Yoshida: 23

Well played.


On another subject, having had the great pleasure of abandoning my research into so-called "practical" magic, I amazingly enough found myself inspired by Howland's tedious, interminable account of his attempt and failure to originally acquire the Magician's knife in the sunken Liberator. There was a section where he described the actions of Crayton inside the vessel:

"With the flourish and panache of a stage magician, he opened his sleeves to show me there was nothing inside of them, then a moment later he extended his arms in our direction and bubbles began to appear from his cuffs. There were only a few at first, then there were so many bubbles that it was like watching jets from a Jacuzzi."

It was this "nothing up my sleeve" gesture as well as the style of the Magician's disappearing trick described in Taras' post that made me consider that perhaps some clues as to our adversary's methodology could be gleaned not from the study of that gibberish pseudo-science of Crowley's, but oddly-enough, instead from actual performance magic.

Of course, these books are talking about mere tricks: slight of hand, misdirection and so forth, but my hope is that I might discover some small nugget of information that we might find valuable.

Frankly, it's only because there is so little need for me at my uncles' business at the moment that I am even busying myself with this research, but I must occupy my mind somehow.

Cynthia: Minuo

Thank you again, Doctor. Your remarks were just the motivation I required to devise a suitable plan of action that would enable me to determine which of our suspects is the villain.

Without delay I phoned Doctor Godfrey and relayed my deep concern and apprehension that the assault on my person by the Aborigine Smiler (not conveyed in these terms, obviously) had in some way infected me with any of a number of blood-borne diseases, as I had been, in essence, showered with gore when Jeffrey shot him. The Doctor did his best to mollify me, but I made it clear that I would not be satisfied until he had run a complete blood-test on me.

Adjusting his schedule accordingly, Doctor Godfrey paid a visit to my home, and I insisted that both Garrett be present as well as my newly-hired security guard, should there be any trouble. I then set my computer to type and transmit all that I said in the event that the Magician, upon his unmasking, simply decided to eliminate me then and there- at the very least the three of you would be aware of his true identity.

As the Doctor prepared to insert the needle in my arm, I feigned an episode, where I claimed that the attempt to murder me and the subsequent grisly aftermath had left me scarred and terrified, and while I desired nothing more than to be certain that my blood was unpolluted, the act of penetrating my flesh with a needle was anathema to me.

As I expected, neither the icy Doctor Godfrey nor the dour Garrett reacted or cared much about my fictitious predicament, so I sweetened the pot, offering them each ten thousand dollars on the spot if they would only draw their own blood first, reassuring me that the process was indeed harmless.

The Doctor attempted to console me, telling me that the procedure could not be safer or more commonplace- and in any rate I would obviously feel nothing- but I refused to be accommodated, building upon my depiction of the neurotic patient and upping my offer to twenty thousand dollars. The Doctor hesitated, then finally agreed with an avaricious grin. Rolling up his sleeve, he turned the syringe upon himself and drew a small amount of blood, thereby unwittingly crossing himself off our list of suspects.

I pressed Garrett then, but he appeared repulsed by the entire proceeding. Shaking his head and cursing that he wanted no part of it, he stalked from the room.

Informing the Doctor that I no longer wished to go through with the procedure, I used my teeth to write him his check and to his consternation notified him that he was fired.

One down, three to go, and I believe I will take you up on one piece of advice, Doctor Yoshida: tomorrow I will give the appearance of choking, and when Garrett goes to clear my windpipe, I intend to bite him.

Yoshida: 22

Only three (or possibly two) of the suspects are innocent. There is a 25% chance that the first person cut will be the Magician, leaving the rest above suspicion and out of harms way before any further damage is done. Those strike me as acceptable odds.

Besides, I was not suggesting a fatal stab wound, only a blow sure to draw blood, perhaps to the stomach or groin.

If you do not hire a criminal to do the task for you, what can you possibly accomplish? Will you ask them all to line up so you can bite them?

Cynthia: Nullus

Thank you, Doctor, but when my plans begin to revolve around randomly stabbing passing acquaintances, it will be time to bring this investigation to a close. Can we not formulate a more sensible, civilized and sane stratagem that won't involve assaulting innocent people?

Yoshida: 21

There is another we have encountered with a "G" name: Detective Gary Ward, with whom Stroud made contact early in our investigation. The fact that he was the officer in charge of the Walentowicz murder makes him a prime suspect in my opinion.

Also, there is another possibility that occurs to me: what if "G.G." actually stands for two separate people? Perhaps Garrett and Godsby work together in some fashion, or Ward and Glen, or some combination thereof? It is a more outlandish concept, but I thought it best to introduce the idea.

As far as testing these theories, the most foolproof way appears to be through blood. In Leopold's one and only post, he tells us that the Magician has no blood running through his veins.

You should immediately hire someone to stab them all and see if they bleed.

Cynthia: Littera

While the two of you luxuriate in your well-earned rest, perhaps Doctor Yoshida and I can ponder this clue as to the identity of our adversary. While it is entirely possible that the Magician- or "G.G." as the letters carved into his knife inform us are his initials- is completely unknown to us, I believe we will be best served by forming the assumption that he has in some fashion had contact with us, however briefly.

And so the list of those with whom we have been presented over the course of our investigation, and the admittedly wildly subjectively deduced probability that they are secretly the Magician:


-Garrett, my new caretaker. Since the authorities arrested and detained Jeffrey, my first caretaker, his replacement has proven himself to be an uncaring lout, without any interest in human interaction with me of any kind beyond the obligation of his profession. I understand all too well that caring for a quadriplegic can be a tedious and degrading assignment, but he truly does appear to gaze upon me as simply a slab of flesh that is being kept alive for no discernible reason.

For all that, while I detest him, I find myself crossing him off of the list of suspects simply because he is so thuggish. I tend to consider the Magician- while existing as a creature of staggering malevolence- to be more refined in his countenance. However, perhaps knowing this, he would present a more brutish face in an attempt to play on my expectations.

-Doctor Godsby, my physician. I have only written about the Doctor in passing, and in truth I barely know the man, but on my list of suspects I believe he should be at the very apex. Smooth, refined, exceedingly cold and brusque... he is most as I would imagine the Magician to be.

-Glen, owner of the shipping boat, the Liberator. (Miss Stroud, an update on his last name, if you please, at your convenience) While the description given of the man made it seem as though he was incapable of plotting even the most basic of schemes, again as with Garrett this could well have been the Magician praying on our assumptions of his natural disposition.


And allow me to relate on a personal note that I have never been more proud of you, Joshua, nor you, Miss Stroud. This last exploit in Australia was an enormous victory for us, and while I remain more committed than ever to our enterprise, if nothing else comes of this investigation, I can rest knowing that some measure of revenge has been meted out to our enemies.

Mary: Win/Win/Win

November 10th, 2008:

The Port Victoria Bingo Hall was an unremarkable, one story, beige, rectangular building with a tiny sign hanging outside the door that read "BINGO" in prim, black and white lettering. There were two doors, one in front and one in back, and in defiance of all building codes there were no windows. The sign on the front door was turned to "CLOSED". It was probably the only bingo hall in the world without a trace of neon or any color at all adorning the outside, the building squatting there in the Australian scrub doing its best not to get noticed. A lone cargo van stood in the dusty parking lot, and the hood was warm to the touch, though that could have been from the sun and not recent use.

It's a common misconception that all Private investigators know how to pick locks. People also seem to believe that we can all roll our own cigarettes, fire two guns at the same time or jump cars over gorges. Me? I know how to fill out a form allowing me to deduct gas from my taxes. I know how to hand someone a subpoena (How? Quickly). I can sit still in a car for four hours at a time and watch a house.

What I do not know how to do is pick a lock. I can, however, find something heavy, which is what I did outside the Port Victoria Bingo Hall. There were two lawn statues out front (despite the fact there was no lawn), one of coral with eels coming out of it (and yes, it absolutely gave me the creeps) and one of whales with sandstone water coming out of their tiny blow holes. There was no way I was picking up the eels, so with no small effort I tugged the whale statue out of its hole, reared back and tossed it underhand through the plate glass front door, the crash sounding, in that moment, like the loudest thing I'd ever heard.

I briefly considered picking up one of the shards for use as a weapon, but concluded that It would probably do more harm to my hand than to an enemy. In the end I decided to follow Josh's lead, go back to the rental car, open the trunk and grab the crowbar. My main plan was still to run for my life if I saw any sign of Crayton, but having something solid and metal in my hands was comforting, and while it was a false sense of security at this point I was willing to settle for any sense at all.

Hesitating for only a moment at the doorway, I carefully ducked the glass shards that still hung from the top of the door frame and stepped inside, finding myself in a large, carpeted, modern, air-conditioned room covered in neon and Christmas lights, with large, flat-screen TV's adorning every wall. Every expense that had been spared on the outside of the structure had been spent inside, which wasn't too surprising considering that Crayton was catering to the world's best bingo players and wanted them to feel absolutely comfortable and on top of their game, focusing their energies in such a way that the act of winning somehow charged up the bingo charms they clutched in their withered hands.

Hollis' speech on bingo came back to me then, about how the game is played in virtually every city and town in the entire Western world, and is accepted in these communities without a second thought just because it's about the only thing that gives the elderly something to do. Despite the thought being terribly depressing even at face value, it was even more wretched knowing that the game of bingo had been designed and propagated merely to discover those with special gifts, gather them in one place and put them to use charging up bingo charms, in some way empowering them for the Magician.

I had hoped that the charms would be left out and in plain sight, but all I saw were long tables with plush, padded chairs pushed under them in the middle of the room, a bar area to the left and a raised dais toward the rear of the room where presumably they'd set up the "blower" and call out numbers.

In the back of the main room was a closed door, and I instinctively and ridiculously tip-toed back to it despite the fact that I'd just made the loudest noise since the Big Bang in smashing through the front door.

Once to the rear door I slowly turned the knob and entered into a hallway with five dark, wooden doors, two on either side and one at the end. A thin strip of daylight crept under the back door at the end of the corridor, and I made a mental note to run through that door to the outside in case there was trouble as I was now closer to the back door than the front.

I paused there in the hall for a moment and took a deep breath, thinking: Four doors, one cache of charms. They weren't out at the tables, so they're collected in one place, if they're still here at all. And behind one of these doors could be Crayton, just waiting for me. If he isn't, is that better? That means he'd be waiting for Josh right now...

Shaking my head in an attempt to banish these unhelpful thoughts, I gripped the crowbar tighter and chose the left-hand door closest to me, turning the knob carefully and opening it onto a wholly disappointing accounting room, a bookshelf on the right-hand wall filled with ledger books. I didn't know how they would be of any use, but I did step over and grab one at random, my intention to ship it to Yoshida to give him something to pore over for a while, and with the hope that there was at least a chance that the pages were covered with some kind of contact poison.

I closed the door to the accounting room behind me, and holding the ledger in one hand and the crowbar in the other, I made my way over to the door on the right side of the hall, opening it and stepping through into an office with a large, dark green-colored safe sitting in the corner on the left and a mahogany office desk in the middle of the room.

Even though I fully expected to run into Crayton, I was not at all prepared to see a small, bikini-clad woman with tight, bouncy, brown curls atop her head kneeling down with her back to me going through the safe. I dropped the ledger in shock, my jaw open. "Keane? Helen! My God, you're-"

She turned her head then, still sitting down, and her eyes stared into mine, her face split by a wide, fiendish smile. I heard my own voice murmur, "Oh... oh, no. Oh, God. What has he done..." Keane stood then suddenly, and I jerked back, stumbling into the door on the other side of the hall. What had been Keane began to walk toward me, slowly and steadily, her wide, unblinking eyes never leaving mine.

"Helen... don't do this. Fight it, fight him! You can do it... please..." Keane never stopped, never gave any sign that she'd heard a word I said. I was frozen there in the hallway, staring into those eyes, the thought of fighting her simply not entering into my mind as an option. "Remember who you are, Helen! Don't let him win! I'm begging-"

Just then the back door opened and the hallway was flooded with sunlight. Standing in the doorway was an older man in a security guard uniform, a gun in its holster at his side. Graying hair peeked out from under his guard's cap, and he was muscular enough to be called stocky instead of fat. Keane stopped and turned to look at him, standing right next to me in the hallway.

The guard quickly sized up the situation and decided he didn't like it a bit. Scowling, he growled, "All right, now, just hold it up. What's the story here, and keep steady, if you please."

Thinking fast, I blurted, "She broke in! She's on drugs, just look at her face! Let's get her to a hospital, now!"

The guard stared at her for a long moment as she looked back at him, then he nodded. "Right. Hospital. I'm calling for a divvy van, so just hold tight. Christ, but she's gone."

From behind the guard came an old, raspy voice, tinged with amusement. "That won't be necessary, Will. The woman is with me." Crayton stepped around behind the guard, his bloodshot eyes glaring at me as he opened his mouth, revealing yellowed teeth and making an expression that was somewhere between a smile and a sneer. Crayton was dressed in a heavily wrinkled three-piece suit, his gray hair wild and dishevelled. "The American is the intruder."

The guard looked confused, but did turn his focus on to me, his brow furrowing. "All right then, Miss. Enough games. Come with-"

"Kill her," Crayton said casually, his eyes turning toward the guard. "Shoot her, if you don't mind."

"What? Mr. Crayton, I... I can't do that!" Will looked positively aghast.

Crayton smiled patiently, the rest of us rooted to our spots. "She has a weapon, she broke in... no court will convict you, I assure you. I will give you..." He mulled it over. "...A quarter of a million dollars. Tax free." He nodded back toward me. "Go on. Kill her."

Will turned back to me, his face conflicted and confused. There was a long, long pause until finally he licked his lips, shook his head and moaned, "I just can't do that, Mr. Crayton. Let me call the police-"

"Bad news/good news time," Crayton said as he ushered Will into the building through the door and into the hallway with Keane and I, the two of them a full twenty feet away from us. Crayton's tone was reassuring and casual. "Bad news is you're fired." Before Will could react he continued, "Good news is you won't have any of those nagging 'basic needs' to worry about any more." Crayton lifted up his arm, pulled his shirt cuff up very gently and a giant moray eel shot out from inside his sleeve and directly into Will's face, its fangs latching on immediately to the bridge of his nose.

I screamed as blood poured from Will's face, the eel flapping about obscenely, its tail slapping the hallway walls with wet smacks. Amazingly, even as Will fought to pull the writhing eel off of his face, he still managed to draw his gun and shoot Crayton right in the stomach, the gunshot echoing deafeningly off the close corridor walls.

Peering down at the bloodstain spreading slowly over his vest, Crayton frowned and muttered, "Now, that's a nuisance." Then he reached out both arms, pointed his open palms at Will, and suddenly that end of the hall was filling up with frenzied, blood-crazed eels all covering and biting the doomed guard. He gave one final scream as they piled on him in a gigantic mound, until nothing could be seen of him at all.

I covered my mouth in horror, unable to move or speak as Crayton slowly walked over to me, the eels doing their best to flop and slither out of his path. His voice now came out devoid of mirth, his tone sharp and guttural. "Take her to the safe room." Suddenly Keane's arm shot up, her hand gripping my neck with impossible strength. I fought through the pain and managed to raise up my crowbar to smash over her head, but as I looked into her eyes, for a moment, all I could think of was that bouncy, energetic girl from yesterday- the sweet and tough Aussie who'd become one of us.

One moment's hesitation was a moment too long. Keane's other hand swatted upward, knocking my hand back into the hallway wall and jarring the crowbar loose, falling to the carpeted floor with a muffled thud. Then she both pulled and dragged me forward into the safe room, my fingernails clawing at her hand in a vain attempt to break her grip. The next thing I knew she pivoted and lifted me at the same time, slamming me down on the office desktop flat on my back, my head ringing with the impact.

I strained to peer over at the door, Keane still pinning me down as Crayton sauntered into the room. "I prefer to kill my enemies. A simple philosophy, but effective. Back in my soldiering days I learned hard lessons about not leaving the enemy breathing at the end of a battle. Why the Magician toys with you is beyond me. I see an enemy, I kill 'em, like with the old woman who employs you back in America. Did I wait for him to give me the order? Hell, no." The old man knelt down next to the desk and his rancid breath in my face would have made me gag if I wasn't also being strangled to death by Keane at that moment.

He glanced up at Keane's smiling face. "Do you know how I made her? All I did was tell her a little secret." Now I could feel his breathing on the side of my face, his lips brushing against my ear. "You want to know it? You want to know?" Crayton chuckled with perverted glee. "I'll tell you. Listen close. Listen, and become mine forever." His trembling tongue touched the outside of my ear, running from the bottom of the lobe all the way up as I writhed in disgust, still pinned hopelessly. "Lifetimes of servitude for you... pleasures and pain you cannot imagine. Are you ready? Here it comes. Here's the secret." He took a deep breath and leaned close into my ear.

"I'll tell you a secret, @sshole." The voice came from behind Crayton, and suddenly Josh's face was right over his shoulder. "I found the knife."

Crayton screamed, his eyes bulging wide as he crumpled to a heap on the ground next to the desk, Josh standing up behind him holding a bloody, eight-inch knife at waist-level. The next moment Keane took her hand off of my neck and lunged for Josh, and he brought the knife up reflexively, barely nicking her forearm, but she instantly fell to the carpet face-first and stayed there. Josh hastily rolled her over, only to discover that she was stone dead.

Meanwhile, Crayton bellowed in agony and rage as he writhed on the carpet, his back covered in blood. "I cannot feel pain! I cannot be hurt! I was promised! Damn you, damn you! I can't move my legs!"

Josh began pulling me towards the door, but instead I rolled over the desk to the safe, took a quick glance at the box inside, saw it was filled with bingo charms and hurdled the desk back to him. "Now we can go," I said, my voice coming out in a raspy croak through my damaged windpipe.

Stealing a meaningful glance down at the knife, then to me, Josh asked, "And him? Do we..."

Before I could begin to consider the question, Crayton let out an anguished roar, lifted himself on one arm and pointed the other arm at us. Reacting quickly, I shoved Josh out of the room just in time to avoid a stream of eels, their jaws snapping open and shut hungrily as they crashed into the door on the opposite side of the hall.

We ran from the bingo hall, Crayton's tortured wails echoing in our ears as we fled. In seconds we leapt into Josh's new pickup truck and tore out of the parking lot, tires squealing.


An hour later, on the road to Adelaide, we finally calmed down enough to talk about it.


JOSH: Getting around the Smiler he'd left at the house was no picnic, but once I found out Crayton wasn't there, I knew he'd be at the bingo hall, so I grabbed the goods and put the hammer down. There's an old top hat and cape in the trunk back in the truck bed, too.

ME: How did you know the knife could actually hurt him?

JOSH: I didn't. I just saw you there and... did what I did. I didn't think about it.

ME: (Pause) My ex-husband divorced me because I can't have children. We both wanted them. We tried everything.

JOSH: Okay.

ME: You asked about him... and what happened with my marriage.

JOSH: Okay.

ME: We did it today, Josh. We got the charms, the knife... we crippled Crayton, and I think that's permanent. Somehow the knife-

JOSH: Yep.

ME: I have never heard you say this little, ever.

JOSH: I just stabbed a guy. I know that's as commonplace as rolling cigarettes or jumping gorges in your profession, but as a Philosophy grad student it doesn't come up as often.

ME: Would it help if I put my head on your shoulder as you drive?

JOSH: That would probably make me more nervous.

ME: Oh. Nevermin-

JOSH: But I'll take my chances.


We got a hotel in Adelaide. We are going to sleep for the next hundred years.

The initials carved into the knife hilt are: G.G. I'll try and do some deducing when I eventually come to.


We did it. We really did it.

Josh: I Could Try And Think Of Something Profound To Say, Too, But We All Know I'd Just Wind Up Ripping Off One Of Gandalf's Speeches From LOTR

I parked my new truck off the road (and by "new", I mean it has over a hundred thousand miles and smells like four generations of sheep farted in the cab. Below: One of Australia's mysterious kangaroo-sheep) and hid it as best I could in the scrub off the road by the ocean. There's a police car in front of Crayton's house, but the cop watching the place doesn't seem overly alert and I think I've got a shot at sneaking around the side and getting in. The only problem is that that, again, the cop isn't overly alert, so Crayton could already have crept past him and be inside right now. Even if he isn't, he could still have Smilers set to guard the place, or booby traps by the doors or windows, or he could have the Magician's knife hooked up to explosives.

Optimism abounds.

Is this the best plan? Who the hell knows. I'm going on no sleep at all, my ankle where the eel bit me last night is killing me and all I've had to eat in forever is a ham and cheese sandwich prepared by an old person, which means that it tasted like bland with an extra spoonful of bland and bland on the side.

All I know is that I feel the same way Mary does about it. I'm sick and goddamn tired of going up against these monsters and winding up with nothing. We're either getting the knife or the bingo charms. For once we're going to stick it to them, no matter what the cost.

If this is my last post, I just hope someone listens to my last request: For God's sake, someone stop George Lucas before he f*cks up Star Wars any further. Thank you.

Mary: Aunt Grace

Josh and I sat and drank tea in the cozy corner house of Keane's Aunt Grace, the two of us battered, bruised, hungry, exhausted and most of all desperate for a way to explain with any measure of sanity just how it was her niece had come to be murdered the night before.

Grace was a sweet old woman, her home comfortable if not modern, with the pleasant sound of the Beatles drifting in from the kitchen. The decor seemingly hadn't been altered in thirty years and despite the fact that it was half a world away from Milwaukee, for some reason I found it oddly familiar.

We had each been served a cup of tea almost before we were all the way through the door, once we mentioned we were friends of Keane's. Josh even jokingly mentioned that he'd love a Vegemite sandwich if she had one (and I swear, if he attempts to serenade me one more time with Men At Work he's going to get punched), and she had one in front of him within thirty seconds.

After advising her that this was his first ever taste of Vegemite, she cautioned him gently that it wasn't for everyone, but insisting his terrible hunger could overcome anything, he took a bite and swallowed. Grace smiled, her well-worn laugh-lines criss-crossing her face pleasingly. "What do you think, young man?"

Josh has not often spoken diplomatically in situations such as this in the past, but I hoped that in such a delicate juncture he would reach within himself and find something resembling a civil comment. As usual of late, my hopes were dashed.

"It tastes like a combination of a cow's salt lick and three-week-old @ss."

I cringed as Josh then guzzled the rest of his tea and began pawing at his tongue with his napkin, and I began to apologize on his behalf, but Grace just giggled and slapped her thigh, tickled by the whole thing. "Everyone from O.S. comes in wanting a taste of Vegemite. They think it's going to taste like manna from heaven but bongo. God bless that 'Down Under' ditty. The faces they make when they have their first bite is just too bloody precious." Laughing as she tottered back to the kitchen, Grace exchanged his Vegemite sandwich for a ham and cheese, which he gratefully gobbled up in seconds.

We talked about the weather, the surf, the Port Victoria Hotel, her niece's boat, her first mate Lachlan, some of the rudimentary differences between American and Australian politics and whether or not mayonnaise belonged on a good ham and cheese sandwich. She was thrilled to talk because she was lonely and we were relieved to have any excuse to delay informing her that her precious niece-her one and only family member she still cared about- was gone.

Eventually the conversation petered out, our common ground exhausted, and the burden of informing her as to Keane's fate could no longer be ignored. I took a deep breath, summoned up what strength I had and began, "Grace... about Helen. Last night, she-"

She jumped up then, startling both Josh and I (would he be upset if I mentioned that he also let out a girlish yelp of terror in that moment? Hm). Grace trotted into the kitchen and turned up the Beatles song, grinning and dancing around as best she could on arthritic legs. "'When I'm Sixty-Four'. I do love it so. Red raw... I never thought I'd look back on that age and think about how young I was then." She giggled again, and it was easy in that moment to imagine her as a young girl. It also wasn't difficult to see the resemblance between her and Keane- they had the same lust for life, a similar energy that reminded me of her lost niece so strongly that I had to fight back tears.

I peered over at Josh to see if he was affected as I was, only to find that he wore instead a startled, puzzled expression. He stood up slowly as if in a daze. "What did you just say? That part about how... something red?"

Grace kept doing her little shuffling dance in the kitchen, serenaded by a young Paul McCartney, who had himself turned sixty-four only a couple of years ago. "What's that, my dear? Oh, what... red raw? It's nothing, it just means sixty-four, that's all."

Frowning, then nodding, Josh sat down slowly once more. "Oh, okay. Sounded familiar. It's just an Australian saying, then? I swear to God, you people just love screwing with the English-"

She shook her head. "No, dear. It's not Aussie. It's bingo!"

Now we both shot off the couch, eyes wide, saying in unison, "What?"

Grace nodded. "In bingo, when number sixty-four is drawn, you say 'red raw'. Most of the numbers have another little nickname. It's just a silly thing to say while you play."

My voice sounded distant in my own ears. "You play a lot of bingo?"

"All the time! Some of the best bingo players in Oz live here in Port Victoria! They actually recruit players to live here, can you believe it? We have our own electronic bingo hall so we can take on those in other parts of the world as well. It's a little odd in that you have to leave your bingo charms there when you're not playing, but it's first rate. Why, this house is paid for with winnings, not that I'm saying I'm any great shakes... just lucky, you know." She did her best to look modest.

Flipping out his Blackberry, Josh searched through his previous posts to the one he wrote when he first got to Atlanta. "This is from the encounter with the man outside the storage locker, the man with the Australian accent who was almost certainly Crayton. He said:

"Red raw to blower. Bongo, advise." A pause, then, "Acknowledged. Knock at the door need to know only."

I walked over to Grace and smiled to try and put her at ease as she had now clearly become aware that something more serious was going on. "You said 'bongo' a minute ago, too. Is that a bingo term as well?"

She nodded. "it's just... if you made a mistake. You say 'bingo' when you get bingo, but if you say 'bingo' and it turns out you don't actually have it, that's called 'bongo'."

"What about the rest of it?" Josh showed her the quote on his Blackberry. "Any other Australian bingo terms in there?"

Grace squinted at the tiny screen. "Hm. 'Knock at the door' is what you say when they call the number four. And of course the blower is the machine that makes all the little balls float around." Say, what's the story? Why so interested?"

We mumbled out a stream of excuses and lies and fled, stumbling out into the bright street. In no time we reached our car and sat there on the curb idling with the air conditioning on, the two of us breathing heavily and staring straight ahead over the dashboard. On the walk over Josh hastily Googled and found the Port Victoria Bingo Hall, the address listed as a mile or so out of town.


MARY: There's a chance Crayton hasn't retrieved the chest with the knife yet. If he hid it at his house, the police are watching it. The bingo hall has to be run by Crayton too, stockpiling bingo charms as they get charged up from use. If I had to guess, he's probably there collecting them now in preparation for leaving.

JOSH: Who says he isn't just killing the police at his house and getting the knife now?

MARY: No sirens, no alarms. There's no guarantee, but that's my bet.

JOSH: Okay, so which place do we make a try for, his house and the Magician's knife, or the bingo hall and the charms?

MARY: Both.

JOSH: Uhh...

MARY: Hear me out. He can only be in one of the two places, and there's a reasonable chance that he's in neither. Plus the longer we wait the greater the probability that we come up empty. We need to do this and do it now. That way we're almost guaranteed to come away with something, either the charms or the knife.

JOSH: And the other person is almost guaranteed to be dead.

MARY: If he's in either place. And would we have any chance against him with two instead of one? What difference would it really make? (pause) I'm tired of going up against them and coming away with nothing. I want to hurt them. I want to take something away from them. For Keane, for Lachlan... for Dylan and Pierce and Jeff and-

JOSH: Erg. All right then, don't go all Braveheart on me. Let's rent another car and flip for which site we each take.


Once we discovered we had to drive almost an hour to find a place to rent a car, Josh decided to just buy one in town, a process that is far less painless if you don't bother to haggle. He bought an old four by four with a gun rack, though the owner refused to part with any of his guns in the deal.

We are going to each site now. We flipped a coin, and Josh is going to Crayton's house to find the knife while I'm heading to the bingo hall to see if I can grab the bingo charms. I would be surprised if Crayton wasn't at one of the sites, so there is about a fifty-fifty chance this is the last post I ever write. I wish I could think of something profound to say.

I have a job to do and I'm going to do it. I guess that's all that really matters. Wish me luck.

Cynthia: Erro

Joshua, your recent post describing your encounter on Wardang Island evoked memories from an earlier confrontation. When I was assaulted by one of the Smiling men the night of Agent Pierce's demise, I had at the time identified my assailant as a black man. The room was darkened and the circumstances did not easily permit a close inspection of the attacker, but in retrospect I believe that the "Smiler" that invaded my sanctum was not in fact African-American, but was instead of Aboriginal descent.

I had assumed that it was Mr. Hollis that sent his minion to murder me, but now it appears that it was Mr. Crayton. At one time I had at least subconsciously considered all of those who had dealt with the Magician as cut from the same cloth, but the fact is that they have all proven themselves to be quite distinct from one another. I can think of no practical use for the knowledge, but wished to put down the correction immediately for the sake of completeness.

Josh: Whoops, Forgot To Provide A Reasonable Answer to An Actual, Legitimate Question

Mom wrote:

"Joshua, do you still possess the Swiss army knife you took from Crayton? Perhaps it might contain some physical evidence to be used as proof? Also, did you by chance happen to maintain your grip on his identification during your encounter?"

I gave the knife to the cops and they're dusting it and doing all that C.S.I. stuff (below). I doubt it will amount to much, but it can't hurt. I just don't think Crayton's going to show his face again, at least not around here. His house looks abandoned and there's no trace of him.

Unfortunately I dropped his wallet when I ran from him in the Liberator. Mary told the police divers to look for it, but it was gone. Crayton probably picked it back up again after Lachlan and I fled.

Josh: Yoshida, I Promise All Of This Will Make Sense After You Hit Puberty

You know how some people have a chime on their computer that lets them know when someone posts something? I just listen, and when Mary stares at her Blackberry, turns red and starts yelling obscenities, I know you've written something, Yoshida.

You just go back to your day job as a clerk for the DMV, or a telemarketer, or foreman at the kitten-strangling factory or whatever the hell it is you do. We'll take it from here.

Yoshida: 20

My study of "practical" magic has been the most boring and degrading endeavor of my existence thus far, with the possible exception of reading one of Howland's staggeringly long and impossibly self-indulgent posts. Are you unaware of the editing functions on your computer? Three dead, Crayton escaped and you failed to acquire the knife. That's all that really needs to be said, yet you slog on through page after agonizing page.

Regardless, my research into "magic" has been a complete waste of time. Every so-called "sorcerer" merely attempts to drape the trappings of science over impenetrable jargon and scrambled words. I have read the scribblings of Crowley (below, laughably attempting to appear arcane and imposing) and Gardner, studied astrology and even explored Kabbalah, the imbecilic gibberish cult promoted by your dried-up Western whore, Madonna.

All of it is rubbish.

I am beyond frustrated. I am abandoning this line of study and returning to my job. My uncles are displeased enough with me taking as much time off as I have as it is. When there is something worth investigating, let me know.

Cynthia: Indicium

I, of course, pass along my condolences for those lost in the dive for the Liberator. When time permits please do forward any information regarding funeral arrangements and next of kin, as I wish to see that their expenses are paid and their loved ones recompensed.

On a practical note, Joshua, do you still possess the Swiss army knife you took from Crayton? Perhaps it might contain some physical evidence to be used as proof? Also, did you by chance happen to maintain your grip on his identification during your encounter?

My thoughts are with you, and with those whose lives have been forfeit in our investigation.

Josh: The Liberator

When I volunteered to go down and search for the Liberator in Happy Farms Cove, Mary was dubious.


MARY: You know how to SCUBA dive? You?

ME: I'm rich, remember? I squeezed in lessons after my elephant polo matches and before my "How To Appear To Care About Minorities" classes.

MARY: You really did ride in normal polo matches.

ME: How did- oh. Detective. Right. Moving on. I know how to SCUBA, though. Not a big deal.

MARY: It is a big deal with what we're up against.

ME: Dylan and Lachlan won't know what to look for. They might see something down there that's fraught with portent and they'd swim right by it.

MARY: Fraught. You always sound like your mother when you get nervous. Fine, just be very, very careful. Come up at the first sign of trouble. (Pause) What did they teach in that minorities class anyway?

ME: Ha, sucker. Really rich people never take that class. They tell you it's the How To Appear To Care About Minorities class on the door, but inside it's really just more elephant polo. I do not sound like my mother.


After an hour of watching the clock at Keane's, Dylan finally returned just before nine with the SCUBA gear. Crayton was supposed to meet Mary at nine, which meant we were already running very short on time. Mary was anxious to get her hands on a firearm; we didn't risk trying to get her Glock through customs so she had had it shipped back to my mom's house in Milwaukee, but despite Keane's efforts all we had for protection was a speargun.

Dylan kept the mood light, cracking jokes and producing a smokable substance that I won't name because my mom is reading this (Mary did not take part-she made me write that). Dylan explained that he spent his days diving and his nights and weekends getting high, watching rugby with Lachlan and diving some more. I've never known anyone who seemed to be doing exactly what they should be doing where they should be doing it more than Dylan. He was like an Aussie version of Matthew McConaughey, but skinnier and with far fewer crappy romantic comedies on his resume.

We rode the boat to the cove in silence, the men strapping on the gear as we bounced over the waves. As we approached Happy Farms, Keane kept easing off the throttle to reduce noise until finally she cut the engine and we just drifted in, our running lights off.

As we made our final preparations to dive, Keane said in a whisper, "Remember, Dylan in front, then Lachlan, then Josh. Night diving is rough, diving into a ship is rougher and together they're-"

Dylan waved her off with a grin. "No worries. Back in time for the orgy."

"Shut it, ya dill. Any problems, come right back, got it?" Keane glowered at him, and he had the good sense to at least nod along. Without another word Dylan slipped into the water, making almost no noise at all. Then Keane went over to Lachlan to check his tank, whispering, "Come back to me, ya old goat. You still haven't fixed that damn carburetor." He gave an "aw, shucks" grin, then saluted her a bit unsteadily and basically fell into the water, making appreciably more noise than Dylan had. Keane winced at the sound of the splash, then stepped up to me and double checked my tank. As she did so she asked quietly, "Is it as bad as you say? This Crayton, he's that much of a villain?" I nodded. "If it goes wrong, go see my Aunt Grace. She's a rich one and the authorities are likely to at least listen to her, got it? Corner of Kuhn and Wilson Terrace."

Then with both hands she grabbed my cheeks and gave me a long kiss on the lips. I stood there holding the railing, with-I'm sure- my eyes the size of dinner plates. The moon was behind Mary, putting her in silhouette. After a few seconds Keane pulled back, winked and made the "shoo" gesture. I pulled on my mask and dropped into the water as quietly as I could, falling somewhere between Dylan and Lachlan on the stealth scale.

Once in the ocean, I looked around and saw the lights of the other divers, turning on my own spotlight as I swam toward them. In my wet suit the water was warm and comfortable, the buoying sensation helping to relax me as we kicked toward shore. Our lights darted through the darkness, probing for any sign of the lost boat on the bottom. I continually checked my watch, growing more alarmed as the minute hand turned around the dial as we searched. Nine thirty, nine thirty five, nine forty five... finally at ten minutes to ten Lachlan began pointing animatedly down his lamp's light beam to what looked like a curve of dark metal.

In a minute the three of us were floating over the Liberator trying to determine the best point of entry, Dylan the first to descend. As I followed Lachlan through a hatch on the side of the boat, the sound of my breathing rasping in my ears, I marveled at how just a moment ago swimming in the ocean was so calm and relaxing, but now in the confined space of the boat I felt utterly awkward and trapped. In the darkness of the wreck, every loose string became a snake, every light-colored lifesaver a shark.

Of course, what I was most terrified of finding were corpses, but there were none. Books floated in cabins, clothes remained stacked in footlockers and a frying pan even hovered over the stove in the galley. Everywhere we looked we saw a ship that- if it hadn't been underwater- was in perfect working order, with no signs that the crew had prepared her in any way to be abandoned.

After nearly jumping out of my skin again by mistaking another lifesaver for a great white, I began to think about it, nudging Dylan and pointing at it. After a long moment he shook his head and shrugged. I couldn't help but run it over it again and again in my mind: If they abandoned ship, why are there no lifesavers missing? If there was trouble, why does everything look like nothing at all was disturbed? If they were killed, where are the damn bodies?

Eventually we made our way into the section I most wanted to see: the cargo hold. Boxes and crates floated everywhere, and we had to take care not to bump into the many loose pieces of floating debris. After surveying the scene, we methodically began searching the hold for the Magician's trunk, hoping to find the knife that Leopold seemed to think was so important. It was slow, painstaking work, and once we began combing through the area it was difficult to stay focused and keep track of time.

Finally Dylan swam over to me and shook his head, ushering us out of the hold. We were way past time and I had to admit that if we were going to find it we would have by now. Besides, we still hadn't checked the engine room and helm, though calling it an "engine room" was giving it way too much credit. Overall the Liberator wasn't much bigger than the boat in The Perfect Storm, though for the sake of my claustrophobia I wished it was.

Dylan expertly guided us down the corridors and up to the helm, always checking behind him to make certain we were all accounted for. A very narrow and steep stairway led up to the helm area, and as I waited my turn at the bottom to swim up I could hear Dylan yelling something above me. I tried to peer past Lachlan, but he started pushing me back down the corridor toward the crew quarters, his eyes wide in his visor. Feeling panicked and on edge, I began kicking madly down the hallway until Dylan dropped down to the bottom of the stairs and waved us back.

Giving the universal guy gesture of "my bad", Dylan once more rose up the stairwell, followed very slowly and cautiously by Lachlan. Now alone at the bottom of the stairs, I felt more trapped than ever, my light flicking back and forth down the passageway. Something had spooked Dylan up there, and while he might think everything was all right now, the fact was that just about the only thing that had kept me from freaking out thus far was his cool and comfortable demeanor, and now that I'd seen it shaken I was on the edge of hysteria.

With my breath coming in quick gulps, I closed my eyes, summoned my courage and swam up. Once in the helm I saw the reason Dylan lost it. Floating by the ship's wheel was the body of a man dressed in what appeared to be a business suit. Dylan swam over to it and turned it around gently, and we could see it was the open-eyed corpse of an old man, the strands of his gray hair floating around his head like a halo. Then Dylan methodically began going through the man's pockets, searching them thoroughly. He did find a knife, passing it over to me, but it was just a Swiss army knife and there were no initials on it as Leopold had said there would be. I held on to it just in case.

Then he handed me the man's wallet, and I opened it in search of some I.D. Inside I found six thousand Australian dollars, which translates into about four thousand in American money. After replacing the money I pulled out the driver's license. It was issued by South Australia, and the photo was of an old, gray haired man with cold green eyes and the hint of a cruel, mocking smile. My jaw dropped and I nearly lost my respirator when I read the name on the license: Edmund C. Crayton.

I looked up then at the body and saw it's eyes move suddenly, locking on to mine. I yelled in abject terror, instinctively flailing to get away as Crayton reached out with blinding speed to grab Dylan's arm, gripping him and pulling him near. Lachlan bravely drew his knife and tried to move into a position behind Crayton, but the old man positioned Dylan between them, shielding himself. Before we could do anything else Crayton pushed Dylan's arm back behind his body so far that we heard a muffled crunching sound that was immediately drowned out by Dylan's screaming. In another moment Crayton was pushing his other arm back with a sickening crack until both his arms were crossed behind his back parallel to each other, his shoulders bulging out at impossible angles.

Fighting the urge to vomit, I confess I could think of nothing else now but escape, and I clawed my way back down the stairs, my air tank banging against the railings as I descended. Once down in the corridor, I swam as fast as I could, desperate to find a hatch that opened outward. Finally I got to the end of the hallway to a "T" intersection, and on my left just feet away was the outer hatch. Looking behind me, I saw Lachlan swimming frantically on my heels, and then behind him at the end of the corridor Crayton drifted slowly down the stairs, casually holding in one hand what was left of Dylan: both his arms and legs bent at the shoulders and hips folded all the way back behind him, the backs of his calves touching the back of his own head, his torso twitching.

I pawed at the hatch lock, pushing and pulling at the door in a desperate attempt to throw it open and flee, but my flailing had no effect. Lachlan eventually just grabbed my shoulder and pulled me back, going to work on it himself. As I looked back down the flooded corridor, I saw Crayton push Dylan to the side, then look right at me, the cruel smile he'd flashed in the photo I.D. widening in anticipation of what was to come. With the flourish and panache of a stage magician, he opened his sleeves to show me there was nothing inside of them, then a moment later he extended his arms in our direction and bubbles began to appear from his cuffs. There were only a few at first, then there were so many bubbles that it was like watching jets from a Jacuzzi. I gripped Lachlan's arm tightly and yelled at the top of my lungs for him to hurry and open the hatch, the sound filtered through the water to my own ears as a pure, primal, terrified wail.

Suddenly, from within Crayton's sleeves began to emerge enormous, wide-eyed, fanged eels, one right after another like streamers from a cannon. Dozens and dozens of them launched down the corridor at us, their teeth gnashing. Now I pounded on Lachlan's back, screaming over and over again for him to open the hatch, and as the first of the eels was almost to my face the door burst open and he pulled me out, slamming the hatch closed again behind me. From within we could hear the eels banging into the hatch, smashing into it with all their strength trying to get to us, but the door held.

Out of my mind with fear, I began swimming furiously back toward where I thought Keane's boat was, the light from my spotlight jittering in all directions. After what was probably only a few seconds of swimming and searching, I realized that the best way to find the boat was to head up to the surface, and while the thought of the eels coming up and biting me from below was a very real and horrifying one, I knew it was my best option.

The running lights were still out, but I could just discern the outline of the boat in the moonlight. Swimming with all my strength and fueled by fear, I headed toward it while keeping the spotlight shining behind and below me to keep on the lookout for the eels I knew would be in pursuit. As I swam I breathed a little sigh of relief when I saw Lachlan a little ways ahead of me on his way to the boat, but when I turned my spotlight back behind us I saw the reflections of hundreds of tiny eyes zigzagging closer and closer.

Kicking with all my might I swam toward the boat, my breath coming in ragged, frenzied gasps as I knifed through the dark water. My heart pounded in my chest and though I'm not yet thirty the wild thought occurred that there was a legitimate chance it might just explode before I could reach safety.

Suddenly I bumped into Lachlan, looked up and discovered that we had arrived at the rear of the boat right next to the ladder. Lachlan had already spit out his respirator and pushed up his goggles, and he held on to the ladder just off to the side, ushering me up first. I grabbed the first rung and began hauling myself out, but the weight of the tank and gear out of the water was significantly heavier than it was while in it, so it was maddeningly slow going. "They're coming," I wheezed as I pulled out my breathing tube, never pausing in my ascent. "You could have gone first instead of me."

Lachlan shook his head slowly, the old drunk's head held high with a vestige of pride. "Duty."

Just as I was almost entirely out of the water I felt an agonizing pain in my ankle, and as I withdrew my leg I pulled a long, flapping eel along with it, its fangs sunk deep into my flesh. I let out a quick, sharp yelp and threw myself into the boat, eel still attached. Without pulling it off, I hurlted back to the edge of the boat and put out a hand for Lachlan. "Take it! They're here! Move, move, move!" His hand reached up for mine, the other on the first rung of the ladder, when all around his still-submerged chest he was surrounded by bubbles. An instant later the water was seething with eels, and he let out an agonized scream as they bit him as one and dragged him inexorably under the waves.

It was only after a few long, stunned, horrified moments that I realized that the eel I had brought on board was still attached to my leg, its rows of fangs gnawing savagely on my tendons, blood pooling on the deck around me. The next instant Mary and Keane were both at my side, Keane pulling at the eel's tail and Mary bashing at it with a beer cooler. In a few seconds they had managed to dislodge it, Keane whipping it over the side. I grabbed at my ankle to try and stop the blood as Keane asked, "Where's Dylan? What-"

"Gone. He's gone." She began to ask another question, but I took my hand off my ankle and grabbed her shirt, pulling her close, yelling, "Start the boat! Do it! Do it now!" Keane staggered back, then ran to the wheel. Meanwhile, Mary tore off one of her shirtsleeves and tied it hastily around my ankle to stop the blood.

Looking around, Mary asked, "What's that pounding?"

I looked down, realizing it was coming from below. "The eels. They're smashing into the boat. Hundreds... maybe thousands." I stood up and steadied myself on the railing, pulling the air tank off of my back. "Could they punch through the wood? Are we-?" Just then about twenty yards away toward shore a head rose from the water, the hair on it slick and gray in the moonlight. "It's Crayton! Go, go, for God's sake, go, Keane!"

As Crayton swam slowly toward us I could feel his eyes on me, the sheer malevolence behind them making me forget the pain in my leg. Suddenly the engine whined as Keane turned the ignition, but it wouldn't start. She muttered a curse, then tried again. Still it wouldn't start. "Keane, for f*ck's sake, start the damn-"

"There's something wrapped around the propeller," she yelled back. "I can't get it to turn over!"

"Jesus. The eels." I looked over the side, the water all around the back of the boat writhing with the eels' thick tails. Raising my gaze, I could see Crayon's head had cut the distance in half, coming faster now toward the ladder. "Keep trying! Keep turning the damn key!" My eyes darted around the boat for something, anything that could be used as a weapon, eventually falling on an old, rusted crowbar. Meanwhile Keane kept trying to turn the engine over and Mary rooted around in a long footlocker by the helm.

Over and over the engine whirred and groaned, trying to power through the tangle of eels clogging it. Now Crayton was mere feet from the ladder, and I knew without a doubt that once he got his hand on it we could never get him off. All I could do was stare at him as he approached, the only thing above the water level were his eyes glaring at me balefully.

"Please. Please, please, please." Over the protestations of the engines and the thrashing of the eels I could barely hear my own whisper. "Turn over. Turn over. Don't let him get on-"

Crayton reached up his hand, poised to grab the lowest rung when Mary appeared next to me, leaned over the side and shot him right in the face with the speargun, the spear jutting through his cheek and out of the other side of his head just in front of his ear.

He grunted as it hit him, then reached up and with one quick yank pulled it out of his head, dropping it into the water next to him. Without hesitation, Mary reared back and swung the speargun down into his skull, shattering the gun to pieces. Crayton grunted again, reached up and grabbed the first rung of the ladder.

"Oh, sh*t." Mary backed away, again looking around for a weapon and finding none. Just then, the engine turned over and Keane howled in victory, gunning the motor and chopping the eels that attempted to constrict the propeller to pieces. In moments we were pulling away, but in peering over the side again I saw that Crayton was on the second rung. Two to go to reach the top.

"Hit him," Mary said, gesturing to the crowbar in my hand.

"That's not going to work. He'll never let go of the ladder. We can't get him off."

"Power of positive thinking. Hit him."

I shook my head. "There has to be something. Some way we can get him off the ladder..." A thought occurred. "No, if we can't get him off the ladder, then maybe we can get him off the boat!"

Mary was already protesting, but I stepped back up to the ladder with the crowbar and looked down at Crayton. He was one rung away. The boat was moving at a decent clip now and his feet bounced through the water, but his grip was iron. I raised the crowbar and he just smiled again, daring me to hit him, but instead I dug the tip of it under the top of the ladder and pushed, the screw popping off into the water. His eyes grew wide and this time I smiled back. One more dig with the crowbar on the other post of the ladder and the entire thing popped off the side of the boat, falling into the sea, Crayton still gripping it as it went under.

The girls let out a whoop of triumph while I sat down hard on the deck, exhausted and drained from the last of my adrenaline and the blood loss from my ankle. I closed my eyes as we skipped over the waves, wanting to slow down so I wouldn't be tossed around and jostled so much and at the same time wanting to speed up so I could set my feet on some dry land and put as much distance between us and Crayton as possible.

My voice came out in a croak. "We didn't find the knife."

Keane turned around while still holding the wheel. "Lachlan. And Dylan. Oh, God. Oh, my boys." Tears streamed down her face, but she never stopped steering.

Mary put a hand on her shoulder and gave her a quick, strong hug. "I'm sorry. I'm so very sorry, Helen." She took a deep breath and continued, "Tonight when we get to safety I'm going to give you access to our archives so you'll know everything that's gone on. At least now after what's happened there might be a chance you'll believe it. You're one of us, now."

I stood up, holding the railing for balance. "We need to somehow-"

Just then the engine made a coughing sound, sputtered and died, and a thick black smoke began pouring out from the exhaust. Keane cursed, then tried the ignition and received only a rattling, grinding sound in response. "Oh, no. Oh, you've got to be kidding me." She swore again and turned the key, getting only more grinding and thicker smoke. Again, and the grinding only got louder. "Sh*t. Thanks to those eels, my boat is cactus. That means broken, so don't ask."

Mary pulled a pair of binoculars off the cabin wall and peered back in the direction we came. "I can't see him, but you know he's still coming."

"Well, I'm prepared to hear some brilliant suggestions that don't involve peeing on myself in fear, because I think I might have already taken care of that at the other boat."

Mary pointed toward the shore of Port Victoria far off in the distance. "I doubt we can make it from here swimming. I doubt I can, anyway."

Keane nodded. "You're right, we can't. But we're far enough out to sea that we just might make it over to Wardang Island instead. I'm going to radio in an S.O.S. and ask the Coast Guard to pick us up there." She handed Mary a life jacket and took one herself, while I strapped on my oxygen tank again. "Josh, you go first. Keep your spot on so you'll be easy for us to follow. Use your compass. Don't be yabbering away now, just go."

I started to give a little salute, then thought of poor Lachlan and stopped, dropping over the side and into the water without another word. From then on it was a slow and exhausting process of checking my compass to make sure we were still heading for Wardang Island and going back to make sure the girls were still on my tail. After fifteen minutes the muscles of my legs were on fire, and it felt like someone was slowly turning a knife in my ankle where the eel had latched on. As I swam I thought back to Milwaukee and the winter they were sure to be enduring back home, wishing now that I could be back there up to my neck in snow.

"I'm getting nostalgic for Wisconsin in November," I said to Mary as I swam over to her.

She paused from her labors, the act of swimming a long distance while restrained by a life jacket an awkward and tiring one. "I'm glad it wasn't just me." She attempted a smile but could only come up with a fatigued grimace. "Anything behind us?" I dunked down below and shined the spotlight, seeing nothing. Then I turned back toward Wardang Island and my beam glinted off metal down on the ocean floor. I swam over in that direction and saw a metal plaque jutting up from the sand, an ancient shipwreck laying to the right and just beyond it.

Surfacing, I told them what I'd seen. Keane sputtered, "We're getting close. Should hit land soon."

I treaded water, kicking hard to get every inch of height I could. Far off in the distance toward what we hoped was the island, I thought I could see a flicker of yellow light. Without further delay we pressed on, with me turning my spotlight behind us to check if we were being pursued, not that it mattered much as we were basically swimming as hard as we could anyway.

In a few more minutes, Keane said, "I can see it. Land ahead, we'll make it in five."

I squinted, thinking that it was possible that there were some stars blotted out in the distance, but I couldn't tell if it was land, and certainly had no idea how far away it was. I dunked back under to sweep the area with the light again and saw another glint of light a good way off back where we'd come from. I wondered for a moment if we'd swam right past another shipwreck plaque and I'd missed it, but then I noticed that the glint was moving, zigging and zagging ever so slightly. Shining the light directly at it and taking my time to look, I saw that the glint had been joined by another and another, until it looked like that entire section of ocean had been decorated with golden sequins.

Ascending to the surface once more, I spit out my respirator and yelled, "Eels! Hundreds... thousands! Go! Swim!"

As the women swam with renewed purpose I kept ducking down and checking behind us. Every time I did the eels were far, far closer, their reflective eyes glittering and hungry. Deciding that checking how close they were wasn't helping anything, I swam on the surface next to Mary. "Take my swim fins, Mary."

Between breaths she replied, "Take too long. To get them off. Keep them. Go on ahead." I kept swimming at the same pace as her, and after a minute I thought I could actually hear the gigantic school of eels tearing through the water toward us, teeth gnashing. Mary spoke again. "Josh. I case. We don't. Make it. I just. Want you to-" She let out a groan as the wind was knocked out of her, her face driven into the sand of the shore by a wave. Coughing, sputtering and confused, she put her feet down and found herself standing on a dark beach, the three of us staring out at the shallow water in front of us churning with thrashing eels as far as we could see.

After gazing out at the surreal scene before us, Mary began pulling both Keane and I inland. "He'll be coming. Let's move." I stripped off as much of the SCUBA gear as I could as I walked, bringing up the rear behind the two ladies. Wardang Island was flatter than I had imagined, with only a few trees and a handful of roads, the entire land mass only about four miles long and two miles across. Now that we had climbed above water level, we could easily see a bonfire off in the distance.

Suddenly Mary stopped walking and I almost ran into her in the dark. "Do you hear that?"

"What?" I turned all around, listening. "I can't hear anything."

"Exactly. The eels... they've stopped thrashing." We all turned and squinted back toward the ocean, trying to make out anything in the reflections on the water in the moonlight. Eventually I could see something: the dark shape of a man slowly walking out of the sea.

Without a word the three of us took off sprinting as fast as we could, With Mary and Keane pulling away, my gait hobbled because of my injured ankle. As we went, the girls began pacing themselves despite my urgings to press on, slowing up to try and pull me along, all the while stealing glances behind us to see how much ground Crayton had covered. After running for a good minute, I estimated we were about a hundred yards from the bonfire, with Crayton about triple that distance behind us. Distantly, I could just barely hear the harsh rasp of Crayton's mocking laughter as he drove us on.

Closer now to the bonfire... seventy five yards... fifty... I could just begin to make out the outlines of people dancing around the fire. Forty yards... thirty... twenty... Keane gave out a thrilled yelp, saying without slowing down, "Aborigines! I told you this island is sacred to them!" Now I too could make out the dark skin of the continent's natives as they danced round and round the fire, cheerful in their obliviousness to the danger descending down on them. As we hit about ten yards Keane dashed ahead, telling us that she wanted hers to be the first face they saw in case they recognized her so they would be quicker to help. My skin crawled as Crayton's laughter got louder behind us.

Time seemed to move in slow motion for me now as my own words flashed back in my mind. Crayton's mocking laughter drove us on... cheerful in their obliviousness... driving us on... cheerful... driving us... cheerful... Suddenly I grabbed Mary, pulling her back and stopping us short, shouting, "Keane! Wait! Stop!" The Aborigines turned as one from their dance to look at us, every one of their faces adorned with a wide, permanent smile. Keane was all they way in amongst them as she realized what was happening, and they fell upon her almost as one, piling on top of her, grabbing her, throwing her to the dirt next to the fire as she shrieked beneath them. There were more than a dozen of them- the Smilers- and once they had Keane pinned, five of them turned their attention to Mary and I.

I gaped at them, too in shock to do anything until Mary yanked me by my wrist, dragging me away from the fire in an awkward, shambling run. I knew there was no way we could get Keane out from under the Smilers, especially with Crayton breathing down our necks, but her sudden loss right at the point where I thought we might be actually be safe was more than I could take. My mind simply shut down. I vaguely remember running alongside Mary through the darkness, tripping on loose stones, my injured ankle making me feel like I was running on carpet tacks... but I had no idea where we were going or what we would do when we got there. All I could hear- whether he was still doing it or it was only in my head- was Crayton's mocking laughter.

All of a sudden lights flashed in my face, and Mary was standing beside me and waving her arms wildly, yelling for help. Still dazed, I let her pull me on down into the water, and a minute later we were standing on the deck of a small Australian Coast Guard boat. Behind us, also splashing into the water were the Aborigine Smilers. Mary grasped one of the two crew members on board by the lapels and screamed into his face maniacally, "They killed our friend! They killed her! Go, go, go, move the damn boat, you idiot, they will not stop! They'll kill us all!" The sailor reached down for his pistol at his belt and glanced down at the Smilers now almost to the boat. Mary grabbed his face in her hands, saying, "They have Uzis! They have submachine guns! They're drug traffickers! Drive!"

This combination of words was just enough to finally trigger the flight response in the man, and as the closest Smiler reached up for the ladder the engine roared and we sped away from shore, leaving Wardang Island. On the deck in the back of the boat I gripped the railing as best I could with trembling hands, staring behind us at the bonfire dwindling down to a point in the darkness like a fallen star that plunges to Earth, sears it and refuses to die.


The next couple of hours in the tiny local police station were a blur, with Mary doing most of the talking: We had gone out night diving. We were attacked by a man identified by our guide Helen Keane as a Mister Edmund Crayton and his accomplices. No, we've never been in trouble with the law ourselves, and here are our I.D.'s, please God let them stand up to official scrutiny because if they don't we're f*cked.

It's possible Mary didn't say all of that, but I certainly was thinking it.

They kept us overnight, waiting to see what else would turn up. Over the next few hours police divers found the Liberator. They also found Keane's boat adrift in the bay. What they didn't find were Keane, Lachlan, Dylan, Crayton or much of anything else. At dawn they released us, making us promise not to leave the area for the next couple of days while they continued their investigation.

Mary and I blearily staggered out into the bright South Australia early morning sun, and I began to hobble slowly toward the Port Victoria Hotel before she caught my arm. "Not yet," she said, squinting at me with bloodshot eyes. "First we go to Keane's Aunt Grace and let her know... something of what happened." I calculated how much effort it would take to talk her into letting me go back to the Hotel and sleep versus just doing what she said, and unsurprisingly found myself shambling along behind her down the sidewalk to Grace's house.

As I walked I began thinking about last night- what we'd gone through and what we'd lost. With each footfall another face flashed into my mind. Dylan, his easy smile and charm leading us through the darkness. Lachlan, his sense of honor and duty allowing me to go first and live while he died a grisly death in my stead. Keane... her bright eyes, her impossibly curly, bouncy hair, her lust for life and adventure... her shocked wail as a dozen insanely strong hands pushed her down into the dirt...

I didn't even feel like I was crying. I didn't have the energy for it. All I knew was that as I looked around at quaint, sleepy, seaside Port Victoria, tears poured down my face and dribbled off of my chin like rain from a gutter. The next thing I felt was Mary holding me, pulling my face into her chest, the two of us standing the middle of the sidewalk.

After a while the tears stopped and she gave me a little smile. "You don't have to go. It's all right. But go back to the police station, not the Hotel. It's not safe there anymore."

Taking a deep breath and wiping away the last of the tears, I shook my head. "No. No, thank you. I'm with you." Another deep breath, then I managed to return the smile, barely. "I'm with you."

Mary: Conversation With Crayton

November 9th, 2008:


ME: Hello? May I speak with Mr. Crayton, please?

CRAYTON: What?

ME: This is Edmund Crayton?

CRAYTON: Speak.

ME: Excuse me. I'm Mary Stroud. I work for Cynthia Howland.

CRAYTON: (Pause) Well, well. Aren't we bold?

ME: No. That's why I'm calling.

CRAYTON: Hm?

ME: Mrs. Howland isn't paying me enough. I finally figured out what I'm up against, I know now that I can't win and I want to switch teams.

CRAYTON: Smart girl.

Me: I want fifteen million dollars, a new identity and a guarantee that I'll be left alone by you people. And don't act like fifteen million means anything to you. I've seen what you can do.

CRAYTON: Hm. You'll need to prove yourself.

Me: How?

CRAYTON: Young Howland. I want him.

Me: I don't know. No more over the phone, I want to meet. Archie's Diner, nine o'clock tonight.

CRAYTON: In the neighborhood, are we? Sure, why not? Nine o'clock. Don't be late.


I hung up the pay phone and looked at Josh, who had been sharing the receiver. He nodded. "It's the same voice I heard on the other side of the door back at that storage area in Atlanta. He was the one helping Hollis."

We exited the tourist kiosk by the large jetty across from the hotel and walked back to Keane's trailer. The sun had just set over Wardang Island off the coast and there was a blood-red tinge to the edge of the horizon.

By the time we made it to Keane's, she and Lachlan had been joined by a tall, fit, shirtless man in his late twenties, the three of them tipping back beers and sharing a laugh. Keane introduced the man as her semi-good-for-nothing mostly-ex-boyfriend Dylan, who spent his days as an underwater tour guide to the shipwrecks ringing Wardang Island. His muscles were cut and his skin was bronzed by the sun, Josh seeming to waver like a pale ghost next to him in the light of the bonfire.

Keane explained that Dylan was the classmate who had been beaten by Crayton's ranch hands when he was younger, and if we wanted another man to investigate the property he wouldn't mind getting a little payback, for a price. I told him in no uncertain terms that it was going to be terribly dangerous, but he shrugged off the warning and insisted on coming, if for nothing else to look out for Keane and keep her out of trouble. She responded by scowling and throwing her mostly-empty beer can at his head, the foam spattering all over his blond hair as he shrugged off the attack.

"I'm used to being wet anyway, so no worries," he said to me as he shook out his hair. "I'll just be happy to strut around on dry land for a bit, even if it is on Happy Farms."

Josh asked, "So you just swim around in scuba gear all day with tourists checking out wrecks?"

"Yep. There are underwater plaques next to them and you just swim from one to another. Pretty cool, really. At this point I could repeat them by heart if you wanted to know more about the boats, though I can't say any of 'em went down due to any great story. Mostly it was just dust from the farms blew out to sea and made it tough to make out where Wardang Island was in the old days." He chuckled, "'Course, the island is sacred to the Aborigines, so they probably had a good laugh when one of our ships busted up on their shores."

Lachlan fumbled with the beer cooler, nearly tipping it over as he went for another one, Keane scolding, "Easy, old man. We've got work tonight."

He nodded unsteadily, fishing around in the ice for one of the few remaining cans. "Aye, aye, ma'am," he said without sarcasm. He grimaced at the cold as he fumbled to get a grip. "Tough to find the damn things," he muttered.

I sat up straight, a thought popping into my head. "What if the Liberator isn't hidden on a different part of the coast? What if it isn't still on it's way, either? What if it's here now and we just can't see it?"

Josh looked puzzled. "Hurr... like, invisible? Can he do that?"

Ignoring him, I looked at Keane. "The cove by Happy Farms... how deep is it there?"

She nodded slowly, a smile spreading across her face. "I'll be damned. It's been there the whole time. He sank it. Just another underwater wreck near Wardang Island." Keane turned to Dylan, her eyes gleaming. "Get your gear. We're going diving tonight to find that blasted boat."

Mary: Happy Farms

Another day in Port Victoria and another perfect morning. Josh and I were back at it early, out on Keane's boat attempting to find Crayton's house from far out on the water. It seemed safer to me to play voyeur out on the ocean instead of attempting to creep up on land, though never having tried using binoculars at sea I was unprepared for just how maddening it is to focus on anything while being tossed about by the waves.

Regardless of the difficulties, by late morning we succeeded in locating what we thought was the correct address. It turned out to be an entire ranch (or "station" in Aussie slang) complete with sheep, pigs and cattle.


KEANE: Ugh, I'll be stuffed. I've heard of that station. Happy Farms, it's called, at least by the locals.

ME: What have you heard?

KEANE: They get a trespasser and they're set to spit the dummy. Was a mate of mine from school took a dare once and snuck on. The jackeroos [ranch hands-ed.] caught him and beat the absolute stuffing out of him. Put him in hospital for a month, but at least the station owner paid the freight to avoid the divvy van.

JOSH: The divvy... never mind. Why's it called Happy Farms?

KEANE: Even though the owner's a complete bastard, apparently it's a great place to work. No one's ever seen one of his people without a big smile on their face.


Josh and I exchanged looks, and I told them to bait the hooks on the lines so we could pretend to be fishing while we spied on the property. We spent the next hour just floating and watching. The main house was built on the edge of a small cliff about thirty feet high in the middle of a small cove, and right behind the house was a large dock, capable of comfortably mooring a boat the size of the Liberator, but the dock floated empty.

Farther out to sea we could see a pod of whales hunting for food, their blowholes punctuating the afternoon with irregularly-timed hisses. To the south stood the now-familiar sight of Wardang Island, but we had already gone around it a half-dozen times and found nothing. Reluctantly, we moved on so as not to draw too much attention to ourselves from shore.

The first mate Lachlan, already on his second "tinny" before noon said, "Maybe it's not here yet... still in transit, eh?" I thought about it, then shook my head. "How d'ya reckon?"

"Hunch."

He shrugged, uninterested in contemplating it much further as he was being paid by the hour anyway. The boat chugged through the chop back to Port Victoria's harbor as I sat on the aft deck, glumly pondering our next move.

Once back in port we retreated again to Keane's trailer where she barbecued some shrimp and fresh fish, all still in her bikini, which Josh certainly never failed to notice.

After lunch we sat in reclining lawn chairs on the beach. Lachlan kept an eye on his beer, Keane surreptitiously watched Lachlan, concerned for his sobriety, Josh drooled over Keane in her bikini and I divided my time between tsk'ing Josh and staring out to sea. We kept this up for a good hour before Keane's cell phone rang with her mother on the line asking if she could go out and bring her a few groceries in town.

Suddenly I had my idea. "Why not call him?" I got blank looks all around, then continued, "What if I called Crayton? Have him go meet me somewhere? Then we move in and have a closer look?"

Josh looked dubious. "What about the Smile- what about his helpers?" He caught himself. "I doubt he'd take them all with him."

"True, but at least we wouldn't have to deal with him and his tricks. And we might get to learn a little something if he slips up. As long as I call from a public phone, I don't see what we have to lose." He still appeared unconvinced, but Keane shrugged and Lachlan let out an enormous belch, so I took that as a majority vote for yes. "We'll wait until sunset, then make the call. Keane, I'll need to know a town about a half hour away from his house that I can have him meet me in, along with the name of a restaurant or diner, someplace public." She nodded. "Good. Have the boat ready to leave by dusk. In the meantime, I've got to think of how I'm going to ask out my 'date'."