Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  “You mean it was embarrassing,” Whitlock said.

  “For your company as well as myself. After all, you were supposed to prevent such a thing, were you not?”

  Whitlock fell silent. Orne wasn’t wrong. He’d been too focused on Zorzi – he knew that. Maybe she’d been a distraction, maybe not, but he’d seen the thieves. So had Muldoon. If they’d confronted them together, sooner, the whole thing might have been avoided.

  “What did you wish to see me about? Some good news, I hope?”

  “Not good news, no sir,” Muldoon said, respectfully. “We found one of the thieves.”

  “Really? That’s not good news?”

  “He’s dead,” Whitlock said.

  Orne paused. “Where?”

  “Well, that’s the thing, you see… looks like they were holed up in one of your warehouses. Funny, huh?”

  “No, not especially. I own a number of warehouses. Presumably they broke in.”

  “Presumably,” Whitlock said. “You don’t seem bothered.”

  “Should I be?” Orne looked away, as if bored. But he wasn’t bored. He was nervous. Not much, just enough for a man like Whitlock to notice. “As I said, I own several warehouses along the river. The remnants of a more prosperous time. That they broke into one was likely a coincidence.”

  “Or maybe not.”

  Orne peered at him. “Are you implying something, Mr Whitlock?”

  “No, he’s not. And that’s not why we’re here, sir,” Muldoon interjected. “There’ve been two other deaths. A man named Ogilvy, in Kingsport, and a fellow named Soames, in Boston. You know them?”

  Orne tensed. “They were… fellow investors, along with Tad Visser. They were supposed to come out this week. We were going to celebrate the exhibition.” He gestured to the house. “That’s what I’ve been preoccupied with, actually. I’m having a bit of a private soiree tomorrow evening, for some close friends. Nothing fancy, but it does require a bit of party planning.”

  Whitlock smirked. “I would think you’d want to avoid parties, after what happened at the last one. Then, lightning doesn’t strike twice, right?”

  “How did they die?” Orne asked, ignoring Whitlock.

  “Unfortunately, it appears they were murdered, sir.”

  Orne’s face went waxen. “That… is unfortunate. Is Tad all right? I just spoke to him yesterday.”

  “We’ll be seeing him later today,” Muldoon said. “For right now, we’d like to provide police protection, especially if you’re having a party. I’ll talk to the chief…”

  “That won’t be necessary,” Orne said. “I can provide my own protection.”

  “Even so,” Muldoon began.

  “I commend you on your dedication, officer, but I’m sure your department’s resources are better utilized in finding my stolen property – especially given the circumstances.” Orne smiled. “Have no doubt, I will mention you to Chief Nichols in glowing terms.” His smile faded as he looked at Whitlock. “As for you…”

  “I don’t work for you,” Whitlock said, his voice mild. “And I don’t work for Nichols. But I do want to find that mummy. Though I am still puzzled about one thing…”

  “Just one?” Orne said.

  Whitlock ignored that. “All this time, we’ve been acting on the assumption that there was a buyer involved. But we never thought to ask why someone might buy a withered old mummy. It’s not really valuable, is it?”

  Orne frowned. “It is not simply a mummy. It is the key to unlocking the secret history of this continent. That withered old mummy, as you call it, walked the Earth at a time prior to any recorded human habitation. Before even the earliest legends of the indigenous peoples who would eventually settle there.”

  “Maybe he was an explorer.”

  “Perhaps. But where did he come from? What sort of society produced such a man? Consider the condition of his teeth, for instance.” As Orne spoke, he became more animated.

  “What about them?” Muldoon asked.

  “Well, he had most of them. That implies a certain awareness of hygiene.”

  “I’m not here to talk about hygiene,” Whitlock interrupted. “I just want a bit of information – who in this town might pony up good money to buy that damn thing?” He stared intently at Orne. “Just a name. That’s all we need.”

  Orne was silent for long moments. Then, “Have you found Professor Ashley yet?”

  Whitlock and Muldoon shared a look. “No. Why?”

  “Ashley is a former member of the Silver Twilight Lodge. He was drummed out in some disgrace… or so he claimed.”

  “And you and Mr Sanford don’t get along,” Muldoon said.

  “That’s putting it mildly, I’m afraid. Carl Sanford wants me out of business and out of Arkham. All because I wouldn’t join his lodge of second-rate Masons.”

  “Is that why you funded the expedition? To get back at Sanford?”

  “No, I funded it to find buried treasure. You need to find Ashley – and if you haven’t yet, you might try asking Sanford where he is.” Orne smiled thinly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me… I have guests to prepare for.”

  Whitlock watched him walk back up the path then said, “Do you believe him?”

  “Maybe. There’s an awful lot of stories about those Silver Twilight types.”

  “So let’s go talk to them.”

  “No. At least not yet. First, we get permission.” Muldoon climbed into the patrol car, and Whitlock circled to the passenger seat.

  “Since when do we need permission?”

  “Since both the mayor and the chief are members in good standing.” Muldoon put the car into gear. “Permission first, then we go talk.”

  Whitlock sat back and shook his head.

  “I’m really starting to hate this goddamn town.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Freeborn

  Alessandra closed the door to Freeborn’s office and sat in the chair facing the desk. Pepper stood, glowering with as much ferocity as she could muster. Freeborn studied them for a moment, then cleared his throat. “Who was he?” he asked.

  “No one of importance. You are safe.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yes. Says me.”

  Freeborn tapped his fingers nervously on his desk. “You don’t strike me as being a policewoman,” he said, suspiciously. “And I’ve already talked to them anyway.”

  “I am not a policewoman. But I am investigating the robbery.”

  “What business is it of yours?”

  “I am acting on behalf of a private party.”

  Freeborn stared at her for a moment, processing this. “You’re a… detective?” He chuckled. “Forgive me, but you don’t look like any detective I’ve ever met.”

  “Met many then?”

  “A few. I’ve worked with the Blackwood Agency a time or two.” He preened slightly as he said it. Alessandra had no idea what that was, or why Freeborn seemed so proud of it.

  “How exciting,” she said. “But I am not employed by an agency.”

  “Private dick, huh?” he said, smiling slightly. “Like that Diamond fellow?”

  “I do not know a Diamond,” she said, mildly. “You are avoiding my question.”

  “I’m doing no such thing,” Freeborn protested. But the way he said it told Alessandra she’d hit a nerve. He paused. “You never told me your name.”

  “You never asked. Zorzi. Alessandra Zorzi. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She extended her hand across the desk, and he stared at it as if it were a snake. Finally, after a hesitation that was just shy of rude, he took it. His handshake was somewhat south of firm. She held tight when he made to let go. “I trust you will make time for me now?”

  Freeborn grunted and sat back. He loosened his tie. He glanced at Pepper, but didn’t ask her name. “I suppose I have to, don’t I?” He shook his head. “Damn it, Ferdinand.”

  Alessandra leaned back. “What, exactly, should Professor Ashley be damned for?”


  “Getting me involved in this enterprise,” Freeborn said, sourly.

  “Not going well, then?”

  “Are you trying to be funny?” He shook his head. “I’m not one for curses, but this whole affair is making me reconsider.”

  “Curse? What, like King Tut?” Pepper asked, somewhat too enthusiastically.

  Freeborn eyed her. “No, not really.”

  “Explain, please,” Alessandra said.

  He frowned, and looked for a moment as if he might decline to answer. “It started in Binger,” he said, finally. “It’s in Oklahoma. If you’ve never heard of it, don’t worry. No one else has either. The mound was just west of town. There are several in the area, most of them natural formations. Nothing to be excited about, unless you work for the geology department.”

  “But this one wasn’t a natural formation,” Alessandra said.

  “I don’t know what it was.” Freeborn looked away, out the window. “Ferdinand claimed to have identified the mound as one mentioned by Coronado.” He glanced at her. “You know who that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Pepper said.

  “Francisco Vázquez de Coronado,” Freeborn said. “A conquistador. He led a large expedition from Mexico all the way up into Kansas, looking for the Seven Cities of Gold. First European to see the Grand Canyon.”

  “Fascinating,” Alessandra said. “And he discovered the mound?”

  “I’m sure the people who lived in the region already knew about it, but yes. He sent an expedition to the mound, looking for an entrance to fabled Quivira, one of the cities I mentioned.”

  “He thought it was underground?”

  “Ferdinand seemed to think that was what Coronado believed. And… certain elements of the mound’s structure bore out his theories.” Freeborn grimaced. “We should have had a geologist with us. Dyer, maybe. But Ashley wouldn’t hear of it. Wanted to keep things small.”

  “Why?” Alessandra asked. She was curious now, despite herself.

  “A condition of the funding, he said.”

  “You did not believe him?”

  Freeborn looked down at his desk. “I didn’t think about it at the time. Around here, you learn not to question where funding comes from – you just say thank you and get on with it. Anyway, the locals were not best pleased to see us. I put it down to the usual hick hostility, and maybe it was. But a few members of the expedition reported seeing strange faces hanging about where they ought not to have been. We lost some equipment the first week. Had some tents torn up. Someone punctured the tires on our auto.”

  “As if someone were trying to sabotage your efforts.”

  He nodded. “Ferdinand thought he was being followed. We made supply runs to Binger every week. He oversaw a few of them. Swore someone was stalking him in town. He said that people had been asking about us. I told him that was normal.”

  “Did you ever identify them?”

  “No. If they were even there in the first place.” He peered out the window. “Maybe I’m wrong, and they were. He said… it was as if they were trying to figure out why we were there. What our purpose was.” He laughed softly. “He thought they wanted his notes. Like we were after treasure and they were trying to keep it hidden.”

  “Or claim it for themselves.”

  He paused. “It put me in mind of other things I’d heard. The sort of stories archaeologists tell to scare each other.” He shook his head. “The things we dig up, they’re not as forgotten as we like to think. Just because a white man’s never seen it doesn’t mean it’s never been seen. And sometimes, when we take something, we don’t stop to think that maybe someone might have an objection to it.” He looked at the window. “Walters warned us. Too bad we didn’t listen.”

  “Walters? Harvey Walters?” She remembered him from the exhibition.

  “Yes. He helped Ferdinand find some old book that pointed him at the mound in the first place. I always got the feeling that Walters knew more about what we were looking for than Ferdinand did. Maybe that’s why he chose not to join us.”

  Alessandra frowned. Was that why Visser had tried to bring him in on the expedition? If that was the case, why had the old man said no? “Do you believe that?”

  “No, I think it’s because he’s a cantankerous old goat.” Freeborn sat back. “Where was I?”

  “Buried treasure,” Pepper said, eagerly.

  Freeborn snorted. “There was never any treasure, no matter what our investors believed. Ferdinand probably filled their heads with stories of lost Conquistador gold, but we knew better. Or we thought we did. And then we found that damn mummy.”

  “It seems to lend credence to your friend’s theories.”

  “No, it’s not nearly that old. But it’s an intruder.”

  “An intruder?”

  “Something that shouldn’t be where it is,” he said, forcefully. “It shouldn’t have been there. It shouldn’t have.”

  “And yet it was. Surely that is part of its value.”

  He shook his head. “You don’t understand. It’s an impossibility.”

  “Meaning?”

  “There are no known records of such a civilization. Just… legends. Folktales. Stories passed down from one generation to the next. But no proof. No evidence.”

  “Until the mummy.”

  “Until that goddamn mummy.” He sat back, gaze vacant. “I should have known something was wrong then. Maybe we could have avoided all that happened after.”

  “After?” she asked, steering the conversation back on course.

  “It was in a… depression of sorts,” he said, absently, lost in his memories. “There was evidence of other digs in the past. Cleared shrubbery, displaced rocks… tools, even. We knew of at least one previous dig, in 1891. An amateur historian named… Heaton, I think, went looking for gold. He didn’t find it.” He paused. “He went mad, later.”

  Something about the way he said it sent a chill through her. Suddenly uneasy, she cleared her throat. “And the mummy was in this depression.”

  “It was more akin to a chamber. There was evidence that it had been carved.” His voice was soft now, and she knew he wasn’t looking out the window so much as back to that day. “It reminded me of an anchorite’s cell. Just big enough to fit a body, bent double.”

  He was silent for a moment. “There was an accident.” He hesitated. “A cave-in. We lost three men.” He glanced at her. “We found a second depression, larger than the first. Bowl-like. We began an excavation. Then the weather turned sour… high winds, dangerous at that height.” He trailed off, his expression absent as his eyes returned to the window. “For a moment, just before it happened… I could have sworn it was rising up out of the mound… as if it were trying to prevent us from digging any deeper.” He swallowed. “It was as if I were back in Australia again, with Peaslee and Ferdinand.”

  Alessandra headed him off before he could wander down another tangent. “Did you find something, before the collapse?”

  He didn’t reply for several minutes. “No,” he said, finally. “Nothing worth three lives, at any rate.” He coughed and cleared his throat. “The collapse was the last straw. Between it, and the incident with the mummy…”

  “You didn’t mention an incident earlier.”

  “Didn’t I?” He looked frightened. Not of her, but of something in his own head. “I’m sure I did. You must be mistaken.”

  “I assure you, I am not.” She gave him a level stare, and he shrank back slightly.

  “I don’t see what any of this has to do with finding the damn thing now.”

  “That is not your concern, Professor Freeborn. Let me be the judge of what is or is not useful information.” She spoke more sharply than she intended. He was trying to avoid saying something. “What happened?”

  “We… We hired several locals to help with the grunt work. The digging and lifting and such. They got nervous when we found the mummy, started talking about ghosts and strange li
ghts. None of which we ever saw, mind.”

  “I would be surprised if they had not mentioned such things.”

  He peered at her, a slight frown creasing his features. “You sound as if you’ve got some experience with archaeological digs.”

  “A bit.” She’d stolen artifacts from several active digs in Egypt. Mostly that meant dressing up in local costume and blending in with the hired laborers long enough to get the lay of the camp, and sneak into the tent where certain things were being kept. She’d only been caught out once, and hadn’t that been an exciting evening?

  Racing across the dunes on a stolen horse, pistol in hand, her saddlebags full of broken pottery and one mummified cat. They’d chased her all the way to Cairo, and a bit beyond. This job was proving to be quieter, but only just. More lucrative, however, especially if she could figure out how to get the rest of her payment from Zamacona and Orne, regardless of which one of them got the mummy.

  Freeborn ran a hand through his hair. “They swore it moved, when we pulled it into the light. I put it down to its bindings being loose.”

  “They seemed fairly tight when I saw it.”

  Freeborn hesitated. “We tightened them. After.”

  “After what?”

  He fell silent, studiously avoiding her gaze. She was about to prompt him again when he said, “It wasn’t just the one time. It moving, I mean. Or so they said. I never saw it myself. I don’t think they saw anything.” He said the last words quickly. “They said it got up, or tried to. That it was… clawing at itself.”

  “You did not believe them?”

  Again, he fell silent. Then, “I didn’t. Not at the time.”

  “But you do now?”

  He looked at his hands. “That night, there was a wind. Strong wind, out of the south. Blew out the lamps, nearly extinguished the campfire. And in the dark, something happened. We heard a sound – like a… a hiss. Or a rustle, like dead leaves caught in the wind. When we finally got the fire stoked and the lamps relit, one of the workmen was dead.”

  Alessandra frowned, feeling suddenly uneasy. “How did he die?”

  “Officially, he tripped and broke his neck in the dark.”