Mists of the Miskatonic (Mist of the Miskatonic Book 1) (15 page)

“Some ancient, nasty god that predates everything,” Kelsey said. “His worshippers are a hidden cult…”

“Enough,” the agent interrupted. “These fairy tales are clouding the issue. We are investigating stolen relics, the illegal trafficking in antiquities, not Armageddon. I don’t know why local departments can’t just let us do our jobs.”

“That statue he took: that’s Cthulhu, Chief. That’s the deity that these cultists think is bringing about the end of the world.” Kelsey folded his arms and looked at the FBI Agent. “They’re covering it up.”

“That statue? It looked like calamari on the hoof to me. Ugly thing,” Ray grumped.

“This meeting is over. I’ve wasted a morning repeating myself that this is our investigation, and you people need to stay out of it. This was all made very clear a couple days ago. Do I need an injunction to keep you from meddling? I thought we were all on the same team.” Johnson glowered at them both, and then stood. “We rely on local departments to be the front line, not mucking about and muddying the waters.”

“No injunction needed. We get the message, don’t
we
, Detective?” Ray said decisively, and pointed at Kelsey. “We will comply with your request.”

“If I have to come back, heads will roll on this one. I’m way too busy for this nonsense,” the agent said. He pulled his jacket down to straighten the wrinkles. “I have a plane to catch, but I would like a moment alone with the detective, Chief. Your office will be fine.”

Ray ran his hand through his gray hair and glared. “I’ll be right back.” He moved through the door, and then closed it with a sharp pull that echoed in the room.

Agent Johnson stepped close to Kelsey. “You have interjected yourself into something that is way bigger than you can ever know. Butt out. Now. Or else.”

He stared into the agent’s eyes. They never blinked. “Just doing my job.”

“No. No, you’re not. You’re on a collision course with the Federal Government. This fishing expedition could be unhealthy if it doesn’t stop, and stop now.”

“Are you threatening me?” Kelsey thundered.

The agent’s expression became very calm. “If you were just a hobo, nosy reporter, dabbling cultist, some meddling college kid who stumbled into this obscure information, your disappearance would not cause much concern. But a missing detective, even from small town Idaho, would be a significant mystery. Maybe even grab some national headlines. One last time, butt out. Your life depends on it. Read into it what you will, Andrews.”

“You know about this? You believe it, don’t you? You’re working to keep this covered up.” The two circled and leaned face-to-face. “You’re willing to kill to keep this secret, aren’t you?”

“If people believed the end of the world was coming, who would work? Pay taxes? Imagine the anarchy. The world would be thrown into chaos,” Johnson hissed. “We need a functional government right up until the end. There has to be some semblance of social order, even as the world falls apart. Assuming there is an end, of course.”

Kelsey’s mind whirled at the implications. “Is this policy, or are you some rogue agent with his own agenda.”

“I already have a bullet with your name on it. If I was on my own, it would’ve been fired by now. I won’t have this conversation again,” Johnson spat and glared. He stabbed his finger into the detective’s chest. “Dreyfus shouldn’t have put that 9mm to his head.”

“An FBI agent is threatening my life?” The detective glared back. Then he collected his thoughts. “That call went out that the shot was from a .45. How do you know what he was really shot with? That report isn’t even done yet.”

“Butt out,” the FBI agent growled and walked out. “Last warning.”

Kelsey slept fitfully. He tossed and turned all night. Once again, cyclopean blocks of twisted stone filled his dreams, wet from mist, covered in kelp. In his slumber he could smell the acrid scent of rotten seaweed, dredged from the bottom of some dark sea. A voice quietly called his name, and Kelsey turned. In the darkness of a close column of stone, the voice emanated again. He strained to see and tried to make sense of the place. The unknown shape shifted in the darkness. Slowly a figure shuffled into the filtered light and he recognized the face of his brother.

Rob raised a darkened hand, wet from the moisture in the air. His face was blue. His head tilted to the right, and water drained from his half open mouth. His Navy Working Uniform was torn and scorched, and showed tattered flesh and flayed muscle beneath. Bloody seawater bubbled from bloated lips and his red eyes focused on his older brother. Kelsey woke. He shook like a leaf in an evil breeze. Sweat had soaked his pillow.

He did not fall asleep again. He sat in a chair in the living room and waited for the sound of the alarm clock. Kelsey dreaded Thursday’s arrival because of the week’s events. As he sipped a cup of coffee in his modest kitchen, he glanced through copies of the photos made from Rudy Samuels’ albums. For a long time, he stared at the Heart of the Monster, an ancient sacred place to the Nez Perce Indians. The mound was an hour and a half drive away, and the detective’s mind buzzed with possibilities.

He slurped the last of the hot liquid, and then set the cup in the sink. Kelsey scratched his cat that was stretched out on the couch before he holstered his pistol and slowly ambled to his car.

He sat quietly for a few minutes as the car warmed, then left the driveway and drove through early traffic to the Police Station. As he looked out into the cold overcast of this late November morning, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

“Hey Francine, it’s Kelsey,” he said into the phone. “I’m fine, yeah. Gonna be in late today: would you pass it on to the Chief? No, later. Yeah, everything is ok. Bye.”

He sat for a few more seconds, and then drove through traffic onto Main Street. It took several minutes to switch lanes and dodge road construction to end up on the highway heading east out of Lewiston.

Across the river was the huge lumber mill: hot steam and bitter odors belched from massive stacks into the cold air. The cloud hung over the mill eerily, held in place by a stagnant inversion. Kelsey drove in silence and thought of Rudy Samuels and the photographs on the refrigerator.
What did he know?
he thought.

It took several long minutes for the overcast valley to be left behind, and the four lanes of highway became two as the hills around him gained height. The road became thinner, tight asphalt curves that followed the river into dark valleys. Sporadic pines became thick. The detective kept his eyes on the slick, dark road: a light snow wafted from the hazy gray sky. Dim light was replaced by the shadows of the mountains, and at times he felt like he drowned in the cold of winter.

A small green sign indicated he entered the Nez Perce Reservation. The metal placard was faded, and a dozen bullet holes were punched through the steel. A turnoff to the right took him to Lapwai, a small Indian town in the middle of the reservation.

The winding road continued: a twisted ribbon of gray with faded center lines as he went deeper into the territory. He drove carefully though the treacherous canyon. The small town of Orofino passed on his left, a dirty little burg, economically depressed from the collapse of the timber mills. The only industry left was one of the state prisons and an insane asylum where tortured souls were locked up and forgotten. Before his grandmother passed away, he remembered her story of Sunday drives through the tiny, dilapidated burg. It was not unusual to see children in cages made of chicken wire in front yards.

Squat houses, in need of paint and repairs were passed as the car sped by. Dirty children played in unkempt yards. The brats chased mangy dogs with sticks and stones for cruel amusement. Kelsey was relieved once through the town. Even in the car, it felt cold: an insidious chill pressed down on him he couldn’t describe. Even without the cages, the tiny hamlet of the crazed had not progressed much since the days his grandmother.

Farther down the road, the twists and turns led to the town of Kamiah, another tiny town nestled into a flat spot amongst the canyons. He slowed, eyes locked on the icy patches on the poorly maintained highway. Past several dilapidated gas stations and cluttered mobile homes he crossed over a concrete bridge. The wind whipped strongly from the north, and blew snow across the road. He edged the steering wheel to the right, and the car responded and turned into a tiny turnoff into a gravel lot.

The wind continued to shake the tall pines on either side of the road: cold November air pushed from the far north. Kelsey sat in the car and looked at a large mound in the middle of a small field. The hill was at least eighty feet in diameter and a good two stories tall, surrounded by a rough wood fence. Dry scrubby grass poked out of piles of dirty snow, and the detective’s eyes focused on a sign. He read the words, faded gold on green, and then looked back at the hill. Something about it felt unnatural. He ignored the anxiety and slowly opened the car door. An electronic chime sounded, and he jumped, startled.

That chime had sounded thousands of times.
I am letting this get to me,
he thought.

Cold wind hit his face and his lungs were in shock from the frigid air. He walked gingerly down a snowy path. Somewhere up ahead he could hear the repetitive sound of a scrape. Closer he moved to the Heart of the Monster, the mound a holy place to the Nez Perce Indians in the area. This was the center of their religion’s creation mythos.

Every breath left a vaporous cloud that drifted quickly in the frozen breeze, and every inhalation was a labor. Kelsey pulled his scarf around his mouth and nose in an effort to save as much warmth as he could. He stopped and leaned against the wood rail around the outcrop. He looked for something, but was not sure what was to be found, or even what it was.

The stony hillock was already covered with premature snows from the impending winter. The knoll sat silent as the wind whipped flakes against it, and as he moved closer the scraping noise grew louder.

Movement caught his eye to the right and from around the tor a man moved slowly. He shoveled snow from the path. Distracted from his destination, Kelsey watched the heavily bundled figure repetitively run the wide aluminum blade and toss the accumulation.

The shovel wielder was dressed in a heavy parka lined with fur. The hood was pulled up, and a scarf concealed most of his face. An old, wrinkled forehead scrunched at the effort and brown eyes cautiously watched the path as he shoveled. It took a few shovels of snow for the worker to realize he was being watched, and he glanced at Kelsey.

“You drive all the way out here just to see what a working man looks like?” The voice was gruff and deep. Kelsey immediately recognized the hard accent as Nez Perce Indian.

The detective smiled as the old man unwrapped his scarf and showed his face. His skin was cut with the lines of many years. A grin showed from behind slightly chapped lips and he leaned the shovel against the fence.

“I’ve seen working men before,” the detective said. “I might even be one.”

The Native man stood next to Kelsey, then wrapped the scarf back around his face.

“If you’re standing out here in this weather on a workday, I dunno,” the old man said.

Kelsey pulled out his wallet and showed his badge. The old man acknowledged it, and then he looked back at the mound.

“Out of your jurisdiction, city cop. FBI or Tribal police handle everything out here.”

“This place. End-of-the-world stuff.” Kelsey shivered, and then looked back at the worker. “Did you hear about the man who shot up his family in Lewiston?”

“We get the Gazette,” the Native said tersely. “Liberal rag.”

Kelsey chuckled softly, and fought a tickle that wanted to be a cough. The cold air irritated his throat. “The man who shot his family had a picture of this place in an album.”

The Nez Perce man shrugged. “By the highway. People picnic here, visit in the summer. Don’t mean nothin’.”

“No. He was convinced this place had something to do with it. End of the world, Cthulhu, all that jazz. I just wish I understood the meaning of it all.”

The old man leaned against the fence, sighed and laughed. “You know what this place is?”

“This is the Heart of the Monster. The creation story of the Nez Perce Tribe says a monster was eating all of the animals, and Coyote fooled the monster into swallowing him. Using stone knives, he cut his way out of the monster to release all the trapped animals. Then he cut up the monster, and threw the pieces all about the land, creating all the people. The land around the monster had none, so Coyote washed his hands and the drops became the Nez Perce people,” Kelsey recited. “This is a sacred place for them.”

The old man smiled. “You know our history: that’s surprising for a white man from the city.”

Kelsey pointed. “It’s on the sign back there. I read quickly. I can’t be the first to come here and ask about it.”

“Just leave it alone. This is craziness, these questions. I have work to do.” The old Nez Perce said. He picked up the shovel and began to scoop snow again. “Little restaurant in town sells hot coffee. You should get some for your drive home, clear your thoughts.”

The detective watched. Something instinctual forced him to take a step towards the old man. “You know something. I can tell. What aren’t you telling me?”