Wade in the Water

by James Hold



  Wade in the Water

  By James Hold

  Copyright 2015 James Roy Hold

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1: Who’s That Yonder?

  Chapter 2: The Piazza Dora

  Chapter 3: Mallard Redux

  Chapter 4: Anatidaephobia

  Chapter 5: The Thaumaturgic Texan Ties One On

  Chapter 1

  Who’s That Yonder?

  When the harbor patrol fished Wade Mallard’s corpse from the Houston ship channel, they knew right away it was a police matter. They dialed O, said “Police,” then “Detective Bureau,” and within an hour, Detective Sergeant Frank Bureau arrived at the docks.

  His captain, Ed Ake, was already on the scene.

  “Dammit, Ed!” Frank complained. “Why do all of these cases fall into my lap? There’s a dozen guys sitting around the station doing nothing, and yet all the calls come to me.”

  “Can I help it if they ask for you by name?” the captain shot back.

  Frank sighed. “So, where’s the body?”

  “Over there,” Ed pointed, “and there... and there... and there. Looks like a dismemberment.”

  Frank sighed again. Dismemberment cases in the ship channel area were never cut and dry. “We’re going to have a tough time labeling this one a suicide.”

  “You’re right,” Ed agreed. “Not like the Bobby Fuller case in California.”

  Frank sighed a third time. “Any witnesses?” he asked.

  “Over here,” Ed pointed, “and here... and here... and here...”

  “Don’t tell me they’ve been dismembered as well.”

  “No, Frank. We just wanted to keep them separated to make sure their stories check. The chief one’s over there.”

  “The one wearing feathers and moccasins?”

  “Right. Her name’s Karla.”

  Frank approached the witness. He fished a pack of smokes from his coat pocket and offered her one.

  “Cigarette?”

  The girl took one look. “Yes, it is,” she replied, and Frank began to question her.

  “Now, let’s take this one step at a time. You were out walking by the dock.”

  “No, the doctor was walking several feet ahead of me.”

  “Doctor? Which doctor?”

  “Actually I believe he was a dentist.”

  “Periodontal?”

  “I never caught his name. Although he could have been Irish.”

  “Hmm. Let’s forget about the doctor...”

  “Dentist.”

  “...dentist for now.”

  “That’s it!”

  “What’s it?”

  “The dentist’s name. Dr Fornau.”

  “Right,” Frank nodded. “Now, you claim you knew the victim.”

  “Only casually,” she admitted. “We’d gone out for a few dates.”

  “A few dates?”

  “He had this thing for dried fruit.”

  “I see. Now, Miss Karla, this may be a bit gruesome, but I’m going to have to ask you again if you can identify the victim.”

  Detective Bureau took the severed head and held it out, arms length, by its hair.

  “Is this the man you knew as Wade Mallard?”

  She looked at it, unflinching.

  “I’m not sure. The man I knew was taller.”

  Detective Bureau raised the head until it was level with his own.

  “Oh, okay. That’s him. That’s the man I knew as Wade Mallard.”

  The other witnesses had nothing to add. Or to subtract for that matter. Frank took their names. Then, seeing that their names were no better than his, he gave them back, and allowed them all to go home.

  The crime scene crew had finished their work and left as well.

  Although there was nothing more to do, Frank hung around a while. He walked to the edge of the dock and sat on a piling as he dug out a cigarette. A boat whistle somewhere off in the bay made a melancholy sound. The night was starless. He was thinking about nothing in particular when an old salt came alongside him.

  “Aye,” the man observed, “‘tis a peaceful place, what with the salty breeze and hazy light. Still a man’s gotta be careful out here at night.”

  “Oh?” Frank asked. “Dangerous?”

  “Not so much that as the pilings be covered with bird poop.”

  Frank jumped to his feet and, as best he could, examined the seat of his britches. “Aw, crap,” he muttered, seeing the gray and white streaks.

  “Aye, that’s what I say too. Still, I like to come out here at night. Tis a good place to think. Why, if ya listen just right, the lap of the waves and the creak of the timber has the rhythm of an old sea chantey.”

  “Maybe to you,” Frank told him sullenly. “I find it rather annoying.”

  “True,” the seadog nodded. “I suppose when the dock makes music ya might call it—piercing.”

  With that, Frank called it a night.

  Frank spent the next day checking out leads. And since Leeds is all the way over in England he had a terrific case of jet lag when he got back.

  Now that he had a positive ID of the victim, the next step was to visit the crime lab. Police headquarters was located in a faded brick building by the intersection of Sage and West Alabama, not far from the Galleria Mall. This had nothing to do with the story, only some writers like to toss in details like that.

  Frank rubbed his temples as he entered. The bright overhead lights and lack of sleep was getting to him.

  “Headache?” Ted, the lab technician asked.

  “No, I’m Frank. Ed Ake’s my captain. What have you got for us?”

  “Only the deepest respect, sir.”

  “I mean about the body.”

  “Ah, yes, that. Well, if you’ll just step over here to the table...”

  Wade Mallard’s severed parts lay on the stainless steel table where Ted had arranged them as best he could.

  “Now, do you notice anything peculiar?”

  Frank studied the body. “Only that he’s dead.”

  “Very good,” Ted smiled. “You’ve the makings of an excellent forensic scientist. However, if you look just a little bit closer... closer... Not that close. You don’t want to get blood stains on your nose... you’ll see he has mystic symbols, like runes, or other sacred writing, tattooed all over his body.”

  “Yakuza?” asked Frank.

  “Don’t j’accuse me of anything,” the lab tech zola’d. “I was only pointing it out.”

  “Sorry,” Frank apologized, and he fell to thinking.

  The more Frank thought about it the more he realized that mystic signs were out of his league. He would need help for this, and admitted as much.

  “Sounds like a case for Tatman?” Ted suggested.

  “Who?” asked Frank.

  “Tatman,” Ted repeated. “AKA Tattoo-man; one of the lesser-known Licensed State Heroes. I’m not sure where he’s headquartered.”

  Licensed State Heroes were state-sanctioned costumed do-gooders. Most of the larger cities had one. The LSH roster itself was long and impressive; some of the bigger names included people such as Lone Star out of Austin, San Antonio’s Yellow Rose, and the Blue Deacon, the Priest from the East.

  “Ah, those were the days,” the lab man reminisced. “Do-do do-do do-do-do Tatman! I don’t know who he is behind that body art of his... Holy ink stains, Tatman! The tat-signal.”

  He spoke with such conviction one might think he was speaking from experience.

  “Oh, right,” Frank recalled. “The Needle-nosed Nemesis of Nefarious No-goodniks everywhere. What ever happened to him?”

  The tech hung his head. “Sadly, in his last battle with the evil Soaker, the Pigmented Paladin of Polypenesian Parenta
ge fell into a vat of trichloroacetic acid. It ate away his top layer of skin, leaving him white as a lab coat.” He removed his glasses, wiped a rueful tear. “Anyway, that was long ago. But there are other sanctioned heroes you can try.”

  True, thought Frank, there were plenty of others. Only those guys were mostly muscle. A case like required someone with special abilities. A freelancer, someone not authorized by the state.

  Ted sensed what Frank was thinking.

  “Have you ever heard of—Akkadia?” he asked.

  “No,” Frank admitted. “I can’t say I have. How do you spell it?”

  “Let’s see. A...K...D...uh...”

  “I know how to pronounce it. I asked you how to spell it.”

  So Ted handed Frank a copy of “The Cowering Inferno” and waited until he’d finished reading it.

  Frank judged it an excellent work, well told and finely crafted.

  “What a brilliant author,” he complimented.

  “I wholeheartedly agree,” the tech assented, “but...” He motioned Frank to come closer. “Say the story is true.”

  “‘The story is true’,” Frank repeated. “Wait. You’re telling me...?”

  “She’s real.”

  “Surely you can’t expect me to believe such a thing.”

  “If you don’t this whole story grinds to a standstill. And don’t call me—”

  “How can I get in touch with her? Do you have her address?”

  “No, she has her address and I have mine. That’s how the post office works. However...” again he motioned Frank to come closer, “people say if you go to the Piazza Dora, sit at a certain table, and wait, Akkadia will appear to you.”

  Frank agreed to give it a shot. Moreover, seeing as they had spent the entire first chapter setting up the plot, he decided to contact her ASAP.

  The ASAP told him to go to the plaza and that she would meet him there.