather furs and some of the finest and most valuable pelts he collected came from werewolves. They were especially valuable the last four years or so as you rarely saw them. Boone had gotten to learn the wilderness of the Virginia territory quite well. He liked the isolation it provided. Unfortunately, he gained some fame and everyone wanted to follow his ass around in the woods. Strangely now, the only place he could be alone was the city far from where he lived.
