by Ward Parker
The monster stood outside on the window ledge waving at him through the window.
A spasm of pain went through Clemens’ chest.
“Go fuck yourself and the hellhound you rode in on, you miserable son of a monster’s bitch! You’re not going to give me a heart attack.”
Clemens backed out of the room, breathing heavily. Why was the monster toying with him? Was it delaying killing him out of pure cruelty? Clemens prepared himself to be torn to pieces because he couldn’t run away any more. Just make it quick, please. He pictured Livy’s face and held on to the image as if he were clutching a crucifix.
But then gunshots came from outside. A bullet smashed a pane of glass near the monster’s head and lodged in the wall above the bedroom door. The monster leaped upwards where it grabbed a handhold and pulled itself up toward the roof, disappearing from the window. Men shouted from the estate grounds and a volley of gunshots followed.
Clemens sank to the floor as the pain in his chest subsided. He wiped his face with a handkerchief, feeling guilty that the image of Livy was gone, replaced by that of the brandy decanter downstairs in Flagler’s library.
* * *
After a quick swallow or two of fortification from the decanter, Clemens joined the dinner party’s male guests who were gathered on the columned portico. A Pinkerton sentry remained at the front door, but the main detachment of riflemen encircled the grounds of the mansion about a hundred yards away, where they had a line of fire to the roof. Occasionally a random shot was fired, but it was apparent that the monster wasn’t offering them a clear shot.
Flagler excused himself from the guests and strode across the front lawn toward the commander. Clemens followed.
“Mr. Swineborne, are you sure he’s still up there?” Flagler asked.
“Yes, sir,” answered the tall, arrogant-looking man. “I saw him myself just a few minutes ago.”
“What if he gets inside again?”
The commander looked at Flagler with condescension. The Pinkertons were dressed in civilian clothes, but this man wore an army campaign hat.
“I have men stationed inside, of course.”
“Tell them to storm the roof,” Flagler said. “That monster could hide up there forever.”
Clemens studied the barrel-tile roof. The truth was, there didn’t seem to be any good hiding spots. The portico roof was flat, but the main roof was pitched with only the chimneys providing any cover. Perhaps if the monster lay upon the inside parts of the roof that slanted down toward the open courtyard he could remain hidden from the men on the ground around the house.
“Do you have men on the third floor?” Clemens asked. “From the windows facing the courtyard there’s a view of the inside slopes of the roof.”
“Gentlemen, I have things under control,” Swineborne said, his beardless cheeks turning a bit red. “I was a major in the regular army before I took this position. I know a thing or two about infantry tactics.”
“You’re not dealing with Spanish soldiers or Indians,” Flagler said. “We have a veritable demon on our hands and no one can—”
Women were shrieking in the house. Muffled gunshots came from inside. Flagler and Clemens broke into a run toward the front door at what Clemens considered a remarkable speed for men of their ages. Most of the Pinkertons followed, despite Swineborne’s shouting for some to hold their positions. They went directly to the salon where the women were gathered and Flagler comforted his weeping wife. Clemens continued through the house to the courtyard where a Pinkerton lay twisted unnaturally in a pool of blood on the stone tiles.
Shooting erupted at the rear of the house and Clemens passed through to the rear veranda. There he found two more Pinkertons on the floor. One was missing his head.
Just west of the veranda was the shore of Lake Worth. A few Pinkertons were shooting at the water, but there was no sign of the monster in the lake and they seemed to have lost their enthusiasm.
“I’m pretty sure I got him,” one of the riflemen said.
“Yep. He never even came up for air,” said another.
Clemens knew that in order to save face, Swineborne would claim that Darryl had been killed whether he believed it or not. Clemens did not believe it one second himself. The monster had escaped and, as long as it wasn’t grievously wounded, would attack again.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Clemens was waiting for them on the platform when the train pulled up at the hotel. Follett stepped out first and shook the author’s hand with a smile. Then Benjamin Stockhurst strode out with Diana securely on his arm.
“Thank you, sir, for coming,” Clemens said.
Stockhurst stopped in his tracks when he saw Clemens. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, “Mark Twain, lowbrow author and anti-imperialist moral gadfly.”
“Pleased to meet you, too,” he replied with a smile.
“I would have thought you’d be living in Manila, since you apparently loathe America and prefer those people over your countrymen.”
“If the warmongers could actually have an intelligent debate rather than simply calling their opponents names, I could explain my position.”
“Enough, gentlemen,” Follett said. “We have more pressing matters.”
“All right then, I’m here now,” Stockhurst said. “Let’s get this thing over with.”
“What are we supposed to do?” Follett said.
“I haven’t the faintest. I assume that I’m supposed to be attacked by Astogani, while he uses my grandson’s body, which is why he insisted I come here. Although I did make the journey, I do not plan on cooperating with the rest of his plan.”
“Well, your grandson was last seen swimming in the lake not far from here,” Clemens said, “so he might pop up at any moment.”
“I’d rather wait in the dining room,” Stockhurst replied. “You might not be aware, but those of my kind have voracious appetites.”
Follett was suddenly nauseous. “Yes, I’ve seen that firsthand.”
“If I may ask,” Clemens said, “why did you come alone if you’re expecting to be attacked? Why not bring bodyguards?”
“I defeated Astogani on my own and I expect to do so again. I also don’t want humans witnessing this. Present company included.”
“Are there no other crals that could help you?”
“Pure-blooded crals are solitary and ferociously territorial. I have no friends among them, if that is what you mean. And I wouldn’t bring any of the stranded with me because their appearance would create panic. And because of their weakness.”
Follett thought of Darryl’s immense strength and the absurdity of him being considered weak.
“Weakness when facing supernatural attacks,” Stockhurst said after reading Follett’s thoughts. “That’s why he couldn’t prevent himself from being possessed.”
“If you defeat Astogani, can Darryl be saved?” Diana asked.
“If you mean freed of the possession, yes,” Stockhurst said. “But I don’t know what condition his mind will be in and I can’t imagine he’ll be spared the hangman’s noose after all the blood he’s shed.”
“If we can get him committed to a prison for the criminally insane for the rest of his life he can be studied for the benefit of medical science,” Follett said. “You, sir, have enough influence to make that happen.”
“I will try.”
They reached the hotel dining room. The room was only half lit and eerily empty due to the late hour. The enormous space had a raised roof lined with clerestory windows along the length of its center, flanked by columns separating this space from the wings. Shadows obscured the more distant areas. Follett went to the lobby and had a brief chat with the night manager, mentioning the names of his esteemed companions, and in no time a waiter was at their table. Stockhurst ordered two rare Porterhouse steaks, a roast chicken, and fried potatoes while everyone else ordered tea or coffee. When the food arrived, Stockhurst sprinkled a copious amount of Tabasco sauce on everything on his pla
te.
“Mr. Stockhurst, forgive me for being impertinent,” Follett said, “but why did you have to kill Astogani?”
Stockhurst put a large chunk of steak in his mouth, barely chewed then swallowed before answering.
“A simple rivalry, why else? I lived at the time in the far north of what is now called Canada. Astogani was deliberately encroaching on my territory, taking my prey, marking my trees, provoking me. And finally he attempted to steal my mate.” He took a long swallow of claret. “So we fought. And I won.”
He gnawed on a chicken leg, then added, “You are all wondering how Astogani turned into this…demon. Well, crals are very close to the spiritual world and open to its influences. Unfortunately, the forces of darkness—the devils or demons, or the one you call Satan—often besiege us and try to turn us. The humans who are said to be possessed by a Wendigo are controlled by the spirits of the deceased of our kind who have turned evil.
“Astogani is a special case. When he was alive he willingly sought out the forces of darkness, hoping to make himself more powerful. I defeated him anyway. But after he died he became one of them—the demons. A lord of the Underworld.”
“The ferryman of the dead,” Follett said.
Stockhurst nodded. “He tries to recruit crals and the stranded to give their souls to evil.”
“Darryl refused to do it and that’s when Astogani possessed him. It was as if he couldn’t resist the chance to return to the Earth.”
“He had scores to settle. With me, for one.”
“I see why you didn’t want to come here,” Clemens said.
Stockhurst looked at the writer with dark eyes, chewing as he controlled his temper, then said, “My mission to help the stranded was a bigger priority to me. And I admit that I also took pleasure in hearing about the chaos at Flagler’s precious little resort.”
“So how will you find Astogani?” Diana asked.
“Oh, don’t worry. He knows I’m here. He’ll let me know when he’s ready to chat.”
As if on cue, the hotel went dark.
“See, that’s the problem with these blasted electric lights,” Clemens said. “One little problem and the whole system goes down. Waiter, bring us some kerosene lanterns.”
“Quiet!” Follett said.
No waiter came. The party sat in silence, listening to the draperies that covered the tall windows flap gently in the breeze. Aside from a faint gleam of moonlight, the room was in darkness. Stockhurst tilted his head back and sniffed the air deeply.
“He’s very close by,” he said, standing up. “I offered to meet him outside but he won’t answer.”
Outside the dining room on the hotel grounds, a man’s horrible scream was abruptly cut off.
“That’ll alert the Pinkertons,” Follett said. He peered from a window, trying to stay out of view.
“Trust me, they’re not the brightest fellows,” Clemens said, lighting a cigar and beginning to pace the floor. The clatter of his footsteps in the hardwood floor echoed throughout the cavernous dining room. After he looked up and saw Follett glowering at him, he moved to the long carpet runner than extended through the middle of the entire space so his footsteps would be muffled.
“Are we merely going to wait here?” Diana said, her voice tight. “I can’t bear—”
The window nearest their table shattered and a figure blew past the drapes, smashing into one of the columns that lined the room and landing next to Follett in a rain of glass. It was the body of a Pinkerton guard. Diana shrieked and jumped from her seat.
“Stay calm,” Stockhurst said. “Remember, it’s me he’s after.”
“Tell that to the Pinkerton,” Clemens said.
Follett checked the man’s pulse, though a quick glance at the head’s odd angle had already told him the man was dead of a broken neck.
Men shouted from the kitchen. Plates shattered and pots clattered. Footsteps raced down the hall outside the dining room. Follett and his companions could only wait, watching the opening to the pantry and the kitchen, their quickened breathing audible to all. Stockhurst alone remained seated, finishing his meal calmly.
Then there was silence.
“I suppose I should investigate,” Follett said, trying not to allow his fear to be detected in his voice.
He walked toward the opening to the pantry and kitchen.
“You should stay in here with us,” Clemens whispered as Follett passed him.
Follett shook his head. He was obligated to see if there were injured staff needing medical help. Passing through the darkness at the perimeter of the room, he entered an alcove and passed through the pantry with its stacks of serving trays and cabinets filled with glasses and goblets. He pushed a double swinging door and entered the kitchen.
It wasn’t as big as he expected, a kitchen that served 1,600 guests at a time. And it was as dark as a cave with the electric lights out, much more so than in the dining room. A couple of the range lids were open, emitting faint light from the coal embers within, but it wasn’t bright enough to allow him to navigate the labyrinth of aisles between ovens and food preparation tables.
“Is anyone here?” he called out.
A faint whimper arose from the other end of the kitchen—or had he imagined it?
As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he moved down the center aisle toward the rear of the kitchen and saw a door to the outside hanging open. Hopefully the people they had heard screaming had escaped this way.
But the creature that was whimpering had not.
It whimpered again, closer now. It was the crying of a dog—he was fairly certain—high-pitched and nasal. The dog was trapped somewhere. Perhaps someone had hidden it to protect it from Darryl.
So far Follett had seen no signs of anyone killed or injured in the kitchen. Aside from a pot and some utensils lying on the floor there were no signs of any disruption here. It did indeed appear that the people they had heard screaming had safely escaped.
Except for the whimpering dog. There by the open door at the rear of the kitchen he heard it again, very close at hand.
Next to the door was a large coal bin fed by a chute at the rear of the hotel. There was enough moonlight pouring inside that he could see it clearly. It had a hinged lid that was closed. A whimper came from inside.
He opened the lid.
A black boy stared back at him and gasped in terror. The boy crouched among the coal dust, trembling. He was around thirteen years old.
“It’s all right,” Follett said. “I won’t hurt you.”
“Where is the monster?” the boy asked.
“He’s not here. You don’t need to worry.”
“Elrod and Zachary ran out of here and left me. I thought the monster was going to take me like the other kids and eat my arms and legs.”
“He put you inside here?”
“No. He tol’ me to yell for help, to keep yellin’ until someone came in here. But I was too scared he was going to come back and eat me. So as soon as he left I got in here and hid. Are you sure he ain’t around?”
“He’s not going to come back in here,” Follett said.
The monster had told the kid to call for help in order to create a diversion. Follett had been suckered.
Just then a woman screamed in the dining room.
The scream was Diana’s.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Follett started to run, banged his shin on a cast-iron oven and his head on a hanging pot, then stumbled through the rest of the kitchen and finally into the dining room. When he emerged from behind the alcove he gasped.
The monster who used to be Darryl stood in the center of the dining room, Diana clutched in his arms—one around her body, the other around her neck. Follett’s heart ached seeing her in such danger. There was broken glass all around the monster and Follett saw in the moonlight that one of the clerestory windows high above had been broken through. Clemens and Stockhurst circled the monster anxiously. Stockhurst held a small pistol but i
t was pointed at the floor.
“That’s good. Now drop it,” the monster said, “or I snap her neck. That little peashooter isn’t accurate enough anyway to hit me without hitting her.”
Follett moved into the room but the monster saw him and growled. Follett stopped just a short distance from his companions.
“What would you know about guns, Astogani?” Stockhurst said.
“I now have Darryl’s knowledge, and like a typical young man he’s curious about guns. Quite a smart one he is, for a half-breed.”
“I’ll drop the gun if you release her.”
“You shouldn’t bother pretending you’re chivalrous. It doesn’t suit you, Stockhurst. Or should I call you Cedor?”
“That was a long time ago and thousands of miles away,” Stockhurst said, his voice darker.
“I must say you did very well in the world of humans. After you were banished, one would think you’d end up living a miserable life like one of the stranded. But no, you developed an appetite for gold and became adept at outsmarting humans.”
“What business is it of yours? Let the lady go and you can settle your grudge with me directly.”
“Don’t pretend my grudge is just about being killed by you. You committed the gravest sin there is among crals.”
Clemens looked over at Stockhurst and the monster noticed.
“Yes, Cedor here murdered his own female. Crals have always struggled to maintain their numbers, and females who are able to bear young are held sacred. That’s why he was banished from our lands and from any contact with crals. That’s why he developed a taste for human females.”
“Enough!” Stockhurst shouted. “Stop pretending you can cast moral judgment on me. You lusted after my female and you took her. This is nothing about sacredness—it’s about you wanting what was mine and you whispering with the evil spirits so they would make you stronger. You’re the one who should have been banished.”
“The only true thing you said was that I rutted with your female.”
