Wrath of N'kai

by Josh Reynolds

  “Things aren’t that easy in Arkham,” Muldoon said, softly. He looked around the bullpen at the other officers bent over their desks, or otherwise busy. The mood in the station was subdued. There was a feeling of battening down the hatches, though Whitlock couldn’t tell what had caused it. It was like they were waiting for a storm only they could see.

  “I sent it up the chain,” Muldoon continued. “Now we sit and wait and see.” He rubbed his face. He looked tired. Whitlock wondered how much grief Muldoon was getting from his superiors. “What I can’t figure is why? Why steal something he already as good as owned?”

  “I told you – a lot of rich guys do it. He gets the PR for the stunt, and the insurance money. And then he gets to enjoy the thing in peace, with no one the wiser.” Whitlock expelled a breath, as a new thought occurred to him. “Or maybe he’s trying to throw somebody off the trail.”

  “The murders,” Muldoon said, catching on.

  “Sometimes, when these things get dug up, people aren’t happy about it. Just because it was out there doesn’t mean it didn’t belong to somebody.” Whitlock snapped his fingers. “Zorzi. She doesn’t steal this stuff for fun. I think the real owners sent her. Only Orne beat her to the punch, and stole his own damn mummy. He was probably trying to make it look like somebody else…”

  “Sanford,” Muldoon said.

  “Maybe. But either they didn’t buy it, or they didn’t give a shit. Hell, they’re probably still after him.” He looked at Muldoon. “We should get over there. Just in case.”

  For a moment, Muldoon looked tempted. Then he shook his head. “No. It’s out of our hands now.”

  Whitlock laughed sourly. “Yeah. That party he’s having – I wonder who’s there?” When Muldoon didn’t answer, he nodded. “Makes sense, though. Got to give the notables time to make their apologies, right? Make sure we don’t embarrass anybody.”

  Muldoon looked at him. “That’s how it has to be.”

  “For you.” Whitlock pushed away from the wall. “I’m not a cop though. I only answer to Argus Insurance, and they want that damn mummy. So I’m going to go get it for them.”

  Muldoon caught his arm. “What are you saying?”

  Whitlock shook him off. “What do you think I’m saying? I’m going to go to Orne’s house, and I’m going to find the mummy. Then I might peruse the hors d’oeuvres table, and see if there’s anything good. But either way, I’m going.” He paused and looked at Muldoon. “You coming or not?”

  Muldoon was silent for a moment. Then he sighed and went to his desk. He retrieved a cloth wrapped bundle and re-joined Whitlock. “Let’s go if we’re going.”

  Whitlock gestured to the bundle. “What’s that?”

  Muldoon unwrapped it, revealing the dark length of an M1 Garand semi-automatic rifle. “This is Becky. I never go to a party without my best girl.”

  Whitlock clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew I liked you, Muldoon. Now let’s go crash a party.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Christchurch

  South Church was an imposing sight. The gray of its stones stood in stark contrast to the red brick homes that surrounded it. Its spired bell-tower rose into the dark sky like a headstone. Alessandra looked up at it, and couldn’t help but think of the geologic formations of her dreams. “The deep towers of K’n-Yan,” she murmured, and felt what might have been an answering murmur deep within her.

  “What was that?” Pepper asked.

  “Nothing. You have been here before?” The streets were quiet, and a thin mist crept across the pavement. It smelled of the river, and brought with it a chill. Alessandra pulled the edges of her coat tight.

  “Sure.” Pepper thrust her hands into her pockets. “Da used to take me, when I was little.” She frowned. “Think McTyre’s guy is in there?”

  “If not, he soon will be.” Alessandra started up the steps. “Come on.” She pushed open one of the tall hardwood doors. The crimson flicker of the sanctuary lamp was the only illumination. Stiff, wooden pews lined the nave. A large crucifix hung above the marble altar. Shadows danced across the stained glass windows in the red glow of the lamp, and covered the face of Christ. Alessandra felt nauseous at the sight, though she could not say why. She glanced at Pepper, and gestured to one of the pews near the door. Pepper nodded and sat.

  Jimmy was sitting in the middle pew, arms stretched along its length, whistling softly. He glanced at her as she took a seat beside him. “Nice of Father Michael to leave this place open all night. Really speaks to the soul of the community, you know?”

  “I would not know.”

  “Yeah, I guess not. You being foreign and all.” Jimmy smiled. “That guy who got killed this morning – he a friend of yours?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “No skin off my nose. Just curious, is all. My condolences.”

  “Thank you.” She leaned back, and watched the shadows dance in the high places of the church. There was a familiarity about the way they moved – another memory of something she had never experienced. She swallowed and looked at Jimmy. “Your message came as something of a surprise. I thought it might take you a few days to find anything.”

  “When Mr McTyre wants something done, everybody pitches in until it gets done.” Jimmy looked smug as he said it.

  “How fortunate for all of us. What did you find?”

  “We know where they’re holed up. Or were.” Jimmy inspected his fingernails. “I beat it out of the guy who told them about it myself.”

  “How commendable. If you know where they are, why not go get them yourself?”

  Jimmy smiled. “Mr McTyre said maybe you might like the honor.”

  Alessandra nodded. “I’m sure he did. Where?”

  “Christchurch Cemetery. You know it?”

  “I can find it.” She paused. “They’re hiding in a cemetery?” It seemed an obvious choice on the face of it – a bit too obvious. Perhaps it was a little joke of Orne’s.

  “Not in the cemetery proper. There’s a bog just downhill, near the potter’s field. That’s where we found the truck.”

  “How did you come to look there?”

  “There’s plenty of old moonshiner paths out there,” Jimmy said. “Lots of places to hide, especially if you know about them. Like we do. And there are smugglers’ tunnels all under French Hill. It’s like a goddamn molehill.” He frowned. “You can go from one old house to another and never see daylight.”

  “Ideal for bootlegging.”

  Jimmy shook his head. “You won’t catch me down there. Not any of the other guys either. Not after last time. Those tunnels are bad juju.”

  “I am starting to see why McTyre wanted my help,” she said, wondering what had happened last time.

  Jimmy’s expression tightened. “Lady, you don’t know nothing.” He leaned forwards. “You’re a goddamn canary in a coalmine. You find them, we’ll deal with them. That’s all you need to worry about.”

  Alessandra watched his eyes. Jimmy was scared. Criminals were barometers of trouble. If something was going on, the local criminal element was usually the first to know about it. This robbery had them all at sixes and sevens. She thought of Zamacona and shuddered. Jimmy didn’t notice. He was too busy looking towards the back of the church, towards Pepper. “You know that guy?” he muttered.

  “Yes.”

  Jimmy sat back. “Good.” He didn’t relax. “This whole thing has everyone stirred up. Sooner it’s done, the better.”

  “I’ll go to Christchurch tonight.”

  Jimmy blanched. “At night?”

  “The longer I wait, the more likely they are to move the goods, as you might say. The sooner I find them, the better for all of us.”

  “Your funeral,” he said, looking away.

  “I suppose that means that I cannot count on reinforcements, should I get in trouble?”

  Jimmy just looked at her. Alessandra patted his shoulder. “I meant no offense.” She rose. “Thank Mr
McTyre for me. And that I will ask before encroaching on his territory, next time.”

  “Lady, there better not be a next time, if you know what’s good for you.” Jimmy turned back to the altar. Pepper joined her as she headed for the doors.

  “So?”

  Alessandra didn’t look at her. “Do you know how to get to Christchurch Cemetery?”

  Pepper frowned. “Yeah, but – at night?”

  “When better?”

  “Never, preferably.”

  Alessandra smiled. “Come on. Take me there.”

  Christchurch wasn’t far. It took only a few minutes, once they’d collected Pepper’s cab. From across the street, the cemetery looked like the archetypal burying ground from every ghost story she’d ever read. An iron gate and fence, separating the kingdom of the dead from that of the living.

  “Iron is supposed to have some mystical properties, you know,” she said, idly.

  “What do I know from iron?” Pepper said. She slumped behind the wheel, staring at the bog with barely concealed distaste. “What’s the plan?”

  “I will investigate. You will stay here.”

  “Maybe I should come with you.”

  “It is better that you stay, just in case.” Alessandra hefted an electric torch – a flashlight, Americans called it – she’d borrowed from Pepper. “If I do not come back in an hour, call someone. Muldoon, for preference. Tell him everything I’ve told you.”

  “What if you need backup?”

  Alessandra smiled. “That is why you are staying here. If you see anything untoward, honk the horn.” She wondered if Zamacona were watching. Given his propensity for showing up unannounced, she thought it good odds he was. But that was fine. Once she found the mummy, it would be up to him. And he was welcome to it. She would be well out of it. She could leave Arkham and forget all about this sordid affair.

  Unless things went horribly awry, of course.

  Trying not to dwell on the possibility, she climbed out of the cab. She pulled her jacket tight about her and turned on her flashlight. The bog was small in comparison to some she’d seen. A stretch of swampy ground that hooked around the edge of the potter’s field, and trailed off towards the river. Dark trees, mossy and crooked, rose like a palisade to block the sight of the burying ground from its nearest neighbors. She wondered if that was why the town had left it as it was.

  Insects sang in the dark. The mist hung thick over the low water. There was a path, hacked through the overgrowth. Others branched off from it, winding through the bog. Some went towards the river, others… back towards the potter’s field.

  Her breath danced on the air. In the light, she saw the rutted tracks of a vehicle. A truck, even as Jimmy had said. She followed the tracks, stepping over rotting logs and through bunches of cattails. She heard the sudden whirr of wings and stopped, listening. Something had startled the birds. Not her. She swung the light, but saw nothing. A prickle of fear crept through her, but she fiercely quashed it.

  She wondered if Zamacona’s helpers had followed them. Followed her. Her hand found her pistol, but she didn’t draw it. Not yet. She waited, but whatever had scared the birds was gone. She turned back to the path, but kept her hand close to her gun.

  The truck wasn’t hard to find. It had been rolled into the trees, and covered in a tarp. There was nothing in the back, of course. Nothing in the front either. She slammed the passenger door and let her light play over the nearest path. One of those heading to the potter’s field. They had gone to the cemetery after all.

  She glanced back the way she’d come, wondering if she ought to go back. But only for a moment. Then she headed for the potter’s field, light bobbing ahead of her. Long minutes later, the trees thinned and the underbrush faded, and she walked over muddy grass, among wooden markers. Anonymous, save for dates.

  The cemetery was quiet. Part of that, she thought, was due to the river mist. It seemed thicker here than elsewhere. Mausoleums rose like silent storefronts along crooked avenues. Headstones clumped in untidy gatherings, many shrouded in moss.

  She followed the path, letting her light play across trampled grass. It had rained since the theft, but there was still evidence that someone had come this way. When she spied an overgrown mausoleum near the path, she had a sudden thought. Jimmy had mentioned tunnels. In Paris, she’d once escaped into the catacombs through a tunnel hidden in the Cimetière des Innocents.

  Following her hunch, she approached the mausoleum. Some of the overgrowth had been cleared from it, enabling access. It could have been the work of a groundskeeper, but she doubted it. She approached the entry gate, revolver in hand.

  The inside of the mausoleum was a mess of bones and broken stone. It stank of wet dog and moldering cloth. The central sarcophagus was ajar. Reluctantly, she peered over the rim. Instead of a crumbling corpse she saw a set of worn stone steps, leading down into the dark. “Ha,” she said, softly. “Got you.”

  She holstered her revolver and climbed over the edge of the sarcophagus. She paused at the top of the steps, looking down. In that moment, she was back beneath the earth with the shadows that surged like ocean surf and the chants of her captors ringing in her ears.

  N’kai, the shadows murmured. She closed her eyes, banishing the images before they could overwhelm her. “Yes, I am coming,” she said, without knowing why.

  Then, taking a deep breath, she began her descent.

  Pepper sat quietly, smoking one of Alessandra’s cigarettes. Her eyes were on the bog, and the edge of the cemetery beyond. She flinched as the whirr of wings sounded nearby. She’d never been out here at night before, and she was starting to regret coming. More, she was starting to regret not going with Alessandra. The other woman was competent enough, but she didn’t know Arkham. She didn’t understand.

  “I knew the money was too good to be true.” She slapped the steering wheel and started to get out when a sudden sound made her freeze. An awkward scraping sort of noise, that she’d only heard once before. On the docks. She slid down in her seat, peering over the edge of the window.

  Broken shapes moved out of the mist. They hopped and slithered and stumped. Some walked almost like men, while others crawled like beasts. Most wore clothes, but some wore nothing at all save their scars. The great mass of them broke and flowed around the car, heading into the bog like dogs with a scent.

  “Alessandra,” Pepper whispered. She swallowed thickly as the smell of them filled the cab – like rotting meat. They were following the countess. She had to do something, but didn’t know what. Then, the decision was taken from her. The driver’s side door was abruptly wrenched off its hinges with a screech of tearing metal. Pepper twisted around in shock as a hand seized her by the shirt and yanked her from the cab.

  The next moment she was flying through the air. She landed hard, all the air rushing from her lungs. She tried to get to her feet, but a great weight settled on her chest, pinning her in place. A foot. Zamacona looked down at her.

  “You hit me with a car,” he said.

  Pepper stared up at him in horror, unable to form words. Even if she had, she had no breath to speak them. He pressed down harder with his foot. She beat at his leg, but it was like punching a length of rebar. He laughed.

  “She has found my quarry.” Zamacona lifted his foot, and she rolled onto her stomach, coughing and panting. “Soon, I will deal with them both.” He reached down and caught her by the back of the head, as easily as a man might pick up a kitten. “What should I do with you in the meantime? Smash your skull to flinders against the ground, as I would a rat? Or feed you to my servants?” He pulled her close, studying her. “Which would you prefer, boy?”

  She tried to kick him. Zamacona smiled, and she felt as if she’d been doused in ice water. “You are brave,” he said. “I was brave once. Coronado himself commended me for my heroism. But that bravery only brought me pain, in the end.” He stared into her eyes, and she closed hers, unwilling to meet that awful, burning gaze.

&nb
sp; “I will be merciful,” he said, as if to himself. He flung her against the side of her cab and she sank down, wheezing. Her ribs felt wrong, and her arm wasn’t working. She noted these things idly, through a fog of pain. Zamacona said something in a language that wasn’t Portuguese or Spanish, or any that she recognized.

  Pallid things gathered about her, panting slightly. They crouched, waiting for his signal. They were smaller than the others, more feral – starveling things, with parchment-like flesh stretched tight over crooked bones. Zamacona stroked the head of one, and it uttered a mewling cry. He looked down at Pepper.

  “I will let them have you. And when they are done, I will leave you dead. Your mistress will not be so lucky.”

  He turned and strode into the mist, leaving her surrounded by his followers – all save those who remained behind to encircle her. The small, hungry ones, who crept forward on claw-like hands and feet, their milky eyes rolling in their sockets and broken teeth champing in eagerness. Pepper grabbed at the hood of the cab, hauling herself to her feet, despite the spike of pain. One of the creatures darted at her and she kicked out at it, catching it in the head. It was like kicking a pumpkin.

  The thing staggered and shook itself, whining. Another one came, and another. She threw herself into the cab through the missing door and out the other side, kicking the door shut on them. Biting back a scream of pain, she dragged herself to her feet and staggered away. But they were too quick. They cut her off, surrounding her again.

  She turned in an unsteady circle, trying to keep them all in sight. “You want a fight?” she panted. “I’ll give you a fight.” She made a fist with her good hand. One of the things tensed, haunches quivering, and leapt.

  The crack of a rifle split the air. The thing crashed down, twitching. A second shot followed swiftly on the echoes of the first. Another of the creatures pitched backwards. A third shot, a fourth, and then the survivors scattered like startled rats.