The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (38 page)

Cheers rang through Van Wessel Street. Men, women and children struggled to gather all the money, as the wind blew it further down the block. Cane walked down the street, moving easily through the crowd. He received pats on the shoulders and blessings in a dozen languages he didn’t understand.

“Mr. Cane!” Cane recognized Rose’s voice. He looked up and saw her, a roll of bills clutched in her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Cane. I knew you were a good man. I knew that just by looking at your face, for beyond the scars, I saw a hero. And I must thank you for this act of heroism.”

“Weren’t heroism,” Cane replied. He looked back at Algonquin Hall. The rats were scurrying out, moving in the disorganized clumps of normal creatures. Father Badalamenti’s ghost was gone. “And it weren’t nothing, really. After all, everyone has to do their part to stamp out pests.”

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I have considerable experience with all manners of dinosaurs and prehistoric beasts, but I still have difficulty telling when a hungry deinonychus is sneaking up on me. It’s no fault of mine, you understand. Of all the primeval animals which inhabit the plains, jungles and hills of the lost world of Acheron Island, the deinonychus is one of the most cunning – and the most lethal. They stand nearly as tall as a man on two graceful legs, which are tipped with curved sickle claws that hack through flesh like a butcher’s blade through cabbage. To make matters worse, they are equipped with two arms tipped with long claws, a mouthful of jagged, sharp teeth and intelligence enough to plan and execute ambushes. And they hunt in packs.

All in all, the deinonychus is unparalleled amongst Acheron Island’s predators. The allosaur may be more vicious, the saber-toothed tiger quieter on its padded feet, and the tyrannosaur more imperious and terrifying, but none can match the hunting skill of the deinonychus – or its insatiable love of human flesh. Its sheer skill and danger has earned it the nickname of raptor, from the Latin term for ‘one who seizes.’ The best way of avoiding these raptors is simple – don’t visit the areas of Acheron Island where they call home.

That was simple enough. Acheron Island is a decently sized chunk of land, resting in the eastern half of the Pacific Ocean, and there are plenty of places occupied by less dangerous dinosaurs that one can visit if one wishes for a simple picnic. The Whipple family, three American tourists who greatly enjoyed their visits to Acheron Island, had hired me to help them find a place for a picnic, which I gladly did. I normally worked as a guide on hunting trips and this was a welcome change.

I had brought them to a picturesque section of the Hadean Hills. Jungle swathed those hills, wild and green and fairly pulsing with life. I led the Whipples along narrow trails that wound through the jungle like unruly snakes, under the boughs of great trees and curtains of vines. I brought them to a small clearing, which overlooked a peaceful little lagoon below a slight waterfall. The water churned down into the indigo pool, the noise light enough to remain as mellifluous as birdsong. The air was clear and the sun crept in through a gap in the trees, gleaming on green grass as soft as a carpet. A few colorful pterodactyls darted past, their calls echoing over the hills.

I turned back to the Whipples to see how they liked it. “Would this place be suitable?” I asked.

“Oh, Sir Edwin.” Rose Whipple was the mother of that little family. Between her husband, Meyer, and her eleven-year-old son, Nathan, she was certainly the most talkative. “It is heaven on earth. I knew we were right to hire you. Nathan, darling? Help me with the blankets, if you please.” Rose Whipple was a portly woman, with darkly curly hair straightened with a hint of pomade. She wore a white traveling gown, complete with a little pith helmet on her head.

She and her son hurried to set out a checkered cloth, while her husband set down their wicker picnic basket. Meyer Whipple turned to me and held out his hand. “She is right, Sir Edwin,” he said. “This is an excellent spot. But you’re quite certain it’s safe?” Meyer shared his wife’s stature, though his dark hair was non-existent on his head and only remained around his ears. A pair of pince-nez perched on his nose.

“I am,” I agreed.

“It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s just that I’m bringing Rose and Nathan out here and—”

“Come now, Meyer!” Rose let out a laugh as she smoothed out the blanket. “Who would be a better guide than a great hunter like Sir Edwin Crowe?” She looked over my shoulder, at my companion. “And his Ape Man assistant, of course.”

I glanced over at James. As usual, he did not smile at our jokes or comments. James was a native of Acheron Island, one whom I had known my entire life. He had the broad shoulders and thick limbs of his race, along with the slightly ridged forehead topped with dark hair. His collared shirt, dark vest and matching trousers clashed with the heavy shotgun on his shoulder and the traditional Ape Man bone-handled knife at his belt.

But I suppose I present a similarly strange picture. I am a tall fellow, with a neat brown moustache and carefully combed hair. A similarly neat white vest, suit and striped tie are the other relics of my station in the minor British aristocracy. The Panama hat, heavy rifle, revolver at my belt and adjoining machete belong to something else entirely.

Nathan looked up at James and quickly lowered his eyes. “His name is James, isn’t it?” He was a scrawny boy, with dark curly hair under a newsboy cap. Round spectacles on his freckled face made Nathan look somewhat like a studious little owl in a red vest, slightly askew green tie and Buster Browns. “And he’s your friend, Mr. Crowe?”

“Yes.” James’s answer was short. He gave Nathan a hint of a smile, which made the boy beam. Nathan’s pet triceratops, a little hatchling about the size of a small terrier with mottled green scales and a red frill, trotted over and sat down next to the boy. The baby dino was named Max and Nathan cared greatly for him. He scratched behind Max’s frill and fed him carrot slices from the picnic basket.

I sat down next to them and motioned for James to join us. James was always a little uncomfortable in the society of humans. He thought that we were boorish, stinking, humorless creatures who talked too far much. I was often inclined to agree with him. But he still came over and took his place by the picnic basket. Mrs. Whipple had packed him a pastrami sandwich, which he hesitantly took.

We ate in pleasant silence for a while. Nathan finished his sandwich and regarded me with wide, nervous eyes. I saw a cheap pulp magazine poking out from his pocket. Those popular publications were full of lurid tales of Lost Worlds, ferocious prehistoric beasts – and two-gun heroes who conquered them all. They were utter rot, but their popularity had exploded following the existence of Acheron Island permeating popular culture.

It didn’t surprise me. Dinosaurs were everywhere these days, from moving pictures to popular songs to Broadway shows. For the very rich, dinosaurs were the subjects of their vacations, mounts and steeds to ride around their estates, expensive meals for their dinner tables, hunting trophies from their dens or – in the Whipples’ case with little Max — beloved pets for their children.

“Mr. Crowe?” Nathan asked, between a sip of lemonade. “Could I ask you a question?”

“That’s Sir Edwin Crowe, darling.” Rose corrected her son quickly. “Sir Edwin is a knight.”

“Oh. A knight. That’s swell.” Nathan looked at me as some ancient must have looked at his gods. “Well, Sir Edwin, I was just w-wondering how exactly you came to Acheron Island? How did you first come here, I mean? And how did you get to become a hunting guide?” He stifled a stammer brought on by boyish enthusiasm.

Meyer ruffled his son’s hair. “Why do you want to know, son? Do you want to be a Dino Guide too?” He used the popular parlance for my career.

“I wouldn’t suggest it,” I said, with a good natured smile. “Not that I would desire any other career. You see, I first came to Acheron Island when I was just a little older than you. My father, Lord Horatio Crowe, was the one who discovered this land, near the end of Queen Victoria’s reign. The idea of a Lost World, populated by dinosaurs, strange ruins and a separate subspecies of humanity thrilled my father. He brought me along on his subsequent voyages and we explored this marvelous land together. By gad, it was a wonderful time.” I looked over at James. “And I became acquainted with James, who became my father’s adopted son and my dearest friend.”