by Bo Luellen
His brother’s number flashed on his phone, and he answered, saying, “Hey, Sergeant! Has it been a month already?”
The younger sibling replied, “You know, with Camp Gruber just down the road, you’d think we would actually see more of one another. I think we visited more often when I was deployed.”
Both men laughed as Utterson remarked, “You know you are one of the best humans I don’t mind speaking to. We should make more time, but there are so many cases in the department. Murders, rapes, and muggings, sometimes I think people love finding new ways to make me hate them.
His brother gave a dismissive exhale and replied, “My big brother the curmudgeon. Hey, the wife is having some friends over for a party this Saturday night. You need to come over.”
He shifted in his seat and stated, “I hate it when you do this.”
Karl put on a hurt tone to his voice, asking, “Do what?”
Utterson shook his head and questioned, “Which of Sarah’s friends am I going to meet now?”
His sibling made a mocking spasm exclaiming, “John! What gives you the right to say something like that?”
Utterson rolled his eyes up to the top of his car roof and replied, “In the last four years, Sarah has randomly invited me to three dinner parties. Each time one of her single friends just happens to be there. My sister-in-law has taken great pains in maneuvering us to the same couch. The last one was a 45-year-old mother of three. The woman spent an hour telling me about how much she hated her ex-husband. I got a text from her later in the week asking me out. When I politely declined, the woman told me, ‘It wouldn’t have worked out anyway. Cops are notorious cheaters.’
Karl laughed and proclaimed, “Okay, she had some underlying anger issues. You should appreciate that, but you gotta meet Tracee. You would love her, she is a…”
Utterson lost concentration on his brother’s sales pitch, as he noticed a tall, slender man with a greying beard walking along the opposite side of the road. He was moving over the bridge, dressed in a dirty yellow t-shirt and some old denim jeans. The man seemed to be marching along with a purpose, wearing a ball cap low on his head.
Utterson winced at the homeless man thinking, The ground and trash cans must have been the man’s bed last night. I hate this area. It’s prime real estate for beggars to panhandle.
As he adjusted himself in the seat a little, he listened to his little brother switch to a new topic and kept an eye on the homeless guy. The man changed to a slow shuffle, and his head began darting from side to side. Utterson straightened his head when he saw the Yellow T-shirt guy stop abruptly and stare at a small groove in the concrete railing on the bridge. With a quick motion, he watched the man reach out and clear away some snow. The guy then plunged his hand deep into the newly dug out area and grabbed something. With a quick yank, he pulled a black-handled dagger from the wall, with a long curved blade. The shining metal reflected the setting sun and on to Utterson car.
Utterson interrupted his brother, “Hey, I gotta go. Call you soon.”
Hanging up on Karl, he exited the car and was assaulted by the noise of the passing vehicles. It was rush hour in Tulsa, and the masses were making a dash over the bridge towards home. There would be no way of making it across the highway towards the Yellow T-shirt without getting hit or causing a wreck.
As he ran onto the bridge, he yelled at the homeless man, “Hey! Tulsa Police Department! Stop right there! Put that down on the ground and back away!”
Half of the man’s face was covered by a thick beard and the other half by the ballcap. The guy stared at him from across the two-lane traffic, as he held up the shiny blade and smiled a rotten grin through dirty whiskers. Just before the man put the long-bladed knife into his red backpack and slung it over his shoulder, the hilt flashed in the sunlight. Utterson could make out a design that looked like something octopus-like.
The Detective held up his badge and yelled, “Stop! That is physical evidence!”
Like a shot, the grimy man leaped into action, making his way along the bridge away from Utterson’s car. Cussing to himself, Utterson tried to hold pace with the thief. In seconds, the man reached the end of the bridge and jumped the railing. He watched the suspect slide down the cold grassy embankment to the railroad tracks below.
Utterson smiled, Big mistake buddy! Under the bridge, there is nothing between you and me!
He vaulted over the safety rail onto the tall grass that covered the steep ridge. While moving downwards, he nearly slipped several times and hit his ass once. When he reached the bottom, he lost his balance, and his out of control run turned into a crash. His ankle rolled as he stepped on a rock at a wrong angle, which caused his right foot to turn sideways. Over the loud street noise, he heard a sharp popping sound coming from his leg. He instantly felt the pain shoot through his body, sending jolts of agony up and down to his toes. He fell hard, skidding on his left shoulder, while simultaneously grabbing his foot in pain.
He felt nausea as the hurt became intense, as he realized the fall hadn’t come without consequences. Each breath caused him searing pain, and Utterson felt like a hot iron was being thrust into his side. He raised his head and looked across the tracks, towards the other side. The bearded man was standing still in the shadow of the bridge listening to him yelling in agony. Utterson tried to gather the air to say something, but it wasn’t happening. The pain burned into his nerves when he forced himself to take a deep breath.
Utterson pushed with his good leg and slowly rolled onto his back. He was red-faced and more than a little embarrassed by his own cock-up. Pulling out his cell phone, he thumbed the number for dispatch. Resting his head to one side, he looked again towards Yellow T-Shirt but saw he was no longer there.
He thought, Jesus, John. How are you going to explain this?
A male voice answered, “911, what is your emergency?”
It took a moment for Utterson to slow his breathing and carefully articulate through the pain, “This is Detective John Utterson. 10-24 under the bridge near Lewis’s Hoagies. Armed suspect in the area.”
The dispatcher replied, “Stand by. Units are on their way.”
Chapter 3: Richard I
Tulsa, OK - Tuesday, October 16th, 2018 – 5:28 p.m. CST
The forty-year-old man ran harder than he had in a long time, and Richard Enfield’s legs had an ache that stretched deep into the bone. The mixture of physical and emotional stress had caused the rapid depletion of his cardiovascular tank. A large stitch in his side had built up, causing him to start limping, and he slowed his pace to a fast walk.
Richard took a deep breath, A cop. Of all the times of the day for a cop to come by. Luckily, I hit the gym a little more often than a soggy middle-aged police officer.
He reached a residential street and trotted onto the paved road, putting the houses between him and the distant bridge. The sprint had been an unexpected aspect of his mission, but he was patting himself on the back for covering just over a mile in six minutes. The shoes he had on were ragged and not meant for this level of athletic endeavors, which had caused the foot impacts to jar his troubled knees. The pavement beneath his feet was frozen in places, which required a measured pace to keep from slipping.
It wasn’t long until the police sirens began to build in the distance, as he saw flashing lights strobing over the tops of the homes. He noted that the response time was remarkable, which made him a little suspicious. Still, it wasn’t entirely uncommon considering an officer that was down. If he hadn’t acted as quickly as he did, he might be in handcuffs by now.
The thought made him shudder, If the police or the Master found out, there would be deadly consequences.
Slowing down to a walk, Richard glided between the streets, creating a zigzag pattern back to his vehicle. The old yellow shirt, pants, and shoes he had taken from The Preserve were starting to reek so bad he could barely stand it. The wind was whipping through the cheap clothing, which was providing little protection from the mou
nting cold. Wearing them was almost more than he could bear, as he detested having to give up his fine clothing for the filthy disguise. It felt like his skin was crawling with lice and bugs with each passing moment.
He adjusted his backpack and thought, The clothes seem to be serving their purpose. No one has given me even a second look. The worthless homeless are the wretches of society but they do have the ability to become invisible. People would rather pretend they weren’t there.
He shifted the dingy red backpack onto his other shoulder and attempted to keep it from swinging. The only thing inside the bag was the blade. Unfortunately, after all that running, the point to the dagger had pushed itself through the vinyl lining. He made some quick adjustments, doing his best to keep the knife from cutting him or escaping.
Tucking it under his arm, Richard thought, It would be a shame if such a powerful fetish fell out and dented its edge on the concrete. The Tulsa Sect put a large portion of their magical energy into its crafting. There is too much on the line. Too many risks were taken to get here. This is my great leap forward and all the small sacrifices will have been worth it when I succeed.
He reached a small neighborhood park where he had positioned his car next to a dilapidated tennis court. Panting hard, he pulled out the keys to his Lexus and did his best to slow the shaking in his hands. With a quick punch on his security pad, the doors unlocked, and he soon had the car started. Richard took a quick look around before putting it in drive and assessed his surroundings. He only saw a few quiet houses with zero observers to question a filthy homeless man getting into an expensive vehicle.
Richard pulled out and within seconds he was cruising down the street and thought about his orders, In the strictest terms I did not violate the oath of obedience made I traveled to the bridge and retrieved the Athame without being caught, just as I was ordered. They will have a partial description of me, but not a true one. Surely this will appease the Master.
He pulled out his cell and turned it back on. Scrolling through the contacts with his right hand, he hit “Tom from work.” It was the name he had given the Master on his contacts list to add another layer of protection in case he was ever apprehended. Tom Chapman was, in fact, Richard’s intern from the law firm and had been slaving away under his thumb for a year in an attempt to earn a partnership.
As the phone rang, he grinned, It would be unfortunate for my intern if the police ever confiscated this phone. The sniveling weasel has been licking my boots for so long. I can’t think of a more perfect person in the office to implicate as a patsy in case I’m caught. The fool hasn’t even noticed me taking hair samples from his chair and lacing his desk with documents that would lead the police back to the Crimson Brotherhood. He deserves what he gets if it happens. I would never be that unwatchful!
As Richard turned his car onto the highway, the phone picked up, and a digitized voice asked, “Is it done?”
He decided to lie and answered, “Yes. No problem. I will have the Athame Dagger back at the Library within 20 minutes. Is Samuel still alive?”
The Master gave a guttural reply, “Your Mentor still lives,” then hung up.
On the drive, his heart stopped its rapid pounding and slowed to a reasonable rate. He ripped off the grimy wig, pulled out the false teeth, and felt like he would need a bath very soon. Brushing his mussed-up hair in the rear-view mirror, he looked at his own dirty face and thought how this new path had forever changed him.
Richard settled back in his seat, I’m fulfilling a destiny. I’m walking the path that Cthulhu started me on ten years ago.
He parked his car in one of the nearby lots and gave a quick look around. He leaned his seat back and put on some gym clothes. Richard took out the Athame dagger from the backpack and stuffed it in a black gym bag. Richard pulled out a white towel out from his glovebox and wet it with a water bottle. After a few swipes on his face, he managed to remove most of the dirt and grit. Richard looked in the visor mirror and smiled at himself for his own cleverness and success. Stuffing the homeless clothes into the red backpack, he walked out of his car with confidence.
He knew where the working security cameras were, and dumped the backpack into one of the street trash cans. As he strode towards the secret entrance to the Library, a patrol car passed him. He didn’t even nod, and instead pulled out his phone with complete confidence.
He started pushing keys on the device as he thought, Samuel was right about many things. People who stare at a cop are nervous about something, and that makes the police nervous about them.
The cruiser passed by without even slowing down, as Richard’s maid picked up, declaring, “Good evening.”
His breathing was even now as he replied, “Where is my wife?”
Ruby answered immediately with, “Teri is having one of her headaches and is in bed.”
Richard crossed the street and asked, “How early did she start today?”
The maid snapped out, “It depends on what you’re talking about. She didn’t start drinking until 11 AM, but took her first bump of cocaine at around 2.”
Richard took it all in and inquired, “And my sons?”
The woman seemed to be doing something else as she spoke, “Chad and Alfred are home from school and studying. Chad got an A on his chemistry test.”
In the distance, he saw the bridge over the entrance to the Library and instructed, “When I get home, I will be in the mood to celebrate.”
With a coy style to her voice, as she responded with, “I’ll be ready, Richard.”
He hung up the phone and thought, If only my wife would drink herself to death. I just need the bitch to live long enough for my boys to grow to hate her. No need to rush things. Soon, I can bring them into the Brotherhood. Nothing will make me prouder than to see them on their first Hunt in the Preserve. Teri can even be their first kill.
As he rounded the corner to the concrete entrance, he reminded himself to focus. This was a critical step in his life that could define him or kill him. He needed to honor it and remember what it took to get here. Swiping his key card, he slid through the entrance and was confronted by Marcus Holmes, one of the personal guards to the Master. The purple-robed black man wore a blood-red insignia on his arm that bound him to the Tulsa Sect leader in a pact of death. These individual defenders of the faith were known as The Leviathans, and they were said to possess mythical abilities in combat. To date, Richard hadn’t seen any evidence that could validate such claims.
Marcus stood aside and commanded Richard, “The Master has ordered you to stay here until you are summoned.”
He almost objected but realized this was no time to show bravado and answered, “I understand.”
Holmes gave him a disarming look of compassion and asked, “It is a shame about Samuel. I’ve always held him in high regard. His knowledge of the old magic is… impressive. How is it that the Elder became your Mentor?”
Richard knew better than to trifle with one of the Leviathans and answered him. The conversation sent him back to a time when he first met Samuel, and a tinge of regret spiked up his spine. The man had represented growth to him, but he knew a balance was coming. In the Crimson Brotherhood, there was always at a price to advancement.
Tulsa, OK - Tuesday, March 11th, 2008 – 7:20 p.m. CST
He was sitting in the Blue Lodge, discussing the weather with one of the elderly men of the Freemasons. Richard had found that several influential lawyers and a retired judge had memberships with the organization. It was a natural move on his part to take hold of any opportunity to gain some influence.
He had noticed that Samuel made himself a part of any circle Richard was in when he was at the Lodge. Richard said yes when the man, a trusted and respected member of the Freemasons and a former Most Worshipful, asked for him to join a private conversation with a few other members. The meeting place was on his lunch break at a small downtown hotdog joint a few blocks from where he worked. The rendezvous was surreal only due to the number of rich an
d powerful Brothers of the Masons that were in attendance.
He sat at a table and listened as one of the old gentlemen rambled, “This town has become corrupt to its core. Politicians can be bought; criminals can be protected, and the poor keep putting their hands out. How can we provide for our families when we live in such a lawless and ungrateful society?”
Richard suddenly realized they were asking him a question and stammered a response, “I-I think we elect officials that will do the job and protect the interests of the people.”
Samuel watched in silence while his companion scoffed, “You’re asking the carriage driver to fix the wheel while the horses pull the wagon. Does it bother you that people sit on welfare paid for by your tax money? Does it irk you to know that you’re overtaxed for being successful? At night, when you go to bed, how close do you keep a gun in case the have-nots decide to take what you’ve worked hard for? Tell me, what about your God? Do prayers keep the pharmaceutical companies from making America addicted to pain pills instead of curing them? Is there a Good Book that remedies war in favor of peace? If there is, I haven’t seen one. In a system so absurdly decadent and broken, what are you prepared to do to make it safe for your legacy?”
The grey-haired Samuel leaned forward, revealing, “Richard, we belong to an organization separate from the Freemasons, that is set to cause real change. One that will pull down the control models implemented by the puppeteers in power. Tell me, have you ever heard of Cthulhu?”
He slowly shook his head as he listened to Samuel, continue, “The Elder God Cthulhu is an ancient power. A living god the size of a mountain who sleeps at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean. It is the cleansing force that will sweep away the virus that man has become.”
