Collinsport. As Nicole Collins arranges the summoning of Keziah Mason on the deserted island in the Miskatonic, Tony Peterson awaits his own clandestine meeting. A meeting in which he soon hopes to obtain the object of perverse fascination and the weakening of his will.
She checks her iPhone again. There’s still no reply to her text. She sighs and places the phone back down beside the laminated seating chart and the pink Sharpie.
The Sharpie was for placing a pink X on either table or booth, depending upon the customer’s choice, or availability during the busy tourist season, which having all but wound down was not yet officially concluded, and would not, until the last credits rolled upon the last showing of Collinsport Film Festival. So the number of X’s tonight designed choice over availability – and there were very few X’s. Seemingly everything was available, seeing as how this late in the season Collinsport was not high on the itinerary of places one sought to visit in Maine during late October. Collinsport was a costal city and known more as an artist’s haven, whereas those mostly coming this time of year were doing so in order to see the “color.” And there was very little color in Collinsport – save for some the more eccentric characters about town. And so, she stood hip-shot, glancing down at the sheer number of pink X’s (which normally would have been green, but the green Sharpie had run dry), which made it abundantly clear rather than having to glance out into the dimly lit restaurant and bar that the number of customers tonight was dismal. So much so that Darlene, growing ever more restless and bored standing at her hostess’ station – which oddly reminded her of one the St. Andrews teacher’s lecterns – had been texting Nancy Kinncannon, to see if she were available to do something tonight, should she be able to talk Ed Griffin, the proprietor of The Blue Whale, into letting her leave early.
She pressed the home key but there was still no reply.
Normally, Tony Peterson took a booth, away from the front of restaurant, in order to avoid the busy entrance, but tonight, he had taken a table so that he could watch the door – and Darlene Kilgarvan, wearing a very short skirt tonight, which was all too alluring as she impatiently shifted her weight, leaning on the hostess’ lectern. Of course the faint voice in his head – which had become progressively indistinct, the longer his contact with that demonic pearl receded – had immediately pointed out the vantage of the table and its view of the young, longlegged hostess. As well as some very nasty things he could do to her once he got that too short shirt off. Tony takes a drink of the domestic wine . . . not bad, but then it’s not the expensive stuff – which wasn’t really all that good at the Whale to begin with, especially since Samantha Evans had given over day-to-day operations of The Blue Whale to Ed Griffin, after she discovered she was a Collins and received a share of the Quentin Collins fortune.
“In this assessment Tony, I must say, I strongly disagree.” The voice says, suddenly, a bit louder than it has been all day, “If I am anything, I am a strong judge of character; and I can say, with absolute certainty, she is far more than merely deceptive – she is infinitely corruptible.”
“Really?” Tony replies into his glass of wine so as not to be seen talking to himself, “And you base your assessment on?”
“It is evident. Look at her. The innocent smile. The deceptive shifting of her weight. From one foot to the other. The way it calls a attention to her hips. And the shortness, of the skirt. As I have already pointed out.”
“But it must be boring standing there,” Tony says as he places the glass down on the table.
“She longs for some excitement – a thrill.” The voice seems to have gotten stronger now.
Tony takes his knife and fork and cuts into his steak, “What is she . . .”
“Just seventeen.” The voice finishes his statement.
“Seventeen?”
“Perhaps a fire arm.”
“What?”
“All that boredom. Could put it to good use. So, what do you think? Maybe a 9mm? No, too much weapon for such a dainty hand. Something . . . a bit more . . . subtle. A .22 automatic, perhaps. No. Poison. A little in each meal.”
The fork bringing the piece of steak up to his mouth stops.
“Wait. I have it now – a long . . scimitar butcher’s knife . . . with a 12-inch, stainless steel blade.” The voice decides, “Perfect. Now of course, stealth is most important. Silently—stepping up behind . . . one of the girls. At her school. Yes. What is its name? It’s a Saint, I think. Yes, St. Andrews. You know. They scattered his bones. Made a gift of his shoulder blade. Odd choice. Don’t you think. St Andrews School for Girls. But, be that as it may. Each step, taken, with—precision. The element of surprise. It’s so essential. To very slowly, insert . . . the tip of the blade . . . into the small of the back. Just above the kidney . . and every so steadily . . . applying even pressure, to push it in. The scent of the blood.”
“No.”
“At least she wouldn’t be bored.”
Tony puts his bite of steak down on his plate – “She is just a goddamned schoolgirl.”
“Well, Tony, everyone is just some thing.” The voice informs him.
He sets his glass down and turns his attention over to the table, three over from his, and the couple sitting there, who were looking at him, having heard him loudly exclaim, apparently for no reason, something about a goddamned schoolgirl.
And why shouldn’t they? Surely he must look to them to be absolutely certifiable, there sitting alone, apparently talking to himself. Had they been watching him – watching all this time. He wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything since returning with Angelique from 1933, from the Orient Express. From that damned card game where Leopold Peeters had placed that goddamned red pearl down on the table to cover his bet, and, he suddenly heard the whisper, the voice speaking to him – one that has continued to speak to him even now, in 2012.
A voice that sounded far too much like Christopher Walken.
He smiles and nods to the couple, trying to look not only embarrassed but apologetic for his outburst. He then tries very calmly to pick up his fork and take the bite he had set aside at the grotesque suggestion of the voice that the lovely, young hostess could in some way be corrupted into becoming a murderess.
What was it with this voice and murder?
These visions of blood and mayhem?
Suddenly the front entrance of The Blue Whale opens and Tony looks up now from his strategic position, the one he had taken so as to watch specifically for the opening of the door and the entrance of his gentleman. To watch his decidedly European swagger. The man he had no way of knowing if he could trust. A man he had met on the Orient Express in 1933. And if that didn’t sound crazy – but then, he was going crazy – it all made sense or nonsense.
More importantly, how was it possible that Joseph Salpêtrière appeared to have not aged a day since he last saw him. But then, had be not been in 1933 only days before? How he not aged? It was a mystery to Peterson, but then, had he not traveled through time to 1933 with a witch?
Who could have helped him with the voice, certainly, if he had decided to tell her about it – the voice. And the Pearl. Since it was she who wanted the Pearl. And if he were to just get it and give it to her – then the voice would go away. Maybe. So why the hesitation? Because he can’t help himself – he finds the voice so alluring. He wants to keep it all to himself – even as it is driving him mad.
Does he want the dreams and visions of blood and violence?
The chill October air invades the Blue Whale thought the open door as Darlene looks up from her iPhone to see the tall, strikingly handsome gentleman dressed in an expensive Armani black suit. He wears the white shirt, with far too many buttons undone, so as to expose his chest. She can’t help glancing at the smooth, firm and muscular flesh.
And his eyes are so blue.
“Bonsoir, mon Cher.”
She loved his voice, a rich baritone made even more dreamy by his French accent.
“Oh, It’s you Mr. Salpêtrière,” Darlene Kilgarvan welcomes him; her fingers distractedly slipping the cap of the pink Sharpie on and off, “And how are you tonight?”
“Lovely.” Joseph Salpêtrière’s reply intentionally ambiguous as to whether or not he was in fact answering her question or making an observation as to her appearance as he steps toward her with a wink, shifting his walking stick absently to his other hand. “Simply lovely. Mademoiselle Darlene, you look exquisite. I must ask, is it for me, or do you have the assignation later tonight?”
“What?”
“The date.” He says with a rakish grin.
“Oh—no. No assignations.”
He looks shocked, “How can this be? This is inexcusable. What, are all the young men in this hamlet without sight?”
She flushes as she automatically picks up the menu, “No, they see fairly well. So, your usual table?” His usual table was one near the window so that he could look out over the harbor and watch the of moonlight glistening upon the whitecaps of the waves.
But abruptly the October chill once again invades the restaurant as the door to the entrance opens and Esther Friedman, her hands stuffed deep into the pockets of her leather jacket enters, a bit annoyed, having to move past the gregarious gentleman flirting with a girl who is much to young for him. One who is obviously attracted by a half bare chest and French accent. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he has to be standing in her way as she moves around him.
Aware of the brusque woman in the leather jacket’s disdain as she brushes past him, he places the palm of his right hand to his chest: “Non, tonight it is I who, as the rabbit in the wonderland so aptly said it, the most important date to which I am late, yes.”
She smiles, “Yes – I guess.”
His bright blue eyes now looks out over the dining room of The Blue Whale, “Ah, and I see the gentleman now.”
“Well – I hope you have a wonderful assignation.’’ She smiles coquettishly.
“Bon. Perhaps later, mademoiselle Darlene, we shall sit together, you and I, and you shall tell me all about these wretched Collinsport men—who have the eyes with which they do not see.”
“Perhaps.”
Joseph Salpêtrière smiles his bright smile and casts the twinkle in his eye that he reserves for all young girls, upon whom he invariably casts, and who never fail to resist its charm. He tips the head of his cane to her and turns and then strides away. He momentarily glances at the rude woman in the leather jacket as she approaches the bar . . . ah oui. He makes a note: she is the acquaintance of Nicole Collins.
He wonders if it is mere coincidence that brings her here, tonight?
“Monsieur Peterson.”
“Mr. Salpêtrière.” Tony replies looking up.
“I see you have decided upon the Surf and Turf.” Joseph Salpêtrière observes as he takes a seat at the table and places his walking stick on the chair between them. He gives the platter from which Tony Peterson is eating a look of obvious disdain.
At the bar, Esther, unzipping her jacket, sits down as she glances at the window, waiting for nightfall. Nik is away in Arkham – something to do with the lawyers. Of course Collinsport has lawyers, but she won’t have anything to do with them. At first it was Scarlet Creek until that whole fiasco –and now, it’s ‘solicitors’ in Arkham. But, then it really doesn’t matter. . . Esther doesn’t trust any of them.
She notices the bartender moving along the bar toward her. She was new, or at least new to Esther. A blonde wearing some vintage-looking black frame glasses. a black leather jacket and short skirt, exposing the straps of her garters—not the usual Blue Whale ambiance—and a bright, multi-hued knit scarf about her neck, no doubt, to offset the chill from the short skirt. Esther lifted an eyebrow, Ed must be trying to bring in more locals now that the tourist season was about to end.
“I took the liberty of ordering something for you as well.” Tony informs him placing his knife and fork down.
The rakish Frenchman frowns, “Not the Surf and Turf.”
“Just a bit of surf.”
“What can I get’ya?” The bartender leans across the counter.
“Heineken please.”
With a grimace as he inspects the bottle of wine he has lifted from the table, “When next you are in France, I shall show you a truly good wine.” He says pouring himself a drink and taking a sip, with a face which cannot conceal his obvious displeasure with the selection.
The bartender eyes her before pulling a picture out of her black leather jacket, and compares it to Esther. “You Friedman?”
Esther’s eyes narrow. “Yeah, what’s it to you?”
The woman pushes the picture back into her jacket pocket.
“Haughty. Supercilious. As always. Tony, I can assure you. You don’t have to go to France. Not, for something that tastes good. As I have already . . . pointed out. By the door. Now – is she not sweeter than wine . . . would you not love to drink of her?” The voice coaxes.
‘The voice?” Joseph asks, observing Tony’s expression. “Or, perhaps, is it voices for you?” He touches his forehead, “Whereas, for me, the Pearl, she does not speak. Qui sait l’étrange? But, I can see mon aime she speaks to you, yes?”
Esther, having watched the bartender move over to the cooler, where she removes a 22 oz. green bottle, still awaits an answer to her question
The waitress arrives at Tony Peterson’s table and places the meal he has ordered for Salpêtrière, a very large lobster with a salad of celery root, local carrots, turnips, braised greens, chanterelles, and radish. The Frenchman lifts an eyebrow and hands her the bottle of wine. “Mai oui, s’il vous plait, remove this disgusting – how can I not say it . . . wine.” He then orders a different one, which the waitress isn’t even sure she can even pronounce and is absolutely certain they don’t have, but she says she will check.
“Incroyable!” Joseph Salpêtrière shakes his head, “And they purport that this is the best restaurant in this the Collins Port.”
Tony lifts his fork, “Reading the brochures Salpêtrière? You know it is never wise to but too much faith in them.”
Salpêtrière laughs, “Faith?
The bartender places the bottle on the bar in front of Esther, “Courtesy of some broad.”
”Some broad?” Esther grabs the bottle and slowly taps the neck with her forefinger. “What do you mean . . . some broad?”
She looks around the bar, which is empty.
“I don’t know, smelled like the river and looked like Tarzan f**ked her in a bramble bush.”
‘They say this faith it can move the mountains, but, we know of something else that can do the miracles don’t we, Monsieur Peterson.” Salpêtrière asks as he takes his right hand and bends back the large part, or “thumb,” of the lobster’s claw, twisting it at the same time, until it snaps.
“I must say – this Frenchman . . . he grows tiresome. I am not so sure of mountains, but, I think . . . we can move him. On our own. Just take out the gun. Don’t concern yourself with that couple—over there. Of course, they are looking, but, who cares? You shoot him. Then, you shoot them. And then we leave. Together. You and I. I am waiting in his pocket. And so, must we sit here . . . and let him . . . prattle?”
“This broad,” Esther takes a sip of her Heineken, “When was she—here?”
“Two, three days ago?” The bartender replies, “Why?”
“I think I know who this ‘broad’ is,” Esther informs her, “And I’ve been looking for her. Did she say anything else?”
“Nope, just paid for a beer and a keg and gave me this picture of you” And she reaches in her jacket pocket and removes the crinkled photo and tosses it upon the bar before Esther.
The waitress, having stepped up to the server’s station, distracts the bartender, who steps away, and walks down the bar to take her order, only upon arriving, they are engaged in some conversation. The bartender shakes her head.
Esther picks up the photograph, it is a very unflattering image, taken while she was sleeping.
Esther mutters under her breath, “Of course.”
“So, you have the Pearl?”
“Bien sûr,” Placing the Lobster claw he has just cracked between the jaws of his nutcracker, “It has told you, has it not? And you, Monsieur, do you have the book?”
Tony nodded. “Yes.”
With the tiny silver lobster fork now in hand, the suave Frenchman points it at the detective, “For just a moment, monsieur. I must forewarn you, this little pearl that you so desire, it has the will of it’s own. Mais oui, of this, I can quite assure you. And it’s proclivities – are how do you say – ah, exceedingly nasty.”
Nasty is the back of Joseph Salpêtrière’s head exploding in a spray of blood, bone, and grey matter, which happens to splatter the lovely legs of the schoolgirl hostess as she just happens to be walking by at the moment he pulls the trigger; and the horrible gush of blood rushing out of the open mouth of the too nosy woman at the table, three over from his, when he puts the bullet in her throat – the mouth moving, gasping like a fish, her hands, clawing, grasping, involuntarily – sort of like that bad cop in the Godfather when he got shot at the table by Michael as he returned from the bathroom, is how Tony visualizes it.
Esther flips the photo over hoping for some possible message on the back, only it appears blank.
Darlene at her hostesses station continues texting Nancy.
The Waitress returns to the table to inform Salpêtrière they do not have the wine he requested, not even attempting to try and pronounce it, as Tony’s hand reaches for his wine glass. “Well—the intent is not to have the godd***ed thing for long.
Joseph Salpêtrière sighs and orders another wine – one he is certain they will have. The waitress nods and departs. As she does so the Frenchman is distracted by her easy saunter as she moves across the nearly deserted dining room, stopping momentarily to converse with the back waitress, who is busy busing a table, before they both head to the employee epicenter of the dining establishment: the server’s station at the bar.
“Then, you seek it for the Witch on the train?” He suddenly says, turning his attention once more upon Tony.
“You remember the train?”
“Certainement.” His tiny fork beginning the work of removing the white meat of the lobster from the fissure he has cracked into the claw. “The poor gentleman dying in the WC. What a place to die. Terrible, no?” He is careful about the sharp edges as well as with the lobster juices and melted butter. “After all these years. The voice of the sad little Pearl, it calls out to you still. And you have no mast to lash yourself upon. Listening to her siren song. Mais Hélas, are we not quite aware of the hapless fortune of the mariner, who listens over long to that so pretty song.”
“A sad little pearl?”
“Au fond, it is incomplete, non?” His large white teeth biting in to the sweet meat of the lobster, “The entity within,” and he lifts the tiny, silver fork to emphasize the point, “And let me assure you, Monsieur Peterson, there is most definitely an entity within,” the fork waves, “which, whether trapped by forces as yet unknown, or, it was so conceived, I have been unable to ascertain. But, nevertheless, this I know, it is incomplete – inert, as it were – without its shall we say puppet. Even now monsieur you feel the tug of the little string? Non? And the oh so suggestive voice.’ The tiny tines of the fork touch his forehead, “Comme la petite fille she has the need of her puppets of the flesh with which to play, and then, when she grows bored, she most then most carelessly scatters them away, before seeking yet another, with which to amuse herself. “
Peterson looks at him.
Salpêtrière may be aware of a lot of esoteric s**t. He may even be a warlock or a wizard. But, he has no understanding of the Pearl. The voice is not that of any little girl – it is the voice of a maniac.
Or at least that is how it sounds to him.
“Not puppets – .” Tony mutters.
“Mais oui. Sustenance.” The Frenchman nods as he returns to the task of removing a bit of lobster meat from the claw with his fork, “It draws sustenance from those to whom it brings misfortune.”
“Misfortune?’
“Its little trick of the sleight of hand is to seduce with fortuity, with wealth, with admiration, in bestowing fame, or, restoring the heath, in all that the puppet’s heart desires, before it begins to sow the seeds of destruction and ruin. But, this is nothing you do not already know, non? And is of course of little consequence. For the Pearl, it seeks you and you desire the Pearl.”
“Not for myself.”
“For the Witch?” He smiles, “Oui, you may say so – but once you have it? We shall see.”
Esther takes a long drink of her beer and puts the bottle down on the bar. She sits now looking at the photograph, and then turns it over, back and forth. There must be some reason for it. Suddenly, she stops flipping the photo as the light catches an angle on the back and Esther holds it now at an angle in order to barely discern a very faint impression, as if something had been written with considerable force on top of it.
She softly mutters to herself, “With my luck it’s probably a picture of a d***.” Then, she looks down the bar at the bartender speaking to the waitresses, “You wouldn’t happen to have a pencil, would you?”
“Nevertheless, Monsieur Peterson, here we are. “
“Yes.” Tony tells him longing for a cigarette. “Here we are.”
“An so shall we proceed to the matter at hand. You have the book?”
“Just my eyeliner.” The blonde bartender replies.
Eyeliner Would that work? No, she thinks, I don’t want to risk it. “Thank you for the photo.”
Esther puts it protectively in her inner coat pocket for later analysis as she picks up the bottle of beer and takes a swig.
Tony glances toward the cute, young woman at the Hostess station as the voice suddenly suggests how she might look if he were to open her up like a flower. And he can’t help but see himself standing over her, a straight razor in hand, looking down at her. She has been laid open, organs visible, all the bright red blood, black in the moonlight. It at first appears as if they are in some alley. Only the scene changes and they are now in some secluded area of a public parking lot.
The bartender steps up to Easter, “Oh, just in case you aren’t aware, looks you’re your famous now.”
“Not just because of my tab I hope?”
The blonde bartender smiles and turns her phone around showing Esther that the picture has gone viral, being used in some odd memes.
“Uhuh.” Esther sighs and absently glances up at the TV behind the bar – almost afraid she will see the awkward photo of her sleeping on the screen. Only there is just a weather man standing in front of a map of the Atlantic coast and the subtitles below say something about a “European Projection”.
The bartender looking out into the dining room and the handsome man eating the lobster, “Bet he has a European projection, if you know what I mean.”
“I can’t honestly say I do.” And she takes another sip – not certain what the bartender is referring to.
The bartender frowns, “She said you’d be no fun. “ And she moves long the bar over to the sink illuminated in some soft, green lighting as she begins washing some glasses, humming Peacemaker.
“Do you have the Pearl?”
“Mais bien sûr” The Frenchman picks up his white napkin and begins to wipe his fingers before he slips his hand into his jacket pocket and removes a small, black jewelry box, which upon opening reveals the blood red pearl resting on a cushion of black velvet. “Observe the nasty little trinket.”
Tony feels the strong urge to reach out and snatch the pearl away. Only, Salpêtrière snaps the lid shut and closes his fist about the box. “And now, if you would be most kind. The book.”
Peterson places his fork down and pushes his plate forward as he reaches over and removes from the seat of the extra chair at the table a package wrapped in brown paper. He offers it across the table and as Salpêtrière is about to take it from him, he pulls it back, “The Pearl first.”
“Non, I must inspect the book.”
“I could just but a bullet in your brain.”
The Frenchman’s expression hardens as he thoughtfully puts down the lobster fork, “Monsieur Peterson, for more years than you have been on this earth, I have been party to many a clandestine negotiation dangerous in the extreme! Some of which have taken place in the most obscure and egregious backwashes of this earth. I have traveled up the mysterious rivers into jungles, in what was once they called the French Indochina, to make the bargain with traders who represented the Tcho-Tcho, as well as having climbed the most treacherous of mountains in order to make the transaction with horrors that the moon brings, there along the outskirts of the abominable Plateau of Leng. And now, monsieur, you, you think to threaten me, here, in this . . . “ He looks about with disdain, “This nowhere little village they call a Collins Port, in some ridiculous bar named after the baleine bleue à la peau.” Salpêtrière’s expression has turned decidedly sinister, “You would be well advised, mon aime, to play not the part of the tough American detective. I can assure you the denouement will not be well for you. Now, give me the book, s’il vous plaît.
Esther Friedman looks past the bartender, down to the area where the servers congregate to converse, and gossip, and occasionally pickup their orders, and she takes note of the fact, lying next to a pad, for taking orders, is an umber pencil. She shakes her head and mutters to herself as she gets up from her seat and walks down to pick it up. “Eyeliner!”
With pencil in hand she returns to her seat.
“Plateau of Leng? Can you believe this? What is he going to do? Stab you with that little . . . lobster fork? This is, unbelievable. Tony. Take out the gun. Shoot him.” The voice in Tony’s head grows annoyed.
The pearl is so close, all he has to do is kill this arrogant Frenchman, Tony thinks as he weighs the package wrapped in brown paper. But rather than pull his revolver, he hands it across the table to Salpêtrière. He watches as the Frenchman takes the package delicately. He sits it on the table and with a napkin slowly wipes his fingers.
“Enough. Shoot him.”
As if savoring the slow removal of the brown paper, Salpêtrière involuntarily takes a deep breath as the paper folds back to reveal the small, black, morocco leather bound volume, which he lifts up as he pushes the wrapping paper aside, allowing it to fall upon the floor. His fingertips run slowly along the spine, before he turns it, in order to examine the binding; opens the cover and inspects the first leaf, an off-white page, with a nearly illegible annotation, before turning to the elaborate title page, upon which his fingers move over the text as if attempting to read braille.
“Satisfied?”
“Perhaps you are unaware of the tawdry reputation of The Book of Whispers. Joseph Salpêtrière says, “There have been so many fraudulent reproductions perpetrated upon even the most acknowledged of bibliophiles. Where did you find this?”
“I didn’t. “ Peterson admits, “Peter Cairo unearthed it from somewhere – the orient I think.”
“Cairo?”
“Yeah, from somebody called Pereira.”
The waitress returns with the bottle of wine he had ordered. Salpêtrière looks up at her as she pulls the cork free, but rather than tasting it he waves her way: “Bon.” His long fingers delicately turning the pages, to stop upon one that displays various diagrams and formulas. “I thought Pereira was dead.”
“Well, being dead doesn’t mean a whole lot to a lot of people, I have found.”
Salpêtrière cuts a look at Peterson and smiles.
Peterson watches now as he removes a cell phone and turning to a particular page, holds the book open as it lies on the table. He takes a photo, and sends the picture somewhere.
“The Pearl.” Tony says.
“Patience, Monsieur. ” And the handsome Frenchman pours himself a glass of wine from the bottle the waitress has just brought. He takes a careful sniff and then a drink: “Care for a glass?”
Esther places the photo the bartender had given her face down on the bar and begins to lightly rub the edge of the pencil lead over the back, watching as the imprint of a message comes forth, slowly. It’s some kind of musical notation, and below that what appears to be a phrase, which is barely eligible. A phrase that seems to appear in unison with bartender as she rinses glasses in the sink and sings to herself, paying no mind to Esther: “Death to the girl at the end of the serenade . . .”
Esther frowns at what the rubbing has revealed. It might as well be in French for all it means to her as she replaces the photo into her inner jacket pocket and with a long sigh lifts her beer to take a long drink.
Salpêtrière’s cell phone rings, and with a bright smile directed toward the annoyed Tony Peterson, he answers.
The voice of Marceline Champeaux comes through icily, “Joseph . . . “
“Ah, Marceline.” he says with a smile to Peterson.
Tony watches him for any subterfuge, even as the voice continues to prod him into pulling his gun and killing Salpêtrière, the waitresses, the couple, three tables over, the young hostess, the woman at the bar, and the bartender. Each suggestion is followed by a detail mental image of the carnage – the bloody massacre. And Peterson, his hands gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles growing white, fights to maintain control against the voice, against the puppet master as Salpêtrière has so aptly called it, the thing that lives in the Crimson Pearl.
He half listens to the Frenchman, as he is speaking in French.
Joseph Salpêtrière sits idly playing with the small, lobster fork as he converses on the phone (speaking in French, sub-titles appear)
“Where is it?”(angrily)
Mon cher—
Do not mon cher me! Bring it back!
Have we not discussed this day coming, Marceline.
I know it is a shock, but you must trust me. It is not as if we do not know its history. We are well aware of what resides within, and it seeks another.
I don’t care what IT wants. If I cared what it wanted I would have let it go years ago. I need that Pearl Joseph.
He covers the mobile with his hand, “The women, sometimes it is hard for them to give up the jewelry, non?”
Yes, I know you feel that you must, but Marceline, but there is the Day of Turning.
What do you think I have been trying to avoid all these years!?
“I thought you had this all worked out?” Tony says frowning
Joseph winks to reassure him.
Alas my dear we are blessed with time. And you know you have had more than your share. No doubt owing to your wards and measures. But, the misfortune it brings is preparing to set upon you. This business with the Stockbridge Foundation is but a precursor.
You have no way of knowing that.
The Beretta M9 hangs heavy in Tony’s pocket.
We are well aware of its long history of bestowing the good fortune and then the devastation of destruction. I shall not watch as your addiction to this trinket destroys all you have built.
Bring it back, Joseph.
Its power is setting things in motion. A great destruction is coming. I sit only a few feet from its emissary. And so, I am sorry, but at the moment we no longer in control of the center of the board. We are mere pawns.
He was not all that sure he could trust the Frenchman to begin with and this is taking too long.
I tire of your fatalism.
I am bargaining for something that may give you the ability to have it once again, but for now—
For now, owing to our—long standing relationship, I shall give you twelve hours to return it. But if it is not back in my hands by 7 o’clock tomorrow morning, I shall be forced to retrieve the pearl by other means.
What if this is a trick?
“Precisely. ‘ The voice confirms, “What did you see? A jewelry box? But, what’s in it? It could be nothing more than nacre and nail polish.”
“We do not have time. Tony. She is waiting. They are all waiting. I can’t be sure you are aware . . . of the consequences. Of delay. The storm. You see. It is already, brewing. A superstorm, actually. The witch, she has seen to that. And so, now, it is up to you Tony. Whether you let this too handsome, confidence man continue. . . to work his charms. Which are quite considerable. I have to admit. But, not as considerable as mine. Of that, I, can assure you. Now. I want you to put your hand in your pocket. And take out the gun.”
Tony stands up and draws the menacing Beretta M9 to aim it at the Frenchman.
“That’s good.’ The voice commends him, “Now tell him we are out of patience. Tell him. Tell him—you want the godd**ned pearl.”
“No more stalling Salpêtrière. Give me the god**ned Pearl.”
“Mon Cher, I will have to call you back, I have a madman with a gun before me at the moment.” Salpêtrière says as he puts the phone down.
The couple, three tables over, sitting in the booth, cry out, “He has a gun!”
The immediate effect being that everyone turns to look at Tony.
Tony, seeming unconcerned about standing in a popular restaurant with his Beretta leveled at the Frenchman, felt gratified in his suspicions, owing to the fact the last thing Salpêtrière said was a ruse. He was speaking in English rather than French. No doubt for his benefit.
“I don’t think the call went well.” The voice comments.
Esther quickly glances over her shoulder at the blonde bartender and softly tells her to call the police.
The bartender cautiously lowers behind the counter, grabbing for the phone.
Tony takes note of the woman at the bar as she slips from her bar stool to bolt toward a table but he keeps the gun on Salpêtrière.
Esther, quickly pulls the table over and takes cover as she puts a hand upon the hilt of her knife – thinking it’s a great time to have brought a knife to a gunfight.
When suddenly everyone is startled a second time as the front entrance to the Blue Whale blows open and a strong gust of wind propels and scatters dried leaves across the floor and disturbs the table settings.
The bartender hastily dials 911.
Through the open door a ghostly apparition of a woman with flowing platinum hair rides the wind as she enters.
Darlene drops the pink Sharpie. She hurriedly slips around the apparition. Eyes conflicted on whether to keep watching the man with the gun, or this . . . this ghost, as she moves quickly over toward the small band stand, which happens to be empty tonight as there is no live music.
The transparent apparition glides over the worn hardwood floor, her arm lifting as she points a hand toward him, “This must not be!” She commands. “I warned the Doctor—but he did not listen.”
Her ethereal voice soft, faint in the dining establishment.
The bartender, peers over the edge of the bar looking now at his strange spectral figure hovering a least a foot off the floor. She glances over to the man with the gun. Did he draw it because of her.
“Yes,” her attention drawn back to the phone n her hand, “There’s some crazy man at the Blue Whale with a gun!”
Tony looks at the spectral figure and points the gun, “What Doctor?”
“The one who does not listen. Too Late. It will begin! The gate will be opened! Oh, the destruction it will bring as it awakens its masters. As it unleashes the Lord of Nightmares!” She wails.
Esther stares dumbfounded at the apparition as the few customers who haven’t fled the armed man now flee the ghost.
“There is still time. Walk away.” The ghost tells Tony.
Joseph Salpêtrière seemingly unfazed by the apparition takes notice a text that appears on his phone and smiles. He opens the old volume on the table and turns a page in The Book of Whispers. His slender forefinger turns a few pagers as he looks at the odd text.
“From the land of dreams he comes,” The soft voice of spectral woman continues.
The Frenchman begins to whisper now as he reads from the book, his all too nimble fingers beginning to move oddly.
“You must . . . not give . . . it to her—“ Only, the spectral voice is abruptly interrupted as the woman’s apparition begins to fade.
“Enough. The hour it grows late. And the book, it is authentic, Monsieur Peterson.” Joseph Salpêtrière says, as he continues the odd movements of his fingers.
Tony watches the ghost growing invisible, and then, translucent, and – suddenly all but solid –
And the ghost transforms into a woman.
Esther startled, stares at the woman as she recognizes their client Natasha Snow, the porn star, who has been missing since her body was taken over by her late cousin Lillian.
“And so the bargain is done.” Salpêtrière informs the detective as he removes the small black jewelry box, which he opens to remove the blood red pearl. He tosses it at Peterson who struggles to grasp it.
“Et vous mon cher?” The Frenchman says as he turns in his chair to look at the platinum blonde standing behind him, “Who are you?”
As Tony’s fist encloses upon the red orb, he is suddenly assailed with kaleidoscope of visions.
Across the way he sees the hostess Darlene Kilgarvan – hurrying now to seek the shelter of the band stand. She is a young woman with golden hair, a young woman with such a lovely figure, only, as she turns to look at him, he sees that she is now a young woman with darken circles about her eyes. Eyes that glare maliciously at him. Eyes which can not conceal their sinister wickedness.
He suddenly sees the woman behind the table near the bar, the woman he had seen in the old, leather jacket – only now she is sitting beside a young man with tousled hair, they are examining some old documents scattered upon the bar.
They look very worried.
He sees the bartender rising now with the phone in her hand and she appears ghastly pale. Her flesh deteriorating. She is soaked by the sea – and water gushes from her mouth.
The couple at the table. The woman is sitting naked. There is blood everywhere. She has been slit open from sternum to pelvis – her organs falling out. There is some horrible rat like creature eating at her entrails.
The man across the table is missing his head.
There are great masses of towering stone. They are carved with incomprehensible designs. Alien in origin. Above light filters down from a sky of no assignable color in baffling and contradictory directions as it shines upon what seems like a curved line of gigantic hieroglyphed pedestals. Each contains some cloaked, ill-defined shape.
“I—I am Natasha Snow.” He can hear the transmuted ghost answer Salpêtrière.
She stands bewildered as she looks at her uplifted hands to see their solidity.
“You are a charming one are you not?” Joseph remarks, smiling broadly at the apparition he has just given corporal form.
“Oh, my f**king God! I—I am back!” She exclaims in an rush of excitement. “I am f**king back!”
The sound of sirens can be heard in the distance
“She awaits. She who can activate me. We must hurry. I will call to those who can hear my voice. One by One. They shall return.” The voice tells Tony. “These hounds of their law they can not detain me. You must take me to her.”
Tony hears the sirens and looks about.
Esther, having worked her way from the overturned table, well aware that the wood of the table top – contrary to what most television shows portray – is not thick enough to stop a bullet, and so, furtively she begins a retreat back behind the bar.
Tony starts for the door.
“These law dogs will find our scent.” The voice warns him.
Tony turns and grabs a chair and smashes it through the window of the Blue Whale.
The sound of the surf and the ring of a buoy can he heard.
Esther peeks above the bar at the sound of the shattering glass.
Joseph Salpêtrière continues to inspect the former porn star as the sirens grow louder. With a half-turn in his chair, the handsome Frenchman lifts a glass of wine, while Tony jumps out the window and finds a small wooden walkway overhanging the dark water below.
He looks backward and then steps off into Fisherman’s Bay.
The bartender looks over at Esther as she is midway in the process of tucking a bottle of jack into a bag. She gives her a ‘whatever’ look.
Esther notes the phone lying on the bar, and is aware that there is still a voice on the line.
“Hello police? The gunman has jumped out the window into the water.” Esther replies, “And, something really weird is going on here besides.”
Natasha Snow sees the food upon the table.
“I would ask you to join me?” Joseph Salpêtrière asks Natasha as he motions to Tony’s empty chair. “But, I am afraid we have nothing but the Surf and Turf.”
Natasha smiles, “Damn, I am starving.”
Joseph snaps his fingers to the waitress, “Another bottle of this terrible wine. And, a menu for the lady.”
Cue Music End of Episode