Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  The tables began to splinter and spread, like detritus in rising water. The ceiling surged away, cascading upwards into infinity. She fell from her seat and collapsed to the floor. In moments, it was as if she were trapped in the heart of a labyrinth. Or so it seemed to her tortured perceptions. Structures fashioned from broken wood and drunken angles stretched towards a sky of stone teeth. The darkness was pervasive, pulling everything towards itself. She could no longer see the other diners.

  Pale lights, like the prey-shine of angler fish, danced along the impossible heights. Something about them sent a chill down her spine. Again, as all the other times, she heard the thunder of drums – of artillery – of some great heartbeat, thudding in the dark below the world. She couldn’t remember how she’d gotten here. Or even where here was. The edges of her perceptions were soft, and barely there.

  The pale lights spun about her, piercing her from all sides. The dark rose up all around. Consuming her. She could feel it, hollowing her out and filling the empty shell. Worse, she could hear it inside her. It spoke to her, in a whisper at first and then louder, like a crashing torrent or a howling wind. The same words as before.

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

  N’kai.

  N’kai.

  N’KAI.

  N’KAI.

  N’KAI!

  “I don’t understand,” she cried out, hands clasped to her ears. “What does that mean? What do you want?”

  N’KAI!

  The word struck her like a hammer blow, and she sat up with a strangled yelp. Blearily, she realized that she was not in the restaurant, but her room. Someone was knocking at the door. Her stomach was in knots as she stood and pulled on her dressing gown. Her throat felt raw, as if she’d been gargling with glass. She paused at the door.

  The dream had been stronger this time. More real. As if it were trying to tell her something. Whatever it was, she wished it would just come out and say it, rather than all this cryptic symbolism.

  The knock came again, more insistent this time. Not Milo, then. Taking a breath, she opened the door. Her eyes narrowed. “Mr Whitlock. What an unpleasant surprise.”

  “Get dressed,” Whitlock said, brusquely. Two uniformed police officers stood behind him. “Now.”

  “Why?”

  “You know Thaddeus Visser, don’t you?” The way he said it implied he already knew the answer. Before she could reply, he continued, “He’s dead.”

  “Dead?” Alessandra froze, just for a moment. It was as if she understood the words, but the meaning escaped her. Visser – dead? It made no sense. She had just spoken to him. An image of him formed in her mind and she saw again the look on his face. The fear in his eyes. She took a deep breath, but fought to keep her feelings from her face. She shook her head, mouth dry. “Perhaps I misunderstood,” she began.

  “You didn’t. You know he was staying here – one floor down?”

  “Yes.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  She straightened. “Are you a policeman now, Mr Whitlock?”

  “Answer the goddamn question.”

  “I was supposed to meet him for dinner last night. He was planning to leave Arkham this morning.” She took another deep breath. “I am guessing that he did not.”

  “No. He’s probably going to miss his train.”

  Alessandra stared at him. “You are a callous man.”

  Whitlock paused. “Maybe. But I think you know more than you’re saying. And I’m going to find out what, even if I have to slap you in leg-irons to do it.”

  “You keep making threats you have no power to enact,” she said, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. “Eventually, I am going to call your bluff. Where will you be then, I wonder?” She fixed him with a steady glare. “You are not a policeman. But you keep threatening to throw me in jail. I do not like this.”

  “You want an apology?”

  “No. I want you to leave me alone.”

  “No dice. You’re a thief. I catch thieves.” He paused. “Visser isn’t the only one who’s died, you know that, right?”

  She didn’t reply. Whitlock almost sounded concerned. When she didn’t answer, he said, “Yeah, I bet you do. Doesn’t faze you though, does it?”

  “Visser was my friend.” Her voice cracked.

  Whitlock didn’t reply for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said, finally. “Muldoon wants you downstairs. We need someone to… identify him.”

  Alessandra nodded and closed the door. She dressed quickly, pulling on her work clothes, before joining them out in the hall. If Whitlock noticed, he said nothing. “Who found him?” she asked, as they bundled into the elevator.

  “A porter. Poor kid went to tell him his cab had arrived. Door was open, he went in the room…” Whitlock trailed off. “Kid damn near fainted. There’s a doctor looking him over now.” He glanced at her. “It’s not pretty.”

  “In my experience, death is never pretty.” Clancy was on duty in the elevator, but he didn’t try and share any anecdotes. He looked subdued. Frightened. Alessandra felt as if she had a bellyful of ice water as the elevator lurched downwards. Something about the sound reminded her of things she didn’t want to think about.

  “Your files mention you were an ambulance driver, in the war.”

  “Yes. You?”

  “I spent my European holiday getting shot at.”

  “I as well. Or did you think ambulance drivers were immune to gunfire?”

  Whitlock snorted. “You’re a cool one, lady. Too bad you’re bent.”

  “I prefer to think of myself as curved.” The elevator shuddered to a halt, and Whitlock hauled the doors open. The first thing she saw was Milo sitting on a bench opposite, being examined by a sallow featured man in rumpled clothes. The doctor, she assumed.

  “Milo,” Alessandra said, hurrying towards him. Whitlock, for a wonder, didn’t seek to dissuade her. “Milo, are you all right?” A stupid question. He clearly wasn’t. But she could think of nothing else to say. The boy had a hollow look in his eyes. “How is he?” she asked the doctor softly.

  “Physically, he’s fine.” He snapped his bag shut. “More than I can say for the fellow in the room down the hall, however.” He looked at Whitlock. “Tell Officer Muldoon he’ll have my report this afternoon. Both versions.”

  “Thank you, Dr Mortimore, I’m sure he’ll be ecstatic to hear that,” Whitlock muttered, as the doctor trooped off.

  “Both versions?” Alessandra said.

  “Apparently the doc has bad luck. He pulls all the weird consultations. Gotten into the habit of writing two reports. One for official use, and one more… speculative, let’s say.” Whitlock laughed mirthlessly. “I swear… this town. Sooner I’m out of it, the better.”

  “There, we are in agreement.” She looked down at Milo and brushed a stray strand of hair from his face. He flinched, his eyes locked on something she could not see.

  “Come on,” Whitlock said. “Muldoon is waiting.”

  “Took you long enough,” Muldoon said. There were two more uniformed officers present, one at either end of the corridor. Both were pale, shaken. Both seemed as if they wished they were anywhere else.

  “She stopped for a chat,” Whitlock said.

  Alessandra glared at him. “I was checking on Milo. The porter.”

  Muldoon nodded, his expression softening slightly. “You knew Thaddeus Visser, right? Otherwise we’ve got to find somebody else to identify the body.”

  “I… I knew him. Yes.” Alessandra hesitated. “I am not aware of any family.”

  Muldoon looked at her, as he stopped in front of the door to Visser’s room. “How well did you know him?”

  “We were… friends.”

  He frowned. “You might…” He trailed off and opened the door. The smell hit her as she stepped inside. An acrid, ugly odor – one all too familiar to her.

  Blood.

  The room was dark. The curtains pulled. She could hear water drippi
ng in the en suite. “Where…” she began, her voice hoarse. “Where is he?”

  “Bathroom,” Muldoon said, softly. He stepped aside so she could enter. She did, after a moment’s indecision. The bed was rumpled, as if someone had been woken suddenly. Luggage was scattered across the room, unpacked. He’d never gotten to it.

  She glanced towards the en suite. The smell was stronger there. The dripping sound – persistent. Almost against her will, she went to the bathroom and pushed the door open with her foot. She reached for the light cord.

  Pale light washed across red-marked tiles, revealing everything. The dripping wasn’t coming from the faucet, but the tub. Or rather, what was in the tub. Visser had been taking a bath when it happened, she thought.

  The raw, red flaps of his torso gaped wide, like an inverted mouth. Something had torn him open, split him from sternum to crotch and removed things from him. Those things, pink and wet and dripping, had been set on the edge of the tub, as if on display. Marks had been carved into his arms and neck and chest with something – perhaps a finger.

  His eyes were open. His mouth gaped wide, too wide, as if he’d been screaming as they split him open and scooped him out.

  She stepped back, stomach twisting, and turned away. Trying to blot out the image of what she had just seen. “Oh Tad, I’m sorry,” she gasped, as she stumbled towards the door. Muldoon’s face was white.

  “It’s him?”

  “Yes.” She retrieved her handkerchief and put it to her mouth and nose. She wanted to throw up, but was afraid of what might emerge. “They didn’t… they didn’t touch his face.”

  “They wanted him to be identified,” Muldoon said.

  “How do you know that?”

  “This ain’t my first ritual killing.” Muldoon pulled the door to the room closed, sealing the scene once more. “Now what do you know about it?”

  “Should I not be talking to a detective?”

  “No. The chief wants this hushed up, because Mr Orne wants it hushed up. And the mayor and everyone else. So officially, Dr Mortimore is gonna say it was a suicide.”

  Whitlock made a sound that might have been a curse. Neither he nor Muldoon seemed happy about the official story. “But unofficially, you both are going to continue to investigate,” Alessandra said.

  “Officially, I’m still looking for the mummy,” Muldoon said. “But I think this had something to do with it. So yeah.”

  Alessandra hesitated, considering her next words carefully. She looked at the door to Visser’s room. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to banish the image. She felt her gorge rise, and swallowed. Her stomach squirmed briefly, and subsided. “I spoke to Tad yesterday morning. He said one of the other investors had been murdered.”

  “Not just one,” Muldoon said, leaning close and keeping his voice low. “Both of the other swells got eighty-sixed. One in Kingsport a few days ago, and one in Providence, yesterday. Both of them helped fund the expedition.” He paused. “Same deal as Visser… throats opened, buckets of blood. Ritual.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “As much as I can be without seeing the bodies myself. I’ve recommended to my boss that we put a couple of guys on Orne. Just in case.”

  “That might be wise.” She paused, grief hardening into anger. “I wish you luck in finding whoever did this, Officer Muldoon. And they had best hope you find them before I do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Orne

  Pepper sat in the lobby of the Independence, hat pulled low over her eyes, watching the cops stretcher the body through the lobby. The concierge danced around them, flapping his hands, protesting. No one was paying attention to him, however.

  She wasn’t the only one in the lobby. Guests stood back, whispering amongst themselves, their eyes fixed to the bloodstained shroud that covered the corpse. Pepper pulled off her hat as the body went past, wondering who the poor sap had been.

  “Things are getting rough, huh?” someone said, behind her. She looked up and saw McTyre’s man – Jimmy – leaning against a decorative pillar behind her chair. He smiled at her. “You’re the hack, right? De Palma’s guy? Salt?”

  “Pepper.”

  “I knew it was a condiment,” Jimmy said, watching the body. “Where’s her ladyship? You know, the dame you been working off the books for?”

  “Upstairs,” Pepper said, pitching her voice low. She pulled her cap back on. “Why? You want me to tell her something?”

  Jimmy paused, studying her. “You got some moxie. Maybe I ought to pop you one, teach you to respect your elders.”

  “Careful you don’t throw your hip out, grandpa,” Pepper said, with as much bravado as she could muster. Jimmy looked like a gangster, and that was never good. That meant he was good enough to get away with being a bit flashy – or that he didn’t care if someone called him on it. Either way, that made him someone not to be messed with.

  Jimmy smiled. “Moxie,” he said again. He lit a cigarette and took a drag. “South Church. Tonight. We want to see her. You ain’t invited.”

  “I’ll let her know. What time?”

  “Around seven would be nice. I got a date.” His smile widened. “With Gomes missing, his dame is beside herself. I thought I might take her out, show her a good time.”

  “Good for you,” Pepper said, turning away. “I’ll tell the countess.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Jimmy reached down and patted Pepper on the head. “See you around, kid.” He strode towards the doors, whistling. Pepper watched him go, and frowned. She didn’t like it. She didn’t trust McTyre, but the countess seemed to think they were after the same thing. That didn’t mean Pepper had to like it, though.

  Truth was, she didn’t care for much of what she’d been through the past few days. It had been exciting at first, sure, but after she’d whacked that guy with her car she’d begun to think maybe she was in over her head.

  Too, someone was following her. Some little guy, wearing black. Like one of those goons from the night on the docks. She’d thought about telling Alessandra, but hadn’t gotten around to it. Maybe they were just keeping tabs on her. But something told her she might be in trouble. People didn’t normally get up and walk away after being pancaked by a cab. But from what she’d seen, Zamacona wasn’t normal.

  She wished she had a gun, like Alessandra. Iggy could get her one, but she hadn’t wanted to ask. That kind of request got noticed. Got people asking questions. That was the last thing she needed. De Palma was already sniffing around, wondering what she was up to. She’d thought about throwing in the towel more than once over the past few days. Alessandra had already paid her plenty, after all.

  She could take the money, and her cab, and go. The problem was, there was nowhere to go to. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, not really. Other than leave Arkham. She smiled slightly, wondering if Alessandra would be open to taking on an apprentice. That was the life for her. Excitement, foreign places…

  “Nah,” she murmured. “What would she need with a cabbie?” She looked up as the elevator doors opened and Alessandra stepped out. Pepper rose to meet her. “Bad night?”

  “Visser is dead.”

  Pepper’s eyes widened. “That was him?”

  “He is not the only one.” Alessandra paused. “This affair has… become more dangerous than I anticipated. It might be best if we were to–”

  “Nope,” Pepper said, cutting her off.

  “You did not let me finish.”

  “I know what you’re going to say. You want me to scram. Nothing doing, lady.” Pepper crossed her arms and glared at the other woman mulishly. “We’re in this together.”

  Alessandra stared at her for a moment, and then gave a slow, sad smile. “Very well. I need you to take me to French Hill this morning.”

  “What’s up there?”

  “Matthew Orne. I need to speak with him.”

  “I thought he refused to see you.”

  Alessandra’s smile turned cold and hard. �
�I was not planning to give him a choice.”

  “You sure this is the place?” Pepper asked, later. They sat in the cab up the street from Orne’s residence. Alessandra nodded, studying the neighborhood. French Hill was in a sort of genteel decline. The houses were large, but faded and the lawns overgrown.

  “The police cars parked outside are something of a giveaway.”

  “Speaking of which – how are you getting past them?”

  Alessandra pointed to the edge of the fenced in lawn. It was tastefully shabby – overgrown, but not quite a jungle. There were also a number of trees, all of which blocked the line of sight of the police officers parked on the opposite side of the street.

  “It will be child’s play,” she said. She settled back in her seat, trying to push down the anger that threatened to overwhelm her. The more she’d thought about it, the more it seemed to her that Visser’s death could be laid at her door. She’d gotten him involved, when he wanted nothing more than to leave. He’d helped her in the name of friendship. And now he was dead. Visser hadn’t been much of a friend, but she didn’t have so many that she could afford to lose one. The anger flared, good and hot. She wanted to be angry for this.

  She looked at Pepper, and felt a sudden queasy sensation. “Perhaps you should go home. Leave this to me.”

  “Are you kidding? You might need to make a quick getaway!” Pepper turned in her seat. “Besides, I kind of want to see how you’re planning to get over there.”

  Alessandra considered arguing further, then decided there was no point. “As for tonight…” she began. McTyre’s message had been a pleasant surprise. She had not expected anything to come of it, really. Too bad it hadn’t come in time to do Visser any good.

  “No dice. I’m going with you then, too.”

  “Fine. But you will do as I say. Understood?” At Pepper’s nod, Alessandra sighed. “Good. Stay here. If it comes to it…”

  Pepper saluted. “I’ll hightail it, never fear.”

  Alessandra exited the cab and ambled down the street, moving with casual urgency. She was careful to keep the trees between herself and the police. When she judged the timing was right, she vaulted the wrought iron fence and landed in a crouch on the other side. She paused, waiting for a telltale shout, or the warning bark of a dog. When none came, she crept forward, through the trees towards the rear of the house.