Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (11 page)

“Some of this is hard to read. Going to have to really work at it.” The detective looked around the quiet bar, then back at the papers. “I think this guy who shot up his family was into the end-of-the-world thing.”

“That’s what people are saying,” Shelly said. “I saw that movie. With John Bonham? 2012. Where they built the big ships and the governments hid it.”

“John Cusack. John Bonham was the drummer for AC/DC. You’re thinking of John Cusack. Bonham is dead. Cusack’s career practically is, too.” He smiled up at her.

“I’m more of a country girl myself,” she smiled back. “Bosephus gal, that’s me.”

“You couldn’t believe how many of these crazy end-of-the-world theories there are. Some of them come from the Mayan calendar, the Pyramid of the Sun at Teotihuacan. Some are based on the change of the magnetic poles coming soon: other theories that the star Betelgeuse will supernova, solar flares every twelve thousand years, you name it. This Cthulhu thing is a wild one, and I can’t find much about it.” Kelsey tipped the glass back and emptied it. “I have read so much about the end of the world in the last few hours it’s depressing.”

A young man in a pressed white shirt and thin black tie hurried into the room. He whispered furtively in Shelly’s ear. Wide-eyed, she fumbled for a silver remote under the counter and pointed it at the television. The screen flickered as she passed several channels to stop on the news. She turned up the volume.

A somber anchorman read from notes on his desk. “To recap, an earthquake has hit near New Zealand. The U.S. Geological Survey’s National Earthquake Information Center in Golden, Colorado, has estimated that the quake measured over nine point one. It was centered on the ocean floor, south of the islands. Serious damage is being reported from Auckland, Christchurch, Dunedin and Tauranga. Contact has been lost from widespread power outages and infrastructure damage. Aftershocks continue to rock the islands. A tsunami warning has been issued for New Zealand, as well as the west coast of Mexico and California.”

Shelly put the remote on the bar. “My sister and her kids are in Newport, Oregon. I gotta call them. She’s probably asleep.”

Kelsey watched the television alone for a few more minutes. Tsunami warnings were issued for all of the Pacific Rim.

He turned back to the photos. The whole album consisted of pictures of places from all over the globe, ancient walls and plinths of primitive horrors and vine covered faces. One picture on the last page of the book stood out, a large mound in a color photograph. He pulled it from the book and stared at it, then turned it over. “Heart of the Monster, Kamiah, Idaho” in the dead man’s writing.

He looked at the television again and pondered how many times over the years he drove past the mound on the way to Montana. Then he thought about the large map that had been on the wall of the study. Landmarks all over the United States.

Shelly talked on a cell phone in the corner. She waved as Kelsey gathered the papers and shoved them back into the tan folder. He set a five-dollar bill on the bar and left quietly.

Sunday morning came, overcast and cold with a brisk wind that blew from the west. Kelsey measured two scoops of coffee, started the pot and then sat in front of the television in his house. The living room was mostly bare: his ex-wife took most of the furniture in the divorce. Even the dog went with her. His dog. At least he kept the cat. Now the house was quiet: more than a little cold and dreary.

              Last night, he had slept fitfully, dreams not quite congruent. Massive blocks of ancient stone, crumbled mesas that hid hidden passages filled his night. The detective chalked it up to too much television and too many pictures of prehistoric ruins.

He sat in the one easy chair left behind and watched the tiny television that sat on the floor. All the channels were filled with images of the tsunamis that followed the previous night’s earthquakes. There was massive damage in Thailand, Malaysia and along the coasts of New Zealand.

When the coffee was finished, he sipped the hot liquid and thumbed through the papers in the folder. Several pages were in an unreadable language, old photocopies of what appeared to be a Latin manuscript. On the corner of one of the pages was scribbled in smudged pencil: “Copied Miskatonic U”. On the back, one passage was circled then an apparent translation penciled underneath. “That is not dead which can eternal lie. And with strange eons death may die.”

“Whatever the hell that means, you freak,” Kelsey grumbled and rubbed at his temples. This whole thing was just a little much. He finished the last of the strong coffee, showered, and returned to the police station.

He chatted up the dispatchers for a while, thankful for some female interaction that did not result in screams. Then he spent an hour rummaging through the boxes of materials taken from the office in the Samuels’ house. The detective specifically looked for things written in English. Kelsey found the large map that had been rolled up after being taken from the wall in the study.

He carted three boxes culled from the sixteen confiscated, then headed back to his empty place and spent the rest of the day reading about doomsday.

Monday morning arrived after another night was filled with fitful sleep and bad dreams. It took three taps of the alarm, but he forced himself out of bed, stumbled to the bathroom and squinted while shaving under harsh fluorescent lights. In the shower, Kelsey leaned his head against wall. The hot water washed over him while he breathed in the steam. After a rinse that would have pissed off anyone eco-conscious at the blatant wastefulness, he cracked the bathroom window for ventilation and got ready for work.

After a quick stop to get a Grande Double Mocha at an espresso stand and a quick drive, he wound his way through Monday traffic. Kelsey parked his car in the back lot of the station, and punched the security code before he entered.

He sat in his cubicle and groaned when the phone indicated eighteen messages. Pen in hand, he scribbled and deleted the deluge of queries about the weekend’s events. Several of the messages were silence, a bit of static until the line clicked and the system realized the caller had hung up. Kelsey cussed quietly, and looked at the display on the phone that said ‘UNIDENTIFIED NUMBER’. The eighteenth message was an unfamiliar voice.

“Detective,” the shaky voice cracked. “This is Phil Dreyfus, Dr. Phil Dreyfus. I did some marriage counseling, some individual stuff with Rudy Samuels. I…” the voice trailed off and cracked. “I can’t believe he did this. He’s been talking. Has a lot of articles, books. I mean…it is still very upsetting.”

“Well, believe it, doc,” Kelsey whispered as he jotted down notes. “Fine shrink you turned out be. No deposit, no returns. No refunds.”

“Rudy had some troubling visions. Dreams. He thought he had put a puzzle together. It seemed so outlandish, so fanciful at first. And the puzzle was falling into place. Delusional, paranoid. I don’t know. But it seems like it’s coming together now. I can’t believe it.”

Kelsey looked at the telephone. The message was left late Saturday night. “
What
comes together, doc?” he said quietly. “What do you know about my shooter?”

“I want to talk to you. Call me on Monday, Detective. I need…want to talk to you, so call Monday. My secretary will get a message to me.”

“Sure as hell I wanna talk to you, doc,” the detective whispered before he saved the message. “I want to know what you know.”

The break room of the Lewiston Police Department was in the basement. Wood panels covered most of the walls and a large table dominated the center of the area. A counter on the north wall held several coffee pots, each one marked smartly with a sticker whether it was decaf or not. Any baked goods, store-bought or from home, were placed on the counter. A stack of napkins left over from an old Christmas party was beside the treats. Today, someone had brought in several dozen cookies from the day-old section of the local store. A half-empty box of donuts was left from Sunday.
              Kelsey spread out the contents of the boxes taken from the Samuels’. He sat at the end of the table, shuffled through papers and glanced at the weird, green figurine he put in front of him. Its carved eyes seem to follow him, inanimate and inhuman. Something about the statue disturbed him. Last night’s nightmares were just beyond recall, but the figure seemed like part of them. He wished he could remember more.

“Time for a refill,” Gibbs announced as he came down the stairs and into the chamber with a cup in his hand. He poured a cup of coffee with his right hand while he shoved two cookies in his mouth at once with his left hand. “Dang, we’re out of claws,” he said while he chewed loudly. Crumbs flew as he talked.

“Really? You really came down here for that,” Kelsey grumbled. “Your shift should be over. Go home, get some sleep.”

“Oh, it is,” Gibbs shot back before he lifted the cup to his lips. “Just a little pick-me-up for the drive home.”

“That must be quite a drive,” Kelsey said.

Gibbs shoved two more cookies in his mouth, slurped some coffee and then surveyed the table. “Thought this case was cut and dry.”

“It is,” Kelsey said. “But this end of the world mythos is pretty involved. What I understand is that this cult has been around for a long time. It’s small, not a huge money-maker like Scientology or anything. The stuff I’m reading says maybe thousands of years. If you believe the writings, pre-human.”

Gibbs refilled his cup, and then picked at a donut. “How is that even possible? Pre-human? If they existed before humans, who was here to tell us about it? That’s stupid.”

“Old races, dead races, these weird gods that hover around in space somewhere. It’s all crazy. Then there’s this,” Kelsey said. He rolled out the map from the wall of the dead man’s study. “He had marked these archeological sites, supposedly evidence of what went on before humans. It’s quite involved, really, and old man Samuels had a bunch of these photographs of a lot of places. I would guess there is a network of loons looking at all this stuff. The internet is ruining this country. Loons in their skid-marked undies, little pink footy pajamas in their parents’ basements as they churn out this tripe.”

“Could be worse. They could’ve been writers.” Gibbs turned: his fingers traced the holes in the map, then tapped on the paper. “All over the world. This one here; even one near us. Well, I know one thing for sure. That little statue bugs the crap out of me.”

“That spot on the map, that’s on the Nez Perce Indian Reservation. It’s real close to us. That damn statue, it’s creepy for sure.” Kelsey looked askance at the demon figure. “Something is unsettling about it. I don’t know, it just bothers me and I can’t quite understand why.”

“Well, it’s not our problem much longer,” the familiar voice of the Chief of Police, Ray Rogers echoed down the stairs. His shoes tapped on the linoleum covered stairs. They fell silent on the carpet. Kelsey looked at the old cop who had worked his way up from the streets in Seattle before he took this job. His hair was almost gray, his solid body a little less solid from too many days at a desk. He still looked sharp in his uniform. “Feds are on their way here. They want to have a chat with you. They’re taking over this case.”

“Based on what?” Kelsey snarled. “They have never just taken over a case here. Local shooting, local business. Did you call them in, Chief?”

“Hell, no. They called me out of the blue,” Rogers grumped. “I hate those Fed bastards. Have yet to meet an ATF or FBI guy who has the social skills of a kindergartener. They just called me.”

“God dammit,” the detective mumbled. “It’s a local matter. They should mind their own business. You can hardly swing a stick without hitting a meth lab out towards the reservation. That’s what they should be working on, not trying to throw their jurisdictional weight around.”

“They don’t think so. They are driving in from the airport now. That’s the way it is, Andrews. You don’t hafta like it, just gotta do what they say. Too much grant money at stake to piss ‘em off.”

“It’s a bunch of…” the detective stared, and was interrupted by his phone. The ringer was the song ‘Lowlife’ by the band ‘Theory of a Deadman’. He looked at the screen, the letters ‘Dickhead Rob’ on the tiny screen. “It’s my brother. He’s over in Japan. I gotta take this call. Sorry, Chief.”

“Make it quick. Federals are on their way.” The Chief snatched a cookie and left with Gibbs.

“What’s up, you prick?” Kelsey laughed into the phone. “Didn’t expect to hear from you for a while. How’s the weather over there? Tired of Sushi yet?”

The phone was silent for a few seconds, and then he heard his brother’s voice. It sounded so near, yet so far. “I can’t talk for very long. I’m on my cell. We’re close enough to Japan I can get a signal off of working towers. We are on a communications blackout.”

“What’s wrong, man?” Kelsey said, suddenly concerned. “I figured you would be on rescue duty somewhere, that’s what I gathered, watching the news the last couple days. Did you see the tsunami wave?”

“Just listen for a minute, forget about that. We got the earthquake warning, pulled out of Yokosuka Harbor to avoid the waves. Waves are always higher closer to land. Anyway, no big deal. Standard protocol for tsunami. Late Sunday morning, we were put on alert. Then some Russians were helicoptered in. Nothing to do with the waves or the earthquake. Something’s up.”

“Russians on an American carrier? On the
George Washington?
” Kelsey asked, incredulous.