Alessandra was somewhere cold and hard. Stone. Artillery – no, drums – thudded somewhere in the distance. Below her, perhaps. Or maybe above. She couldn’t tell.
Ahead of her was only darkness. A vast emptiness, stretching past the limits of her vision. She tried to push herself to her feet, and heard something clink. Chains… she was chained. Someone had chained her to the stones. She looked around. There were… people standing nearby. Men, or maybe women. Naked, but for grotesque masks – not gas masks this time, but ornate masks of onyx and gold. They were praying, or perhaps chanting. But softly, almost as if they were afraid someone would hear.
Or something.
She tried to speak, but no sound came out. She tried to rise again, but the chains prevented it. Panic gnawed at the edges of her composure. She didn’t know where she was or how she’d gotten here. All she knew was that if she didn’t get out, she was going to die. Something was coming. Behind her, the chanting had changed – become more guttural. And the drums… the rhythm of the drums was different. Faster.
Hungrier.
She yanked at the chains, but there was no give in them. Out in the dark, she glimpsed a hint of movement. As if something immense were stirring in the deeps. Her thrashing became frenzied. She felt a coldness in her and could not look away from the dark. Around her, she felt her captors sink down, bowing before this indistinct motion. She could not draw breath into her lungs.
Tsathoggua en y’n an ya phtaggn N’kai.
N’kai.
N’kai.
N’KAI.
The word hammered through her, like a jolt of electricity. She did not recognize it, but she knew it all the same. It twisted inside her head, stretching down into the marrow of her, filling her up and hollowing her out.
This time, she managed to scream, waking herself in the process. She lurched out of the chair, heart thudding, stomach roiling. She had fallen asleep not long after returning from her outing with Visser. The pastries had sat heavily on her stomach, and not even the coffee had been enough to keep her awake.
Sweat coated her, and she felt flushed and clammy all at once. She looked down at herself, but saw no marks, no wounds. She rose and splashed some water on her face. She avoided looking at the mirror as she did so.
She was dressed for work, waiting for Pepper to arrive. She looked out the window and froze. Something was down there, almost obscured in the evening mist. Someone. Standing in the park, watching the hotel.
No, watching the penthouse. A cold hand gripped her spine. Her fingers felt for her revolver, though it wasn’t as if she was going to shoot them. The mist rolled, and they were gone. She let the curtain fall and sat back heavily in her seat. It had been Zamacona’s servant, she was certain of it.
A knock at the door caused her to sit up sharply. Pistol in hand, she stood and went over to it. She waited until she heard Pepper’s voice before she opened the door. “You look like a stretch of bad road,” Pepper said.
“Is that a joke?”
“Not a funny one.” Pepper stepped past her into the room. “We might have trouble.”
“What sort of trouble?”
“I was at the garage earlier and some guys came in. Slick types. The sort that wouldn’t normally be caught dead in a place like that. They went into De Palma’s office, and then he called for me.”
“You did not go, I assume.”
“Hell no. If Iggy hadn’t warned me, I’d have been in a tight spot.” Pepper took off her hat and ran a hand through her hair. “As it was, I had to go out the window in the john. And that was a tight squeeze, let me tell you.”
“Who were they?”
“I didn’t stop to ask their names, but they were O’Bannion goons for sure.”
“And you are certain that they were looking for you?”
“Us,” Pepper said. She picked up Alessandra’s cigarettes and took one. “I think you kicked the hornets’ nest, lady.”
Alessandra frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Someone saw us at Hibb’s the other night. The O’Bannions are taking an interest.”
“That could complicate matters.”
“I’ll say. What do we do?”
“We continue as planned, obviously. I have never allowed the attentions of local criminal organizations to deter me, and I do not intend to start now.” Alessandra picked up her cap and pulled it on. “Now, let’s go find our thief.”
Chapter Nineteen
Tick-Tock Club
The Tick-Tock Club, like the Clover Club, hid in plain sight. The entrance, at least the one Pepper knew about, was a nondescript stairwell near a watch shop. The club itself was supposedly underneath a nearby grocer. Even parked as they were across the street, Alessandra could hear the wailing of jazz horns from somewhere close by.
“Never been here before,” Pepper said, leaning over the steering wheel.
“No?”
“Never even dropped anyone off here.” Pepper puffed on one of Alessandra’s cigarettes. “You hear stories about this place.”
“It seems Arkham is full of stories.”
“Yeah.” Pepper looked back at her. “What now?”
“I will go in, find Gomes and get the answers I need.”
“What if he gives you lip?”
“Then I will teach him the error of his ways,” Alessandra replied. “You will stay here.”
“What? But you might need somebody to watch your back!”
“Watch it from out here.”
Pepper frowned, but didn’t argue. Instead, she said, “After this… what are you going to do? After you find the mummy, I mean.”
“I suppose I will leave.” After a moment’s hesitation, Alessandra asked, “And you?”
“Go back to being a cabbie, I guess.” Pepper sighed and slumped. “It’ll seem kind of boring after this, though.” She paused. “And I’ll miss the money.”
Alessandra smiled. “Yes, I expect you will.” She reached over the seat and squeezed Pepper’s shoulder. “I am going in now. Be ready when I come out.”
“What if they don’t let you in? I mean, you’re not exactly dressed for a party.”
“I can be persuasive, when necessary.”
Alessandra got out and crossed the street. The night lay heavy over Arkham and shadows pooled at the edges of the light. Something about the darkness reminded her of her dreams, and for a moment she was elsewhere. The stars above were the lights of impossible structures, and the night sky was as the roof of a great cavern.
She looked up and felt something in her stretch towards the dark, as if seeking sanctuary. She put her hand to her mouth and forced herself to keep moving. The last thing she needed was to get sick here, in the middle of the street.
She knocked on the door and it was opened by a tall man, dressed much as she was, though with heavily scarred features. There was a shotgun beside the door, but he wasn’t otherwise armed. Given his size, she thought he didn’t need it. He looked her up and down, but didn’t ask her business. It was obvious why she was there.
He stepped aside with a grunt, and she entered. As he closed the door behind her, he gestured to a towering grandfather clock sitting on the other side of the cluttered shop. She went to it, and wondered how to access the passage that supposedly lay beyond. She turned. “How…” she began.
“Midnight,” he said, as he sat on a stool by the door, and picked up a folded newspaper. He extricated a pencil from behind his ear, dabbed it on his tongue, and went back to work on a crossword puzzle.
She blinked and turned back, setting the hands of the clock to midnight. There was a loud click, and the face of the clock swung inwards, revealing a set of narrow stairs. The sounds of music billowed up around her, inviting her down.
The clock closed behind her as she descended. A pressure plate of some sort, she thought. It was all very clever, in a penny dreadful sort of way.
The descent took only moments. The stairwell was confining, claustrophobic. But well-l
it, at least. At the bottom, another door. This one was guarded by a man in an ill-fitting tuxedo. He was as broad and as bulky as the one upstairs, and had a face like a lump of granite. No scars, though. At least none that she could see.
He stopped her, and made to search her. But instead of the Webley, he found a fold of cash that had suddenly sprouted from his jacket pocket. He grinned. “Go right in, ma’am.”
“Thank you. You are most kind.”
The music beat at her senses as she entered. It was almost too loud. She wondered how anyone heard the singers, such was the discordant thunder of the band. Timepieces of all shapes, sizes and styles covered the walls. A closer look told her that of those few that were functioning, each displayed a different time. No two alike. An oddity. She was coming to learn that Arkham was full of those.
She spotted Gomes easily. He was grinning at a woman who sat across from him. A waitress, perhaps, or a singer. She recalled what Vigil had said, about Gomes having a woman.
Whoever she was, she chose that moment to get up and depart. Perhaps heading to the powder room. Whatever the reason, Alessandra decided to take advantage of it. She made her way towards his table, moving as quickly as the crowd would allow.
Gomes saw her coming. He squinted at her. It was clear he recognized her, but didn’t know why. She sat down without waiting for an invitation. “Hello, Mr Gomes.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Alessandra took off her cap and frowned. “You do not remember me.” She studied him coolly. He was favoring his arm, but it wasn’t badly injured. She’d only clipped him, after all.
“Should I?” he said, pugnaciously.
“No. I suppose not. You are a bit slow. I suspect you are not the brains of your gang. Is that the correct saying? Brains?” She was baiting the man, despite knowing it was a bad idea. But he’d tried to shoot her, and she was owed some small recompense, however petty.
He lurched to his feet, a snarl on his face. “What’d you say?” he growled.
“And hard of hearing as well? Fate has dealt you a cruel hand, my friend.” She leaned back in her seat, watching him warily. His sort rarely went for their guns first. They liked the feeling of a fist against flesh.
“I don’t know who you are, but I do know how to shut you up.” He reached for her, and she bobbed to her feet. Her fists thudded out, catching him in the kidneys. He staggered, and she caught the front of his shirt, dragging him close. Before he could recover, she rammed her knee up between his legs. He gave a strangled squawk and fell, upending the table. Alessandra managed to snag her cap before it hit the floor. She put it on and stepped back as he clambered to his feet, wheezing, eyes full of tears.
She drew her pistol. He stiffened. The music faltered. Alessandra could feel eyes on them, but didn’t take her own off her quarry. “Let me tell you who I am,” she said. “I am a woman in need of answers, and you are the lucky fellow who will give them to me. That should be well within your capabilities, however limited they might be.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I haven’t asked the question yet.”
“And you’re not going to,” a new voice cut in. She glanced over her shoulder to see a slight man, with pinched features and dark hair glaring at her. He was accompanied by a phalanx of much bigger men, dressed to the nines and looking uncomfortable in their starched collars. They were all armed, or so she guessed from the bulges in their jackets.
The smaller man pointed at her. “Who the hell do you think you are, and what the hell are you doing in my club? Answer the second question first.”
“M- Mr Donohue,” her quarry began, nervously. “I don’t know who this dame is. She just up and… and attacked me!”
“Shut up, Gomes,” Donohue snapped, not looking at him. “If she’s here because of you, that makes this your problem, savvy?” He fixed a dark gaze on Alessandra. She was reminded of a starving fox she’d once seen. “I’m waiting.”
“I require information.”
“They licensing lady PIs now?” Donohue said and laughed. His men laughed with him, until he gestured sharply. “Gomes doesn’t know nothing.”
“Double-negative,” Alessandra said.
Donohue frowned and looked around. “This look like a grammar school to you?” He shook his head. “Stow the heater. What do you wanna know?”
Alessandra studied him, weighing the odds. She holstered her weapon. “The mummy exhibition,” she said.
“Yeah, I heard about that. Everyone heard about it.” He glanced at Gomes, who shrank back. “Was that you, Gomes?” Donohue whistled. “You’ve been a bad boy. And stupid.” Gomes had the look of a hunted animal. Donohue’s smile was sharp and ugly.
With a panicked yell, Gomes snatched a Colt from beneath his jacket. He fired wildly, rousing a scream from the crowd. Donohue and his men scattered, and Gomes barreled towards the door. Alessandra pounded after him, not quite certain what she was going to do when she caught up with him, but not wanting him to get away.
Gomes upended a table, and she was forced to leap over it. He shoved the doorman aside and was out like a shot. She heard Donohue shouting behind her as she followed. Gomes was a dim figure above her as she hurried up the stairs. He was cursing in Portuguese under his breath. He paused on the landing and leveled his weapon.
With nowhere to go, she started running. The boom of the automatic was thunderous in the enclosed stairwell, and she felt something snatch her cap from her head. She ducked and kept moving, knowing her only chance was to get in close.
He fired again, but between his own panic and the dim lighting, his aim was off. The shot ricocheted along the stairwell, whining off towards the bottom. She was on him a moment later, her hands catching the barrel of the automatic and forcing it upwards. Her momentum carried him backwards. They crashed against the door, knocking it from its hinges with a loud bang.
Alessandra fell atop him, still struggling for control of the pistol. He punched her in the side, bellowing curses. She writhed, striking him in the face with her elbow. The gun clattered away. She heard shouts from below. So did Gomes, for he shoved her aside and stumbled onto the street, blood streaming from his nose.
By the time she’d gotten to her feet, he was gone. She heard the screech of tires and saw Pepper’s cab racing towards her. From below came the sound of pounding feet. It was time to go. She ran towards the cab as it slowed. She was slamming the door as the first of Donohue’s men reached the street. Gunfire lit up the night as Pepper stomped on the gas.
“What the hell happened back there?” Pepper shouted, as she aimed the cab away from the club. “Why are they shooting at us?”
“I might have made a nuisance of myself,” Alessandra said, looking back. There was no telling where Gomes had gone. She punched the seat angrily. “We have lost him.”
“Maybe. But we know he’s still around, right? That’s something, ain’t it?” Pepper glanced at her. She was grinning wildly. “That was pretty exciting though, right?”
“They shot at us.”
“I know! I ain’t never been shot at before.” Pepper pounded on the steering wheel. “You get shot at a lot?”
“No.” Alessandra frowned. “I do not enjoy it.”
“So what now?” Pepper asked.
“Back to the hotel, I suppose.” Alessandra closed her eyes. “It is late, and I need to think.” She would talk to Freeborn in the morning. He might be able to point her in another direction. Regardless, she would need to talk to Muldoon. If he’d learned the whereabouts of the others, they might have a chance of catching Gomes.
If not, Zamacona was going to be disappointed.
“Know what always helps me think?”
Alessandra cracked an eyelid. “What?”
Pepper grinned at her. “Pie.”
Chapter Twenty
Pie
Despite the late hour, Velma’s Diner was nearly full when they arrived. The background hum of conversation
was loud, and the rattle of cutlery constant. Alessandra and Pepper claimed a booth in the corner alongside the window. Alessandra ordered coffee, and, at Pepper’s suggestion, a slice of pie.
The pie was good. The coffee, as expected, was less so. Americans didn’t understand coffee, in much the same way that the English didn’t understand tea. She set it aside, wondering if it might be more palatable when it cooled off.
Pepper added a ridiculous amount of sugar and milk to hers. Alessandra felt vaguely offended on behalf of the coffee. Why drink a thing if you couldn’t stand the taste? But instead of saying that, she said, “Why is this place shaped like a railcar?”
“Because it used to be one,” Pepper said, around a mouthful of pie. “Neat, right?”
Alessandra looked around. There were only a handful of booths, pressed tight to the walls. Most of the patrons sat at the chrome lunch counter. The smells of meatloaf and hash mingled in a pleasing fashion. She pushed her plate aside and watched Pepper finish her pie. “Enjoyable as it was, I am still at a loss.”
“So he got away. So what? We can find him again. We can visit the Roadhouse again or – hey! – maybe we can go talk to that horse-doctor I mentioned? Somebody will know something.”
“Perhaps.” Alessandra turned as the bell above the door jangled. A familiar face entered the diner. A slim man, dressed nicely, faintly familiar. He spotted her and gave a cold, hard smile as he took a seat at the counter. She felt a chill as she realized where she’d seen him before – at the Roadhouse. She could tell by the bulge in his jacket that he was armed. Nor was he alone. Another man, similarly dressed, was standing outside, peering about as if looking for trouble.
“Pepper,” she said. “At the counter – is that the fellow who came looking for you at the garage?”
Pepper turned, and her face went hard. “Yeah,” she said softly.
“Good. Go get me another cup of coffee.”
“You haven’t finished that one,” Pepper protested, not taking her eyes from the man.
“Pepper – go to the counter. Stay there. No matter what happens here.”
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