3.
When I wake, my roommate is gone and it’s seven hours since I last looked at the clock on the wall. Painkillers. They’re a hell of a drug.
After such a long nap – or was it a proper sleep at this point? – the fog in my head is gone. My curiosity, however, is not. I go over my notes once again, half expecting them to be gone when I reach for them.
Ice. Man. Find. Missing. Moo. See. Them. Austin. Texas.
My mind connects the “moo” and “Texas” to cows. If I was anyone but Chase Baker, I might write these words off as the tragically confused ramblings of a dying man. But my life doesn’t work that way. There are no coincidences. Which means there’s a lot more to this than the bovine.
I mouth the words one by one, taking care not to speak them out loud. Helps my brain work through the patterns. “Ice” and “man” roll nicely together into one. “Missing” and “moo” don’t. However, “moo,” “see” and “them” do. I update the notes.
Iceman. Find. Missing. Museum. Austin. Texas.
Now it’s making more sense. If I flip the second and third words around, it’s even clearer.
Iceman. Missing. Find. Museum. Austin. Texas.
In other words, there’s a missing iceman my roommate wanted me to find. It’s either missing from or located in a museum in Austin, Texas. There’s only one question left. What the hell is an iceman?
It’ll have to wait. The schedule on the wall shows I’m due to take a shower. It’s about time. A nurse comes in to offer a snack and to help me free my body from the tangle of IVs, monitors and other alchemy I’m sure will give me cancer later in life. I devour the food, slip out of my hospital gown and follow the wall into the attached bathroom. A few days in bed is all it takes for me to forget my sea legs, but a shower and shave will put me back together.
I’m on the second or third repetition of rinse and repeat when I hear the door to the bathroom open.
Dammit. I should’ve brought the ESEE knife in here with me.
My hand lets the bottle of soap fall to the bottom of the shower. I go for the safety razor resting on the built-in shelf, anticipating the hot caress of an assassin’s pistol. Thousands of people want me dead. I’d be less surprised by an attempt on my life than by finding out exactly which group of scumbags got their shit together to come find me.
I squeeze the razor as the curtain to the shower pulls away. I’m almost disappointed to see the female nurse from that mental health examination looking back at me. Almost. She’s not wearing her scrubs anymore. Or anything else.
I start to say something, but she shakes her head, smiles and takes a step into the shower with me.
This might be real life or it might be all in my head, but at least some parts of me are still working.
4.
Having been discharged figuratively and literally at the hospital, I head to the closest branch of the Albany public library system for a little Internet research. It’s not that I’m opposed to smartphones with built-in Internet browsers and apps, but any tech more advanced than a wristwatch gets the death sentence within a week of slipping in my pocket. Sure, there’s insurance for that sort of thing, but everyone else’s rates would hit the ceiling the minute I signed up. You can thank me later.
Chase, the considerate.
I find an empty computer not saturated in job listings or pornography, then run a quick query through a search engine. I type in my notes word for word. “Iceman. Missing. Find. Museum. Austin. Texas.”
Bingo.
The first website that pops up is a news article on the Museum of the Bizarre’s latest attraction: the Minnesota Iceman. Even better, the museum is located in Austin, Texas. I skim the article, searching for word that the Iceman is missing. All I can find are canned quotes about the Iceman arriving at the museum, why visitors should check it out, rules about flash photography, blah, blah, blah. Nothing suggests the Iceman is missing.
However, what the Iceman is is incredible, if it not a little hard to believe. In the 1960s, an exhibitor named Frank Hansen displayed a sensational creature in a block of ice at carnivals and fairs in Minnesota and beyond. Although it’s difficult to make out from within its frozen tomb, the Iceman appears to be half-ape, half-human. Some said the Iceman was the missing link between humans and an ancestor species. Others said it was the beast known as sasquatch, Bigfoot or the skunk ape. But everyone from skeptical scientists to true believers agreed on one thing: it’ll cost you a few bucks to see it. That alone cast a shadow of doubt over the Iceman for most people.
Count me as one of them. I’ve dug plenty out of the ground I could’ve charged admission for, and people would’ve lined up around the block to see those artifacts for themselves. But here’s the thing I learned about truly disruptive finds able to change humanity’s view of the world: the money doesn’t matter. If it’s important enough, the power that comes with it is priceless. Money is an afterthought, a formality, an inconvenience. Conspiracy theories often put a group of elites at the very top of the world’s caste, controlling the planet’s money. I always laugh at those ideas. Why would the elites, the forces behind the clock that makes the world tick, need money in the first place?
So when someone makes an astounding claim, such as possessing a man-ape creature in a block of ice, but charges a couple dollars to see it, my built-in bullshit detector goes off like a bomb. If it’s that important, and you’re enough of an asshole to put it behind a pay wall, why not charge $3,000,000 to see it instead of $3? Maybe it’s to bring this discovery to the masses? Then again, why not make it free and turn money some other way? Sell the movie rights to the Iceman movie, I don’t know.
If this Iceman had a solid origin story that became mired in egos, opportunists and politics, I could understand it being forced into the sideshow circuit simply for the sake of preserving the specimen. But conflicting Iceman origin tales don’t help matters. Depending on where you read or who you ask, Hansen shot and killed the Iceman while hunting in Minnesota. Or a wealthy Californian eccentric obtained the creature and hired Hansen to tour North America with it. Then again, the pre-frozen version of the Iceman might’ve been killed in Vietnam and brought to the U.S. for reasons unknown.
The only provenance I can put any stock into is that after Hansen died, the Iceman went to a collector who eventually sold it to the Museum of the Bizarre in Austin, Texas, in 2013. Plenty of gaps exist within that 40- to 50-year stretch, and it’s not unlikely the creature sat in someone’s basement for years at a time.
I lean back in my chair and study my notes again. I’ve got better things to do than head down this rabbit hole. A dying man gurgles a few words that point toward a carnival attraction that at best blew its only shot at attracting serious scientific inquiry and at worst is a hoax. This thing has bullshit written all over it no matter how I squeeze, poke, prod or hold it up to the light. I might be curious to a fault, but that doesn’t make me an idiot. Even if I wanted to jump into this mystery, what’s in it for me? I like my adventures to start with someone writing my name on a check. I’d be better off scrolling through the job listings with the rest of the poor saps in this library.
My notes crumple within my fist. I toss the paper into the trash and head for the exit.
A beer and a burger sound good after all that cat food in the hospital.
I’m almost to the door when someone near the periodicals convinces me I’m headed in the wrong direction.
5.
“Baker? Chase Baker?” a woman says from behind a rack of magazines. I don’t know her, but I recognize the book she holds in her hands. It’s a copy of my debut novel, The Shroud Key, based on my time in the Middle East searching for the lost bones of Jesus Christ. The woman compares my picture on the back cover to its counterpart standing a few feet away.
I hope she’s a fan, because I didn’t forget the knife this time.
“In the flesh,” I say and smile.
The woman returns the gesture and holds the
book open to the title page for me to sign. She says, “Love your books. I’ve checked out this copy so many times I practically own it.”
I hesitate before pulling a pen out of my pocket, my gut taking the temperature of this reader’s sincerity. My eyes scan the magazine racks in case there’s someone waiting for me to let my guard down. I turn my back to a sturdy bookshelf where the only surprise would be a falling book. This could all be a distraction.
Who asks authors to sign library books? She seems comfortable in here, blends in well with the books. Her body language says she’s a regular. Doesn’t she know I can’t deface public property, even if it’s something as innocent signing a book?
“Is something wrong?” the woman says, her eager expression fading into disappointment.
Stop it, Chase. You’re being paranoid, and you look like an asshole.
“Nothing wrong at all,” I say and sign the title page with my initials. “Thanks for reading.”
“And thank you for writing,” the woman says.
I never know how to end these spot signings. I feel like there’s an expectation something terrific or exceptional will happen. Do readers want me to buy them coffee? Have a deep, philosophical conversation on the nature of writing? Or are they satisfied with two letters in ink on a title page? At least with the larger book signings, people know they’re only getting three sentences of talk, two hands shaking and one signature. But this? It’s like trying to end a drunk dial from the pope.
“Pleasure is all mine. Enjoy the rest of your day,” I say and start for the door.
“Hey, wait. What are you working on now?” the woman says, invading my personal space to prevent me from leaving.
See what I mean?
My pipeline is filled with plenty of potential responses, but I still struggle for an answer. Truth is, I’m running low on source material, or at least the kind fit for public dissemination. Although my books are based on my adventures, some things are too strange to print. Others wouldn’t appeal to anyone but me. Case in point: the only adventures on my docket involve wine, Italy, friendly company and not scrubbing my hands after using the computer at a public library. Not quite the stuff of bestsellers.
“I’m actually…,” I start to say but cut myself off. I want to finish the sentence with “taking a break from writing,” but I can’t for reasons hard to explain. I’ll put it this way. I catch a high every time I survive an adventure. Living that close to the edge gives life an exhilarating flavor that few get the chance to taste, let alone choose to taste. Every close call with death, every mind-blowing experience, every shot, every stab, every drink, every friendship, every betrayal, every night in the arms of a beautiful woman, they’re all streaks in the blur. It’s hard to know what they mean when everything happens so fast. I tell myself it’s all for a greater purpose, usually to save the world from some grave danger, but I suspect that’s left over from my time in the military. Why bother? What’s the point? Would it make any difference if I decided to spend the rest of my days with good food, drink and women instead of bad men, guns and bombs?
But now, standing here in the library, face-to-face with a reader, I know the answer. My adventures aren’t about me. With the fate of the world on my back as often as it is, they never were in the first place, but that’s not quite the point, either.
I occupy a unique position in the world, one where I can have several lifetimes’ worth of adventures in the span of a week with enough regularity to make a living from them. I owe it to everyone who could only dream of that chance, who bide their time surfing the ‘net at libraries because they don’t have a computer, who work unfulfilling jobs just to make car payments so they can afford the daily commute into work, who find relief from raising a house of kids by staring at the TV, who think reading enough inspirational books will teleport their lives into satisfaction without stepping foot outside their door, who stockpile better days in the pictures on the fridge and who buy lottery tickets because deep down they’re convinced they’re just temporarily inconvenienced millionaires. I do it for them.
I do it for the same reason we look to rock stars to trash hotel rooms, show up high to interviews, fuck until their pelvises crack, insult world leaders, burn out and die in car crashes. People yearn to live beyond the boxes the world puts them in, but most are too sheepish or have too much at stake to break from their routine. So they hold on the only way they can. They live vicariously through their heroes. Sometimes they’re musicians or artists. Sometimes they’re sports stars. Sometimes they’re politicians or religious figures.
And sometimes they’re writers who pen books about their adventures around the world, who bump into readers at the library.
This Iceman mystery might turn out to be nothing, but that doesn’t mean I can walk away from it. There’s enough in the bank account to cover my travel for a few days. I can’t not give it its due diligence.
“Chase?” the woman says, refocusing my attention. “You’re ‘actually’ what?”
“Promise not to tell anyone?” I say.
“We just met, so you can trust me,” she says.
I like her sense of humor.
I lean in and lower my voice to a whisper. “My next book is going to be about a human-ape hybrid experiment gone wrong. Some real mad scientist stuff.”
The woman lights up. She says, “I like the sound of that. When’s it coming out?”
“As soon as I’m finished researching it. I’m headed into the field now.”
“Could be dangerous. Watch your back,” she says.
I pull away and start once more for the door. Looking back with a grin, I nod to the pervs browsing porn on the computers and say to her, “You, too.”
6.
The Museum of the Bizarre in Austin, Texas, located off a dusty back road better suited to goats than tourist traps, lives up to its name one haunted doll and alien embryo at a time. And that’s just the people waiting in line to get in. “Keep Austin Weird” indeed.
I skip the cloak and dagger routine upon arrival, with the exception of the .45 and survival knife holstered beneath my bush jacket, opting instead to blend in with the regular saps outside the door. The place doesn’t open for another 10 minutes.
That’s 10 minutes too many for a brain that tends to find patterns in the most paranoid ways possible. It makes me the best at what I do, but it also forces my eyes to pause too long on a couple making small talk as they wait.
Did they say my name?
They glance my way, noticing me notice them, and suddenly I’m not the only one paranoid. Nor am I alone in carrying a concealed firearm, as I surmise from the baggy jackets and loose-fitting pants. Paranoia and handguns. Seems about right. This is Texas, after all.
The doors to the Museum of the Bizarre open, and the line of people shuffles inside. I put on my best act as a tourist to blend in. Better to use the soft approach this time, since I only have half a clue what I’m doing here. It’s not a hard jig to dance, though. The exhibits include the corpse of the supposed Fiji mermaid, a variety of shrunken heads, freaks of the animal kingdom fading into irrelevancy as genetic modification becomes the norm, a mummy, various cursed artifacts and, of course, a jackalope mount. I could trump this place 10 times over with what’s hidden in the crawlspaces and within the floorboards of my apartment, but it isn’t half bad, either.
Missing, however, is the “Epic CREATURE FROZEN in a Block of ICE!!!” advertised on the posters outside, a beast so mysterious it cannot even be found in the short hallways of the museum. A few others take note of this discrepancy, too, voicing their dissatisfaction to whomever is listening. But only the jackalope responds, howling away with animatronic glee.
I knew those things weren’t real.
I wouldn’t put it past a place like this to advertise a feature it didn’t actually have. How many suckers do those posters outside pull in? My bullshit detector is overheating in this cramped museum. Time to leave.
The corner of my
eye catches something unusual as I head toward the door, which is to say it’s rather mundane. A sign on one of the walls reads, “CLOSED.” It’s framed neatly in the center of a rectangular patch of wall not cluttered with forgeries and fraud that resembles the outline of a door. I doubt anyone else noticed it, but this is the dividend of a mind on overload, subconsciously scanning for breaks in patterns.
I walk to the wall and place my hand on the CLOSED sign while pretending I’m interested in strip of fender from James Dean’s last ride. My hand gives the sign a push. The wall doesn’t give way completely, but there’s enough play to suggest there’s a hinge somewhere inside the wall.
This is a door.
Before I can investigate further, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder.
“Can I help you?” a voice says from behind me.
I turn to see a woman with a vague resemblance to Hillary Clinton looking back at me, right down to the pantsuit. I know right away who she is, and the timing couldn’t be better.
“Actually, yes. I’d like to speak to the owner,” I say.
“You’re looking at her,” the woman says. She shakes my hand. It’s a well-rehearsed handshake. I get the feeling she worked in corporate America before buying an eccentric museum for shits and giggles for her retirement hobby. “Hillary Carter. What can I help you with?”
Called the first name correctly. Not too bad.
“Yeah, the sign outside said something about a creature frozen in a block of ice. Doesn’t seem to be here, though,” I say.
“You were on the right track,” Hillary says. She points at the CLOSED sign. “Unfortunately, the exhibit is closed for maintenance. I’d be happy to refund part of your ticket price.”
I don’t believe either part of that, including the refund. You can keep the $3.
I point a thumb back at the sign. “Nah, that’s OK. What’s with the hidden passageway?”
Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) Page 2
