Night Messengers

Collinsport, October 2012. Among the last remaining tourists in the small village of Collinsport, there are among them the agents which have been sent from Providence. Their mission to recover an ancient artifact. Only, time and mounting frustrations have begun to divide them. Tonight one of those agents will decide to change his alliance from one of the Powers-That- Be in Providence and reveal to Nicole Collins and important clue revolving around events that are soon to transpire . . . and will change Collinsport significantly.

The red ember grows bright and then begins to fade. In the gathering darkness, he stands in the recess of the narrow alleyway. Wilbur Strake has been watching the old law office since the leech’s friend arrived and unlocked one of the double doors – which, he’s certain, has not gone unnoticed by the owners and employees of the other businesses comprising the town square. A storefront office inside an old law office—which was no longer a law office, and yet, still appeared to be an old law office as it continued to bear the name across its windows—with office hours that didn’t began until dusk?

Collins Investigations—they didn’t even advertise.

They didn’t need to—not with the leech’s financial holdings. Comes with being able to accrue interest over centuries . . . well . . . perhaps not for her. Strake’s well aware that Nicole Collins is a more recent convert to the steady hemoglobin diet. No, her fortune came from her father, and her father – he had invested quite a rather sizable accumulation of wealth through various off-shore investment banks. Seems the leech turned wizard had worked some rather byzantine financial wizardry in order to construct a labyrinth of global fiduciary holdings – quite a murky maze that Strake didn’t have the resources to fully explore – all of which has been inherited and reinvested by his “little girl,” owing to his disappearance. Which was done less by magic then by the brilliant maneuverings on her behalf by the infamous Box Brothers Bank – although for Box Brothers it might have been magic rather than a miracle that the nearly insolvent institution had not gone down under the weight of the global financial crisis and the resultant governmental inquiries into fraud and money laundering.

With a squint against the curl of smoke drifting upward as he takes another long drag off the unfiltered cigarette, Strake steps back into the cover of the deepening darkness as a car makes its way past the narrow mouth of the alleyway.

It’s not that he is envious – although his own office in Providence has his name on the window and was comprised of two narrow rooms, half the size of this misnamed storefront, in an old section of town, which had had nothing whatsoever to do with anything on the historical register, and everything to do with economic downturn and urban decay, and his hours . . . well, they were negotiable, so as to keep his financial holdings from getting lost in the labyrinth of insufficient funds – as Strake had long ago resigned himself to his fate . . . ever since the Review Board’s unfavorable recommendation and he had been asked to turn in his shield and gun.

It had been a chilly October night – in fact, very much like this one, a similar chill in the air with the scent of the sea in the breeze – when he had taken along what was left of the bottle of Aberlour – the final arbitrator of his decision to load up the shotgun – and, having driven I95 South, was well aware he had left his jurisdiction behind . . . the strobe of passing streetlight radiance falling through the windshield to rhythmically illuminate him as he entered Newport. It was well past midnight. Sparse traffic around the bars and convenience marts. He made his way across the island in search of the address with the oceanfront view. He sat in the car, his hand gripping the Remington 870 as he watched the three-story mansion and the moonlight rippling off the cold Atlantic.

Depravity and old money. And something even older, or so his investigation had lead him to understand. He took another drink of the scotch. He had been investigating a grisly series of murders. Young prostitutes who had been found discarded, disfigured, dismembered . . . disemboweled. Unlike all the other grisly homicides of which he had become accustomed, it was their lithe bodies, the fact they had been chosen so young, too goddamned young for their occupation, to have been so viciously mutilated. They haunted his dreams, consumed his sleep deprived investigation. The lead had come from a jazz aficionado, who dealt some rather exotic drugs, not quite bath salts, but something with a similar effect, not yet illegal, but just barely so, dangerous and highly toxic, users awaking repressed manias, if not straight-out madness. The aficionado’s name was Johnny Carcosa, and although he sat intently listening to the three to nine flat jazz improvisation, he appeared more like one of Ziggy Stardust’s Spiders from Mars. Between seemingly listening to music, which decidedly was not coming from the Parkeresque band, and watching something unfolding not in this dimension, he had looked up to acknowledged Strake as he sat down at the table.

“Way out of your jurisdiction.” He had said in an almost indiscernible whisper and an odd serpentine wave of his hand, “You know there’s no coming back after making a deal with her. And don’t think you will find any absolution from the blind man on this.”

“So it’s one of his operations?”

“Not his gig, man. But he knows the tune. They pay for their indulgences.”

“Why don’t you indulge me Johnny.”

Strake had been more than well aware of the rumors of the dark occult underground running through Providence, Woonsocket, and further on into Massachusetts. He had suspected the murders to have been somehow tangled up with it but had found a far deeper rabbit hole, which had lead him to the discovery of the Metropolitan Bishop of Providence. Strake was more than certain he wasn’t part of any fucking church he had ever heard of . . . and the office he had met him in was something right out of David Lynch. There he found a blind man playing a lesser god. Of course, the Metropolitan had tried to tell him something about providence and the predatory fate of those who had chosen to walk a wanton path. But, for all the talking, the man wasn’t saying much, for there wasn’t anything in the sermon that Strake found to be particularly of interest – owing to the memories of the dead girls he wanted to hear something about the fate of a sinner in the hand of an angry God. Instead, it was just the same old story of sex and sin – and old money. Which seemed odd – the blind bishop radiated an aura that said he was way beyond mere money. And there was something sinister in the way you caught your own dark reflection in the lenses of those Ray Charles Ray-Bans he wore. Strake catching a glimpse of himself was more than certain that all the whispers about the man were true . . . whatever this blind bishop worshiped was far older than anything Strake wanted to imagine. But, the important thing at the moment was the mutilated girls. Someone was opening them up and leaving them like some horrid orchids arranged on red, wet threadbare sheets and Strake was going to put an end to it – and them. Even the blind man could see his haunted determination. In the end, the Metropolitan explained who, and more importantly what, was behind the homicides had not been particularly sanctioned, and so, if he wanted more specific information then there was another principle involved – and so, what Johnny Carcosa, sitting dreamily across from him, didn’t know was for whatever his reasons, the Metropolitan and given him her name.

And the name she had given him was Johnny Carcosa.

“Party Favors,” is what the weird aficionado had called them, over the rim of his martini glass, which contained some lemon-hued drink. There was a mansion in Newport, he had said, where there are parties even more dangerous than his drugs, where sweet young things, pretty little streetwalkers, were served up as hors d’oeuvres. “If you have the stomach for it, Mr. Strake.”

At the time he wasn’t working for the Metropolitan, and certainly not for her. Or so he had thought. He never knew precisely why they had so readily given up the occupants of the oceanfront house other than whatever was happening in Newport, strange science, magic, or just depravity, it served neither one’s interests – except later, he was to discover, as an audition for him. Yeah, Carcosa had been right, he was way out of his jurisdiction. The Aberleur and a righteous anger spurred his foot to the door as he splintered the facing and entered the large foyer, to be confronted by some combination of human and worm – more worm than human, but definitely human – or at least a one time, now trying to masquerade as a butler. The shotgun lurched in his hand as he blasted the monstrosity back against the wall and wainscoting, splattering the antique paneling in a sickly spray of jaundiced blood and torn worm flesh. The spent shell ejecting loudly out of the Remington to roll on the hardwood floor. He began searching the rooms – where upstairs be found a white-hired matron and two handsome young lads dissecting a young woman. He never hesitated as he dissected them with the 870.

When the Newport Police arrived they found him on the front steps, shotgun at his feet, his shield visible – knowing full well this would be the last time he would display it as there was no absolution for what he had found and done in basement . . .

Which is why for the last three years he had found himself working for them—not particularly because he was wrapped up in their occult business – but, there were times when they needed someone who wasn’t in on the hocus-pocus. Someone they could count on because he was known for not putting the interests of one over the other. A relationship all three had come to respect . . .

That was before the fucking nun.

She had called him earlier with a request from Providence. . . . a request from her.

“She knows I’m here working for the Metropolitan.” He pointed out glancing at the headline of the Collinsport Star on the desk.

“Were.” The melodic voice corrected.

He had only called down for his bill a half-hour ago – damned she was connected.

“I’m listening?”

Later he stepped out of the Collinsport Inn having told the clerk to hold up on itemizing the bill. He might be wanting to break something, he had told him. The man only have him some odd look as he was enthralled by some advertisement in an out-of-date Entertainment Weekly. Strake looked at him and the man nodded, turning his attention back once more on the girl in the picture. He rapped his knuckles on the front desk and walked away. He had already come to conclusion that most , if not all residents of Collinsport were more than a bit insane. He stepped out of the Collinsport Inn and was fishing into his jacket pocket for the pack of Camels when he saw the black Lexus with the darkly tinted windows and a rental plates sitting under the portcullis.

He took a step off the curb and removed his zippo to light a cigarette as he approached the car. The electric window slid down. “They say the Blue Whale has a lobster to die for.”

“I’ll let you decide whether or not that’s true or not.” Comes the lilting voice from within the Lexis.

She was wearing the black tunic and scapular of the habit, including the cross hanging from a long sliver chain – but not the full head-piece. She never wore the head piece—instead, she revealed her tousled, blonde hair.

He never saw her that he didn’t think she had just gotten out of bed . . .

“I’m not so sure this is the smart play?” He said looking at the blonde nun behind the open window.

“I will be certain to inform her of that when I give her an update on the weather.”

“Yeah, well—“ He snapped the zippo open, “She’s a leech—and everyone knows you can’t trust a leech. They have their own agendas.” He flicked the striker wheel and sparks flew before the flicker of the pale, blue flame.

“No one said you had to trust her – you’re just giving her a piece of information.”

“I don’t like it – it’s too much like crossing the Metropolitan.” He said as he lit the short unfiltered cigarette, “His express orders were to leave her out of this. . . “

‘And now you have new orders.”

He looked at her and removed the cigarette from his lips, “You know the B is buzzing around town.”

The zippo snapped shut as he watched to see her reaction.

“Yes—he’s here to reassign things to the Armenian.” She told him what he already knew.

“Which is why she wants me to bring in the leech?” His eyes scanning the dim parking lot, the darken street, the grey smoke of his cigarette creating an odd halo.

“That’s what she likes about you, Mr. Strake – you are forever insightful.”

He took a long draw off the cigarette and exhaled a long sigh of blue-grey smokes, “Okay. I’ll deliver the message. But, I can’t guarantee the results?”

“Just deliver the message, “ And she started the Lexus.

The red ember of his cigarette brightens and then grows dim as he stands recessed in the gathering darkness of night, collecting in the narrow alley way. Somewhere from further back comes the scent of decaying garbage . . . the bitch is in there, he saw her enter about ten minutes ago.

He’s been careful to maintain his surveillance. The Armenian was dangerous – more so if Mr. B was aware of who he was about to visit.

Inside Collins investigations, Nikki Collins saunters crosses the office lobby as Esther Friedman looks up from her desk – aware that Nikki has been restless since entering: “Nik, something bothering you?”

“It seems too quiet.” Nikki replies as she turns to stride, with that easy runway walk of hers, over toward the door to her office.

Esther removes the smoldering cigarette from its perch on the edge of the black plastic ashtray and pushes her chair back, as she rises from her desk in order follow. Nik seems preoccupied . . . or thirsty, she thinks as she steps up to the door just in time to see Nikki opening the lower desk drawer and removing the dark green bottle with the Romanian wine labels.

“I’m not at all sure it’s room temperature yet.” She tells her. “I removed it when I opened up.”

Nikki places a single, crystal wine flue on the desk, “What would I do without you Esther?” She says as she removes the cork and pours a thick, dark crimson drink.

“Well there was a moment when – we might have had found out.” Esther replies and exhales a plume of curling cigarette smoke.

“That was never going to happen.’ Nikki tells her with a sinister edge to her voice.

Esther Friedman sighs and leans against the doorframe of Nikki’s office, as she takes another long drag from her cigarette, “It’s so hard to believe . . . that I’m actually free of all this. I mean, it’s been so long since that night . . . the contract and Casmir. . . the journal and Hattie Stokes, which Nik, I never did trust . . . and the curse on my family . . . “ She reaches up and scratches the back of her head, “I’ve just kind’a forgotten what other cases we were working on. “

Nikki returns the cork to the bottle and looks across the room to Esther, “It must be such a relief to have that burden lifted.”

“Yeah – well, I wanted to thank you . . . “ Esther says with a pause, “And your mother.”

Nikki puts the faux Romanian wine bottle back into the bottom drawer of her desk, “You must know Esther – I would do anything for you.” She lifts her glass to toast Esther, “And so—we have that all behind us now.”

‘Yeah.” Esther smiles.

“Of course, we still have our worries about Sam.” Nikki replies taking soothing sip of the thick crimson liquid.

“She’s finally got herself wanted by the police. Took much longer than I expected.” Esther nods thoughtfully, fully aware of Samantha Brook’s mental instability, “God I hope she’s ok . . . “ But before Esther could allow herself to become any further preoccupied with her fanciful imaginings, and she could visualize several in which Sam may or may not have gotten herself involved in more complex and seriously consequential illegal activities, she suddenly takes notice of the sound of the front door of the office opening.

From the shadows of the alley, the night breeze, having shifted around to the southeast, flapping open his unbuttoned, grey suit jacket, Strake has crossed the street, to approach Collins Investigations. He’s waited now a full twenty minutes to be certain no one else was watching the storefront. He turns to take one last cautious look back behind him and tosses the stub of his cigarette into the gutter.

He opens the door.

Esther Friedman: turns at the opening of the storefront’s door, peeking out into the main room.

Wilbur Strake approaching the front desk takes more than an casual glance about the room, eyeing the rifle on the wall – the bullet holes, the remnants of a blood stain.

Esther Friedman turns back to Nikki, “We got a visitor.”

Seeing the empty green beer bottle he rubs the back of his hand across his lips – he could use a drink.

Esther Friedman steps away from Nikki’s office door and approaches the man at the desk. “Hello there. How can I help ya?” She pulls back her chair and places the cigarette in the ashtray and takes a seat.

“Miss Collins. Is she in? I noticed her car outside.” He says as he jerks a thumb back toward the storefront window that says Matigan & Wiley, Law Offices.

“Perhaps. Who, might I ask, wants to know?”

“Strake. My name is Wilbur Strake and I need to talk to her.”

“Okay, Mr. Strake. What about?”

“Well – let’s just say it’s a confidential matter.”

“Right. And she knows you . . .”

“Me? No, she doesn’t know me. But we have mutual acquaintances.”

Esther removes her cigarette from the ashtray and as she takes a rather thoughtful draw from it as she looks at him quizzically.

He pushes back his hat, “In Providence.”

“Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll go check. Yes?” Esther replies, her interest piqued, as she stubs her cigarette.

“Sure—why don’t you do that.” He nods and takes a seat in one of the chairs arranged before her desk.

Esther gets up and walks over to the office door, knocks once and opens it to find Nikki sitting behind her desk. The flue of blood now half empty.

“Someone to see you, Nik – claims you have mutual acquaintances in Providence.”

Nikki frowns having heard their conversation.

“Providence.” Nikki reflects as the tip of her tongue ever so gracefully licks away the crimson stain upon her teeth. “Send him in . . . but Esther, stay close, just in case.”

Esther nods knowingly and turns to return to the main room of the office, aware that the man in the chair across from her desk has been watching her intently. Whoever he was, he has cop’s eyes – intent and observing everything.

She walks over to her desk, “Ms. Collins will see you now.”

The man nods, as his hand reaches into a pocket of his suit coat – and Esther’s eyes take note that he’s removing a pack of unfiltered camels. He shakes one out and motions his head toward the still smoldering stub of Esther’s attempt at extinguishing her own cigarette, “She don’t mind?”

“You want to see her or sit there asking me questions?”

His lips pull the cigarette shaken forward from the pack, and he snaps his zippo open and lights it. He stands up and replaces the pack back into his jacket pocket and smiles, “Think, I’ll see her.”

“Great.” Esther replies as she steps forward to take a cigarette from her own pack . . . it was certainly beginning to feel like old times at Collins Investigations.

The man enters into the office and looks across the desk to see the blonde . . . but, owing to the roots she wasn’t. Neither was she human, well not any more – he could detect the sharp points of her canines. So this was Nicole Collins. Barnabas Collin’s daughter – and if what he had heard was true, the daughter of the Blood Countess herself.

“Mr. Strake is it? Have a seat.”

“You Nicole Collins?” He removes the cigarette from his lips so that her name curls out of his mouth in bluish-grey whips of smoke as he strides over to the chair before her desk.

“Yes.” She replies coldly.

“Just making sure . . . seeing as how the windows out there say Matigan & Wiley,” he remarks with a half-smile and a hitchhiker’s wave of his thumb back toward the outer office.

“Those who want to find me know where to look.” Nicole tells him – for all his stoic façade she senses his restrained tension – even as she takes note of his eyes observing the crystal flue and the remains of the thick, reddish liquid.

“”Oh, of that I’m sure.” He says as he sits down and glances at the copy of The Night Watch on the wall.

“What can I do for you Mr. Strake.”

“Actually – it’s what we can do for each other.” He sits back in the comfortable chair and pushes up the edge of his hat, as he takes another long drag off his cigarette, “Ever hear of Doc Sabine?”

“A back-alley doctor in Woonsocket.” She replies evenly.

“And I am certain you know Allison Drew.”

Nicole’s eyes narrow and grow a shade brighter.

Esther notices the look in Nikki’s eyes—this Strake would be wise to watch himself.

“Yeah, well, the three of us were sent here, to Collinsport, to recover something that . . . went missing . . . “

“Taken from the Metropolitan.” Nicole replies rather than asks.

He lifted an eyebrow, “Another someone, I am sure you know as well . . . only, it seems that Sabine’s gone missing and Drew. Well, let’s just say, she’s preoccupied with just about every young thing she can sink her teeth into . . .”

Nicole lifts her crystal flue and looks at the remains of the blood within, “It sounds as if you’re trying to tell me something, Mr. Strake. But, you’re taking too long.”

For the first time she detects his aura of tough confidence weakening.

It’s the blood in the glass—

God how he hates leeches, even if they are blonde and clean themselves up so they don’t look like they just crawled out of a cramped coffin. And this particular Leech – well, she was dangerous long before she was infected with the ‘un-death.’ “Yeah—“ He says with more tension in his voice than he would have liked. He looks for an ashtray to flick the ashes of his cigarette, only there isn’t one visible on the desk. “I was sent here to do a job. And, I am good at doing my job, but, there have been complications . . . . “

“Complications?”

“Sabine and the leech.” He continues to look for an ashtray. “Among other things.”

Esther catches the dangling ash from her cigarette in her hand – and whatever Nikki’s reaction might be, she is not at all comfortable with his use of the derogatory term. For all his hard-boiled, gumshoe act she feels that a good cuff up against the side of his head with her .38 might teach him some matters.

Nikki lifts a eyebrow and drains her glass, setting it down on the desk. The tip of her tongue languidly washing the trace of blood from her lip, as she watches Mr. Strake trying to make up his mind whether or not to let his cigarette ashes fall on her floor. “I would say I am more interested in the other things Mr. Strake. But at the moment, I must admit, my curiosity is piqued by this job to which you allude.”

Piqued? He liked that – it went well with the British accent.

“A simple recovery—that was the set up.” He tells her.

She looks across he desk at him, “So simple they send the three of you.”

There’s the half-smile again, “Yeah. Well, normally, I work alone.”

“For the Metropolitan.” Nikki adds.

He gives her a slight nod of acknowledgement, “Among other powers that be.”

“Hence the complications.”

He looks to the woman and lifts his cigarette, indicating his need for an ashtray, not wanting to drop ashes on the leech’s floor. “It’s not like I work exclusively—just confidentially, and, at the time that wasn’t the complication.”

“I see,” She opens a desk drawer and removes a crystal ashtray which she slides across the top of her desk.

He reaches out and catches it half-way and pulls it toward him.

Esther moves slightly now, in order to reach across the desk, to drop the ashes she’s collected in the palm of her hand into the ashtray, and then taps the cigarette on it’s edge. She doesn’t need Nik’s ability to get into someone’s mind, even she can tell there’s something he ‘s dancing around.

“So what’s the compilation?” Nicole asks.

He squints against the curl of smoke from his cigarette as he takes another drag, “Well, truth be told, you.”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” He seems to have gather renewed self-confidence now that he’s said it. Smoke wisps out of his lips, “The word was we were to handle the recovery with all due caution so as not to upset you.”

Nicole lifted a brow, “And why ever would you be told that?”

He looks at her incredulously, “Your reputation proceeds you. I mean, after all you are the Wizard’s Daughter.”

“What has that got to do with anything?”

He cups his fingers around his cigarette and removes it from his lips. This was the moment he had been anticipating since his arrival, “I’m just the hired help. We were sent to find Samantha Brook and get something back from her.”

She did not disappoint as she fixed him with a dangerous glare.

“Samantha Brook? What about Samantha Brook?”

Esther has seen that look – and caution is certainly called for on Strake’s part at the moment.

“Look. She’s the one who stole the item in the first place.” Strake tells her straight out and leans forward to stub his cigarette into the heart of the ashtray, wanting his hands free—just in case. “For Christ’s sake, lady, we’re talking about Providence. You know, as well as I do, you don’t just go waltzing into Providence and fuck around with the Powers That Be and not expect them to come dancing back around looking for you to get their property back. And, before you get any kind of ideas . . .” He holds a hand up, defensively. “I can assure you none of us has done anything to her, since we haven’t been able to even make an attempt at trying to recover the dammed thing, seeing as how she’s upped and fucking disappeared. No one, least of all you, could have guessed she’d be on the lam from the fucking cops.”

Esther sighs, “What’s she stolen?”

“A scroll.”

Nikki looks up at Esther and then back at the man. “A scroll?”

Esther straightens up from leaning back against the wall, “So—do you know where she is?”

He turns in his chair to look back at Esther, “Little lady, if I knew that I wouldn’t be here, now would I?”

“Just why are you here, Mr. Strake?” Nicole’s eyes have darken.

“The scroll didn’t work the way it was supposed to – and so, I gather something big is about to happen and Providence wants it secured before it does—” Strake begins,

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Esther asks, looking now at Nikki quizzically.

“I can assure whatever it is – it’s won’t be good.”

“This scroll, what was if supposed to do?” Nicole inquires.

“Well—that’s not really my specialty.” He replies, looking into her darken eyes – well aware that the leech’s back was up. “But, from what I understand, it was supposed to keep something from making it’s way – here.”

“To Collinsport?” Esther asks.

“To this dimension.”

“This dimension?”

“More precisely, Eagle Hill Cemetery.” He glances back at her, “Ring any bells?”

“And . . . you’re saying Sam stole this scroll— why?”

He gave her that smile, “Well, to be honest, I’m not all that sure. I do know everyone’s saying she took it – but, recently I’ve come to under stand that the Metropolitan let her take it.”

Esther leans back against the wall with the chill recollection of that night in the cemetery – the night they had battled Count Petofi – and his mad plan to make some-kind-of-a unholy deal with the nightmarish Richard Upton Pickman. A plan in which the Count was to trade a woman, an actress who had once been one of Pickman’s models way back in the 1920’s, a Lillian Margret Snow, who had somehow been miraculously resurrected from the dead to inhabit the body of her great-great Grandniece, Natasha Snow. A trade in which Pickman was supposed to have handed over some mysterious masked Priest dressed in yellow robes, from God only knows where, until Nikki had intervened just in time to stop the transaction – and Petofi had then tried to kill Nikki – until, she had been forced to fire the shot . . . the shot that Esther had thought killed the Count.

“So . . . you need the scroll, but, not Sam. Right?” Esther asks.

He looks back and nods.

There was something in her eyes now, something haunting – Strake was aware that something had gone down in the Cemetery – he wasn’t precisely sure what, but it apparently had something to do with Esther Friedman – and whatever it was, it long lingered in her memory. He knew the feeling.

“And so you want us to do your job for you – the one you say you’re so good at?” Nicole’s voice now as cold as her glaze.

“Yeah, that’s right, you got it.” He says now with a hard, sarcastic edge to his voice “That’s it precisely—.” And it was too late . . . he had known crossing the street, upon opening the door to this false front office, there was a good chance the whole thing would go side-ways. He had tried to tell the nun—tell her they needed to find someone far more amiable with the undead—that he didn’t have the temperament for it. But, she was insistent. There is no one else, she said. You owe her, she had said. Yeah—right, he fucking owed her. And, so here he was . . . and there was nothing for him to do but try and get through this no matter how much he loathed having to deal with the f**king leech. Every since Newport he had to deal with all manner of the paranormal – but leeches . . . they were the worst. Even the Ghouls—at least they ate the dead. He looks at her sitting here behind an expanse of desk that Napoleon would have envied. A tall, ice blonde with all the languid grace of some Parisian, runway model sipping expensive Champagne. Only, it wasn’t Champagne.

It was blood. Blood in a cut crystal glass.

If it wasn’t for being blood-sucking, homicidal maniacs he might have despised the undead even more for their indolent haughtiness. They weren’t human – not anymore—which made them act as if they were far more superior. When in fact, they were nothing more than some foul, fucking virus the Crawling Chaos had scooped up out of some swamp, on some far distance planet . . . and hurled into the rotting muck of the earth. And so, he can hear the rising disdain in his own voice and is aware he needs to walk it back—if he wants to keep his throat intact.

“Right – I need you to do my fucking job. Or—“ He sits back, “I might be here to help you, help you stop whatever is about to go down as well as to help you save your friend. Because you see, they’ve sent in one of their cleaners – a Mr. B – and, usually, when B arrives, he doesn’t leave things all that nice and tidy.”

“How very altruistic of you Mr. Stake.”

God, he wants to cap a sliver bullet right between those bright, blue eyes. “Look Collins, coming here tonight was not my idea” His hand fishing once more into his jacket pocket in order to remove the crumbled pack of Camels, so as to shake one forward, which he pulls free from the pack with his lips, “In fact, I was packing my bag and heading back to Providence and was going to let this whole thing just play itself out.” He snaps open the old zippo. “I mean, why waste time trying to find this Brook especially when B is in town and he’s put the Armenian on the case. You know about the Armenian?”

“I’ve heard of her.”

Hell, it’s more than obvious that something else is going on – has been going on – for a while. He flicks the igniter wheel with a flash of sparks and a flickering, cobalt flame, with which he lights the cigarette. Old alliances are being tested, some have begun to shift . . . And who knows what tomorrow will bring, or if there is going to be a fucking tomorrow. “

“And so, it is the better part of valor to just get out of town.” Nikki suggests watching for his response.

She just keeps on –

And so he gives her that half smile, “Except someone suggested I make a stop to see you..” He removes the cigarette from his lips, holding it between two fingers, which he uses to point as he speaks, “Which I might add, is counter to the interests of my original client.”

“As far as you know.”

He looks at her, smoke curling from his lips as he nods.

“Because I was to be kept out of it.” Nikki replies.

“Right.”

Nikki leans forward, “Who sent you, Mr. Strake.”

He keeps the half-smile, “I tend to try and keep that confidential, Miss Collins – but then, you know already don’t you—since you’ve been rippin’ through my mind like a bad hang-over every since I sat down.”

Suddenly Esther, owing to her concentration on the conversation, is startled from the sound now knuckles gently rapping on the glass of one of the old storefront office doors.

Nikki’s eyes move from Strake to look out past him, through her open office door.

Esther pushes away from the wall, where she had been leaning, and steps over to the threshold of Nikki’s door in order to look out across the main lobby toward the double storefront doors.

Strake rises quickly from his chair, dropping his cigarette into the ashtray, and in a fluid motion reaches inside his jacket.

“You will not need that Strake.” Nikki informs him.

Over his shoulder he continues to cock that smile, “Yeah- well, you never know.”

And he removes the 5-shot double action 642 Smith & Wesson .38.

Esther hesitates for a moment and looks back to Nikki, “So—should I let them in?” As she gives a slight nod to Strake and his gun.

“The door is unlocked is it not?”

A quizzical look now appears on Esthers face, “Yeah – so why on earth are they knocking?”

As if in response to her question, there comes the light rapping once again – perhaps a little more insistent than before.

Strake holding the 642 glances back at Collins behind the desk. She hasn’t moved and yet he is well aware that she’s concentrating, listening to something, “I think we might be interested in seeing who this is . . . Please let her in Esther.”

“Your call Nik,” And Esther Friedman steps through the door of Nikki’s office and moves around her desk to one of the double doors. There is yet more gentle rapping upon the glass, “Okay, Okay, we get it . . . Nevermore.” She says as she approaches the door and then opens it suddenly to say: “It’s not like it’s locked.”

Just outside the door, looking nervous and uncertain there stands a young girl, perhaps twenty, no more than twenty-two at best, Esther surmises. She’s dressed in a tie-dyed green and white shirt with “I’m not Irish but kiss me anyway” embolden across the front. She wore tight fitting black jeans and black Keds. Around her waist was a cheap, sterling studded, wide belt and with a few accessorizing chains.

The girl stands there looking at Esther . . . almost as if she were lost.

“Hello—How can I help you?” Esther asks.

“Ummm,” The girl begins, “I don’t know . . . “

“This town certainly isn’t awash with an abundance of intelligence.” Stake cuts a glance to Nicole Collins.

“You don’t know?” Esther stands hip-shot, looking at her suspiciously.

“I was told to come here.”

“Ok . . . So . . . Let’s start with who you are.”

The girl looks up suddenly, “Is there a Miss here?”

Strake for a moment lets his eyes close – Drew. Goddamn it! Another one of Drew’s mindless minions, no doubt . . . what the hell . . . so the f**king leech, now that B is in town, has decided to get up off her blood-sucking ass – “I can assure you I have nothing to do with whatever this is —” Strake offers in an aside to Collins,

“A miss?” Esther asks, “A miss what?”

“Please be quite, Mr. Stake.” Nicole tells him rather sternly – having, as he said, ripped quite enough through the gentleman’s mind. She was less than pleased about his misogynistic views and his bigotry of the undead.—and more than confused as to who had sent him. – and why.

“I was told to give this . . .” The young girl standing outside the storefront office’s door says as she pulls from the back pocket of her jeans a cellphone, “To a Miss . . . A Miss that was supposed to be . . . here.”

“Well. I am here. And I am a Miss.” Esther replies as she holds out her hand to accept the phone.

Only the young woman continues to stand outside the door, appearing to be dazed and confused.

“Don’t just stand out there.” Esther tells her aware that Collins Investigations calls enough attention to itself and doesn’t need the curious passer-by to slow down as they drive past wondering why the hell she’s standing in the open doorway trying to coax some young girl, who appears to be in obvious need of mental health facilities.

“I am not sure – is there a Miss inside.”

“Yes, there are two Misses. Now, will you get in here.”

Slowly the woman begins to enter.

“I don’t like this.” Strake says to Nicole Collins, as he holds his revolver ever ready, “There are two many people in this town lurking about with bad intent.”

“Yes—well, I am not really sure of your intent, Mr. Strake.” Nicole tells him, “Now, please be quite.”

“Why don’t you have a seat?” Esther motions to one of the chairs before her desk.

The girl looking about as if trying to get her bearings takes a seat. “Sorry to say, you don’t seem like a Miss.”

Esther sighs, “What do you define as a Miss then?” And Esther takes note now that the young woman has removed a cell phone from the back pocket of her black jeans and is holding it rather tightly.

“I don’t know. You just don’t seem like one.”

“Right, well,” Esther holds up her hand, “I am a Miss. I am here. Whereas the other Miss that is here is busy at the moment. So—if you have something to tell her, or something you want to give her, then you can tell me – or give it to me and I can deliver it to her.”

The girl now seems to hold the cellphone even tighter and shakes her head, “She said it was important and that no one else should . . . “

Strake’s concern suddenly grows, overhearing the young woman to say it was some woman behind her appearance at Nicole Collin’s door. Who is playing who? He’s more that certain it’s not who sent him – but is it Drew or Lusine Harpootian? He takes a closer look now at the girl . . . he tries to remember if she works at the “Quarter to Three” or not.

Nicole frowns and rises from her desk, “ You stay here,” She tells him in passing as she moves slowly toward the door, “And put that bloody gun away.”

“Who said?” Esther asks now intrigued, turning to see Nikki stepping out of her office door.

“If you have something for us, please, do hand it over to Esther.”

The young woman turns to look over to Nicole and smiles, “Now, you look like a Miss.”

“I guess I look like chopped f***in’ liver eh?” Esther crosses her arms.

“You look like a person.” The young woman replies.

Becoming more and more irritated by the woman’s obvious evasiveness Esther sighs and throws up a hand, “Whatever. So—who is this ‘She’ That sent you?”

Nicole continues to walk slowly into the room – the young woman watching her, as it seems her stride is more like a glide., as if her feet barely touch the floor.

Behind her, Nicole is aware of Strake’s finger upon the trigger.

“I don’t know . . . I was . . . “ The young woman begins to shifting her glaze from Esther to Nicole, her countenance exposing her difficulty now in trying to concentrate. “I had . . . gotten at Latté . . . yes, and I was. . . and I was . . . and then . . . yellow eye.”

Esther looks quizzically at Nicole, “Yellow eye? Did she say yellow eye?”

“I suspect her mind has been tampered with.”

“Why? “ Esther asks, and then grows concerned. “Unless – Nik be careful.”

Nicole continues she slow advance toward the woman and cuts a gaze over to Esther.

“I’ll go check on itchy trigger finger.’ Esther tells her and heads back toward her office.

Nicole steps up to the young girl and with a slowly movement of her fingers, she fans them in an odd gesture, “You will hand over what you were told to deliver, do you understand?”

The girl nods, “Yes.” She lifts the phone and offers to relinquish her hold .

Nikki languidly reaches out her hand and takes the mobile.

“Who sent you.”

The girl looks at Nicole, eyes unblinking, “I-I don’t know.”

“You will forget everything but my voice—now who sent you?”

“I thought she told you to put that away.” Esther informs Strake as she re-enters Nikki’s office, “And, you – you haven’t been ruffling though Nik’s papers have you?”

“What the hell is going on out there?”

“Don’t have a clue – as yet.”

“Yellow eye.” The girls replies, “Yellow eye.” And then she collapses.

Nikki catches her and moves her so as to drapes her into a chair. Nikki looks at her and then at the mobile, turning it over she takes note that the back feels rough, as if etched with a knife.

“Did she say Yellow eye?”

“Yeah, that’s what I asked.” Esther nods looking to be sure Nikki’s desk has not be touched.

Nicole Collins slowly caresses the woman’s cheek, “Open your eyes.” She tells the young girl.

The girl begins to come around looking now very confused, “Where am !?”

“You came to give me this.” She shows her the mobile, her thumb rubbing the etched back. “Do you remember who gave it to you?”

She blinks, Say, that’s a nice phone.”

“So— you have no recollection of this or who gave it to you?”

Esther Friedman looks at Strake, “So tell me Mr. Strake, oh, do have a seat, Nik’s got this under control. So, let me get this straight.”

He looks at her.

“You tell us were you think Sam is,” she continues.

Nikki is well aware that the girl’s memory has been clouded, she can not read her thoughts about who have her the mobile and why they sent it to her.

“We get her and the scroll, seeing as she is more likely to trust us,” Esther surmises,” And then, what we give you the scroll. Is this the plan so far?”

“Yeah,” He says and pushes back his hat as he puts his gun away.

“Ok. So what’s on the scroll?”

“I don’t know – who you – or why I ma here.” The girl says and suddenly gets up and looks around, “How did I get here? I was in the coffee shop . . “ And suddenly, she sees the bullet holes in the wall, the dark stain on the floor, the rifle on the wall, and she bolts for the door and rushes out into the night.

“Looks Like I was wrong. Looks like someone went to the wizard and got themselves a brain.” He remarks as the girl rushes out.

“The scroll Strake—what’s on the fucking scroll?”

“A spell,” he says and looks at her hard, “A fucking spell.”

“And just what kind of a fucking spell, would that be, Mr. Strake?” Nicole asks entering her office.

He turns to her, “One that apparently doesn’t fucking work – since it failed to stop . . .”

Nikki walks around her desk and stops, “Stop what?”

‘The unnameable.”

Nikki sits down and looks at Strake intensely, “The unnameable?”

“Yeah, like you don’t already know.” He sighs, he has no idea what this strange messenger with the cellphone is all about, or who sent her, but someone had certainly messed with her mind – and even if their arrival was nothing more than a mere coincidence, the longer he spends delivering her message the odd on him getting caught in the middle of whatever was about to come down grew exponentially, “So, Miss Collins, let’s not waste any more of our time. Yours or mine. I was told to come here and to tell you about the crew that’s been sent up here to Collinsport looking for your Sam Brook – and why. As no one wants that scroll running around loose. They don’t, and you don’t.”

Nikki fingers the phone, “But that’s not all of it, Strake.”

The cracks the half-smile as he nods, “Right. She said to give you the information about Brooks so you’d understand she’s playing straight with you.”

“Who is this ‘she’?” Esther asks.

“That’s confidential.” He said over his shoulder, still watching the blonde across the desk.

“I would have never suspected.” Nicole replies sardonically.

“Well, lets say it’s better fall around for her daughters.” His voice lowers a bit, “Having a mother like her.”

“Daughters?” Esther asks and looks over at Nik.

“Like I said I was getting out of this one-crab town. But then I get the call asking me to stop by and deliver a message. Apparently you had something that you gave away – and you weren’t supposed to. That was the whole point in leading you to it.”

Nicole looks up from the scratches on the back of the mobile, “The Shinning Trapezohedron.”

“The message is you better get it back because you’re going to need it.”

Nicole looks up at him.

“Like I said—I’m just the hired help.’ He tells her lifting his hands defensively.

Suddenly a voice, feminine, with a rather sinister edge, which sends a shiver through Strake, replies from the mobile as Nicole activates the video. The image, which only Nicole watches while the others listen to the voice, is grainy, unfocused, shaky, being as it has been apparently filmed via being perched in a coat pocket: there are glimpses of what would appear to be an deserted farmhouse:

Oddly at that precise moment the phone on Nicole Collin’s desk rings. She looks up at Esther as she picks up her desk phone – “This is Nicole Collins.”

There is silence as the video they had been listening to comes to a halt.

Esther tries to determine the significance of the phone call, trying to read some reaction from Nikki’s countenance – which she detects is suddenly showing concern.

“What?” Nik asks.

Esther’s own interest grows.

“When?”

Even Strake has leaned forward.

“How did that happen?”

A strange partnership: Esther and Strake await the conclusion of the call – each wanting to ask what had happened.

“Yes, I am sure. Thank you.”

Nicole allows the receiver to fall back into phone cradle and she looks up to Esther.

“Nik? What is it?”

“It’s St. Clair. She is in the hospital again. She apparently collapsed just outside of the Collinsport police station. The bullet near her spine moved and she’s lost the use of her legs.”

Wilbur Strake pushes his hat back, “It’s started.”

“It all begins when she who returns will never walk again.” Nicole says quoting the voice from the voicemail

Cue Music end of Episode