Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

She bent double, vomiting up water and chicken. Nothing black in it now, just the faint yellowish ocher of digestive juices. The falling water urged it away and out of sight. She feared it might clog the drain, but the water continued to fall and gurgle.

  She finished her ablutions, and got out, wrapping herself in a towel. The room was warm, but she was cold. She dried herself quickly, and pulled on a dressing gown. After a moment’s consideration, she dropped her pistol into the gown’s pocket. Its weight was a comfort, though she could not say why.

  Idly, she went to the window and tugged back the curtain. Sunlight danced across the gambrel rooftops. A new morning in Arkham. The clouds of the previous afternoon were nowhere in sight, and the only evidence of rain were the puddles scattered across Independence Square.

  If luck were with her, Pepper would have something for her today. The thieves had not fled, she was certain of that. The police were watching the station and the river, and they’d set up roadblocks around town. If she were them, she would hide the mummy and lay low until she could deliver it safely to her client. Unless, of course, they already had.

  Then, what if their client lived outside of Arkham? That was an unpleasant thought. Even now, the mummy might already be out of reach. She doubted Zamacona would react well to that. She shivered. No, he wouldn’t be pleased at all.

  Keeping her Webley close to hand, she began to dress. Pepper would have something for her. The girl hadn’t let her down yet. A name, a place, something. Somewhere to begin.

  The sooner, the better.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Roadhouse

  Whitlock scanned the warehouse and sighed. Even without looking around he could tell that whoever had been here was gone. The question was, how long ago?

  “So they left their car one block over…” he began, his voice echoing in the oppressive silence of the cavernous space. He turned, letting the beam of his flashlight dance across the windows and walls. The place stank of fish, like everywhere else in this part of town.

  Muldoon shook his head. “Stolen. Somebody snatched it off a street in Kingsport last week. We think they moved it to a truck.”

  “And then came here to hole up.” Whitlock let his flashlight play across the packing crates of machinery. “Probably so their buddy could get stitched up.”

  “You mean the one the countess shot to save you?”

  Whitlock ignored the comment. “How’d you track them?”

  Muldoon smiled. “Easy – we had a description of the truck, and this warehouse hasn’t been used in three years. One of the locals owes me a favor, and he gets in touch when he sees something out of the ordinary.”

  “Got your own spy network, huh? Some of that John Buchan bullshit?”

  “You read John Buchan?”

  “Only when I need a laugh.” Whitlock stopped. “That look like blood to you?”

  “Yeah,” Muldoon said. He drew his weapon. “Stay back. Let me check it out.”

  “Feel free,” Whitlock said, drawing his own pistol. Muldoon glanced at it.

  “So, do all insurance guys pack a piece, or just you?”

  “Insurance investigator, and yeah – the smart ones at least. Sometimes people get annoyed when we ask them why they burned down their own warehouse. Speaking of which, three guesses who owns this one.”

  “I’m not really good at guessing games.”

  “Matthew Orne.”

  Muldoon stopped. “How the hell do you know that?”

  Whitlock gestured with his flashlight. “All these crates got the name of his shipping company stamped on them. It went under about two years ago, but he still owns all the property and the equipment.”

  “And you know that because…?”

  “Because I do my research. Part of my job is investigating our own clients. Orne’s got more money than sense. He’s started half a dozen businesses in the past decade and more than half of them have gone belly-up, and recently. Licenses pulled, contracts broken, grievances… someone in this town does not like him.”

  “Yeah, and I got a good idea who,” Muldoon said, starting forward again, sweeping the floor with his flashlight. “Carl Sanford.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “High lord and muckety-muck of the Silver Twilight Lodge.”

  “The whosits?”

  Muldoon stopped and cursed softly under his breath. “I’m going to need to call this in.” Whitlock peered past him and cursed as well, more loudly.

  “No hurry. Whoever he is, he’s real dead.” Whitlock crouched beside the body, taking in the damage to the jugular with a cool eye. He’d seen worse in the war. Men split open like ripe fruit or seared black by the edge of an artillery strike. Men cut to pieces by razor wire or drowning in two inches of muddy water at the bottom of a trench.

  Like a lot of men his age, he’d gone to war thinking it was an adventure. But that eagerness had been knocked out of him real quick. He’d seen the worst the world could throw at a man and come out the other side.

  “Don’t touch anything,” Muldoon said.

  “This isn’t my first body,” Whitlock said. “There was a truck here earlier. Oil stains over there, and patches of dried mud – likely from the wheels.” He looked back down at the body. “Recognize him?”

  Muldoon nodded. “His name’s Jodorowsky. Small time hoodlum. Works for the O’Bannions. Worked, I should say.” He stooped and peered at the body. “I can’t be certain, but I think he was one of the thieves.”

  “Funny we should find him here.”

  “In this warehouse, you mean?”

  “Yes. Orne wouldn’t be the first man to rob himself for the insurance money,” Whitlock said, looking up from the body. “Believe me, it happens more than you’d think.”

  “You think he’s a suspect?”

  “No, I think our sticky-fingered countess is behind it. Maybe she’s working with – or for – these O’Bannions of yours.”

  Muldoon turned. “No proof, though.”

  “We haven’t found any proof. That doesn’t mean it’s not there.” Whitlock smiled sourly. “Hell, maybe they’re in on it together, her and Orne. You read the files – that’s her modus operandi after all… She doesn’t steal this junk for herself. She sells it to rich nitwits who like playing with shrunken heads or what not.”

  Muldoon chewed his lip. “I don’t think Chief Nichols would like hearing that theory. He and Orne are pretty tight.”

  “So we find some proof.” Whitlock stood. “Look, we both want the same thing, right? The mummy found and the thanks of a grateful nation. Work with me here.”

  Muldoon looked away. “You really think she’s involved?”

  “I think there’s a damn good reason she made a run for it. If she didn’t steal the thing, she probably knows who did.” He looked down at the body. “Hell, she probably knows who did this as well.”

  “So we watch her,” Muldoon said. He scratched his chin. “I think I can get the chief to go for that. If not him, maybe Engels.”

  “Now you’re thinking,” Whitlock said. “I already took the liberty of talking to your boss, and he agreed. No need to worry on that score.”

  “You already talked to him?”

  “I thought it might be prudent. Just in case she tries to run for it again.” Whitlock looked at Muldoon. “What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking she didn’t seem the type to rip a guy’s throat out.”

  “No, but I don’t doubt she’d hire someone who was.” Whitlock looked around. “You want to know what I think?”

  “I have a feeling you’ll tell me anyway,” Muldoon said.

  Whitlock turned. “I think they had a falling out. Money splits easier two ways than three. And I think there’ll be more bodies before we unravel this thing.” He shook his head. “These career criminal types always turn on each other. Mark my words.”

  “Yeah, well, why didn’t they just shoot him?”

  Whitlock paused. He had no answer for that. It did
seem odd. “Crime of opportunity,” he said finally. “Or maybe they knew a gunshot would attract attention, even in this part of town. Doesn’t matter, does it? They won’t get far.”

  “I suppose,” Muldoon said, doubtfully. He looked around, his face pale in the glow of the flashlights. “I don’t like this, though.”

  “Trust me. I’ve dealt with this kind of thing before. They always slip up.” Whitlock watched the shadows twist in the light and smiled. “Always.”

  She was somewhere dark. Stifling. Confining. Alessandra could feel it closing in about her, like the sides of a sarcophagus. She felt hot and cold all at once, and her body itched terribly, as if she’d been bitten by a swarm of insects. She longed to scratch, but could not move. Could not so much as twitch her withered limbs. She wanted to scream in frustration, but no sound emerged from her dry, puckered mouth.

  Withered?

  Puckered?

  She tried to look – to see herself. But she saw only darkness. Was she blind? No, she could make out the jagged undulations of rock that surrounded her.

  She had been buried alive. The thought sent a thrill of horror through her. This was worse than any prison cell. Again, she tried to scream. But the only sound that came out was a distorted croak that could not have been made by a human tongue.

  Tsathoggua en y’n an ya phtaggn N’kai.

  N’kai.

  N’KAI.

  Alessandra’s eyes snapped open and she gasped, fumbling for her revolver. She recognized the face floating in front of her own before she drew it. Pepper. She was in Pepper’s cab. Not… someplace else. Panting slightly, she sat up with a groan.

  “Jeez, you OK? You made like you were about to scream.” Pepper studied her with open concern. Alessandra pawed at her eyes, trying to wipe away the last vestiges of sleep – of the nightmare. She felt shaky. Angry and scared all at once.

  “I am fine. Bad dream.” She was dressed in her working clothes, rather than a dress. Men’s clothes, men’s shoes. Not to disguise herself, really, but because they made it easier to run and climb, and yes, fight, if that became necessary.

  It wasn’t food poisoning. She couldn’t even pretend to believe that now, no matter how much she might wish to. She took a steadying breath, and felt the tension ease from her. She had learned in childhood how to compartmentalize fear, to lock it away until the job was done and she could safely collapse.

  This wasn’t fear. Not as she knew it. It was like acid, eating away at the walls of her composure. She wanted to be done with this town, with all of it. She ran her fingers through her hair, feeling the sweat that prickled her scalp. “My apologies for drifting off. I did not mean to fall asleep.”

  “Hey, who am I to judge? I fall asleep at work all the time.”

  Alessandra paused, and then shook her head, assuming her English had failed her. Rather than ask the obvious question, she said, “Is this the place?” She peered through the rain-streaked window at the former carriage-house. Hibb’s Roadhouse had seen better decades, but was still vibrant. Light blazed from the windows, and the faint scrape of a rhythm guitar filtered through the wet air.

  “This is it. Roughest patch of ground between here and Boston.” Pepper slumped in her seat as another motor car splashed past along the unpaved street. The headlights washed across the cab, momentarily driving back the shadows that filled it. The sudden change from dark to light made Alessandra flinch, and her skin crawled. “You OK?” Pepper asked.

  “I am fine,” Alessandra said, more sharply than she’d intended. “You may stop asking. How will we know when this guy you know has arrived?”

  “Easy. We go look.” Pepper opened her door and hopped out. Alessandra followed suit, feeling the urge to stretch as well as the need for a cigarette. She lit one for herself, and for Pepper, without being asked.

  A trio of drunks staggered into the street, singing loudly and incomprehensibly. Alessandra watched them weave back and forth in stumbling synchronicity. “I am surprised the police have not closed it down.”

  “Sheriff Engle wants to. Police chief disagrees.” Pepper shrugged, her hands thrust into her coat pockets. “Welcome to Arkham.”

  Alessandra chuckled and blew a serpentine plume of smoke into the air. She watched it waver and thin, and something about it reminded her of her dreams. Irritated, she dispersed it with a hasty gesture.

  She blew smoke into the air again, and it mingled with the evening mist. “I am going in. What was this man’s name again?”

  “Vigil. Joey Vigil. His friends call him the Rat.”

  Alessandra paused and looked at her. “What do his enemies call him?”

  Pepper blinked. “The… Rat?”

  “I see. That is good information to have.” She started across the street, and Pepper followed. Alessandra stopped. “Where are you going?”

  “With you. Joey knows me, not you. I’ve got to make the introductions.”

  Alessandra hesitated, but only for a moment. Pepper was right. “Fine. But keep your eyes open.”

  Pepper saluted gracelessly. “Don’t worry, countess – consider my peepers peeled.”

  Scowls greeted them as they entered the Roadhouse, but no one spoke up. The dim light did little to hide the dingy interior. She’d seen worse places, certainly. That didn’t make it pleasant. “Don’t worry,” Pepper murmured. “Nobody cares about us. They’re here to drink, play pool or lose at poker.”

  Alessandra nodded but didn’t reply. A live jazz band occupied a rough plank stage along the far wall. Few of the patrons seemed to be paying attention to the music, but some people were dancing in a cleared area in front of the stage. Here, scruffy longshoremen rubbed shoulders with immigrant laborers and out-of-town grifters.

  Vigil was awaiting them at a table in a back room, away from both the door and the stage. The room was small, and there was sawdust on the floor. Two men rose from the table as Alessandra and Pepper entered. Neither said anything as they pushed past the two women and headed out into the noise. One stopped and looked back. The shorter of the two, slim and dapper. Too well-dressed for the Roadhouse.

  By the time Alessandra and Pepper had taken seats at the table, both men were gone. Vigil was well-nicknamed. Mousy, with a lean face, he gave Pepper a tremulous smile. “How’s tricks?” he asked, as he slid something into his coat.

  “None of your business,” Pepper said, in a voice that was comically deep. She hiked a thumb at Alessandra. “This is the lady I was talking about. The countess. She wants to ask you a few questions.”

  “Always happy to help a lady,” Vigil said, turning to Alessandra. He had a bottle beside his elbow and a pair of shot glasses in front of him. As he spoke, he poured a glass. “You want a nip?”

  “Thank you.” She took the drink and knocked it back. It was watered down, but still tasted like it had been made in someone’s bathtub. “Pepper tells me that you are a man who knows things.”

  “I keep my ear to the ground,” Vigil said, preening slightly. “Long as you got the cash, I got the gossip.” She retrieved an envelope from her coat and passed it to him under the table. He made it vanish in moments. “Do I need to count it?”

  “If you wish to insult me.”

  Vigil grinned. “If you can’t trust an aristocrat, who can you trust? Ask away.”

  “I am looking for a man named Gomes.” A face crossed her mind’s eyes, dark and feral. The man who’d hit her – wanted to shoot her. She owed him more than a scratch on the arm for that offense.

  Vigil paused. “I know a couple of Gomes.”

  “This one robbed the museum recently. He got shot in the process.”

  “Oh. That Gomes.” Vigil frowned. “He don’t come around usually. He’s not welcome here. He’s a gun for the O’Bannion mob and likes to throw his weight around too much for the Sheldon boys to tolerate him.”

  “But he has been in lately.”

  “Yeah. Him and a few other O’Bannion goons. Guy named Phipps and another called… Pul
anski, I think.” Vigil knocked back his shot and poured another. “They needed guns and a truck.” Vigil looked around. “This is a good place to get both, if you ain’t picky about previous owners.”

  “Were the O’Bannions behind the robbery?”

  Vigil laughed. “Why would a bunch of bootleggers want a mummy?”

  “Why indeed?” She leaned forward. “Perhaps someone should ask the O’Bannions.” She felt a prickling sensation between her shoulder blades. They were being watched. She didn’t bother to look for whoever it was. Vigil frowned.

  “You should keep your voice down, lady. Wrong question can get you dead, especially in a place like this. And me with you.”

  “Then you had best answer it quickly. What else do you know about the robbery?”

  “Maybe you should leave.”

  Alessandra took his bottle from him and poured herself another drink, and then one for Pepper. “Maybe you should give me the information I have paid you for.” She did not elaborate, but Vigil caught the implication nonetheless.

  He squirmed in his seat, but reluctantly continued. “Gomes was here a few days before the robbery. He came to meet somebody.”

  “Describe him.”

  “Short, round, not the sort of guy you see in here very often. Looked nervous. I heard his name was Ashley. Some sort of professor from the college.”

  Alessandra paused, chewing this over. “And what did they talk about?”

  “That, I don’t know. Kept to themselves. If you want my opinion…?”

  “Please.”

  He grinned again. “He was an inside man.”

  She knew the term. But if Ashley had arranged the theft, had he done so for himself, or as an intermediary for someone else? “Where does Gomes hang around normally?”

  “Joint over in the Merchant District. The Tick-Tock Club. He goes every Friday, like clockwork. Word is, he has a dame.”

  “Most men do,” Alessandra said. “Have you told any of this to the police?”

  Vigil looked vaguely insulted. “What sort of mook do you take me for?”

  She smiled. “Good. If they should come by, do not mention my name.” She pushed another folded bill across the table, beneath her shot glass.