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: 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."

Cynthia: Incursus

Under normal circumstances upon reading the previous post, I would recommend that our collective energy be focused on deciphering every clue and parcel of information contained within it, but tonight there was an incident at the house. Just before midnight as I was in the process of powering down my computer in preparation for a fitful night's slumber a terrible crash came from downstairs.

I yelled for Jeffrey and Agent Pierce, whom I thankfully had requested stay as my guest while he was in Milwaukee. True to their characters, Agent Pierce began to run toward the grand staircase to the lower level to face whatever danger approached while Jeffrey sprinted to my side to ascertain my condition. Within moments Agent Pierce was backing up into my room, pointing his gun at a dark figure proceeding toward us through the doorway. Agent Pierce identified himself as a federal officer, warned the assailant that he would open fire if he did not cease his advance, then when his words went unheeded he shot the man in the stomach.

Shockingly, the intruder seemed unaffected by the injury and lunged forward. Once in the light I could see that he was black, with untamed hair and a wide, white smile. He reached out with both hands, grasped the sides of Agent Pierce's head and turned it completely around with a sickening crack until his stunned face stared at me over his back, his neck broken, eyes wide open in instant death.

As Agent Pierce's corpse slumped to the carpet, I could see the murderer's dark eyes search the room and lock in on me. His smile never wavered as he slowly stepped up to the foot of my bed and placed a hand between my unfeeling feet, beginning to crawl up the mattress towards me. Jeffrey remained at my side until I said as calmly as I could, "Jeffrey, go now. It is alright. I refuse to die knowing that I have your death on my conscience as well." He hesitated, and again I insisted. "You are relieved, Jeffrey. Thank you." The dark, smiling man crawled up the bed over my body, his grinning face now crossing over my waist, his hand on my sternum.

Finally Jeffrey backed away from my bedside and made a wide circuit toward the bedroom door. "Tell Joshua everything. Tell him... just tell him-" I could say no more as the smiling man's hands slowly closed around my neck and squeezed, his legs straddling my paralyzed torso. I saw stars and the edges of my vision turned black, the sensation of pressure in my head pounding like a hammer. Finally the darkness around the edges of my sight closed in until I could only peer through what appeared to me to be a tiny pinhole, the last thing I imagined I would ever see being my murderer's nightmarish smile.

I heard a pop which I assumed was a blood vessel or some vital part of my anatomy snapping, but then the iron grip on my neck abated and I felt the agony of a fresh breath rattle through my damaged windpipe. The blood rushed back to my head and everything I saw was tinged with red, which I assumed was a side-effect of the near death experience until Jeffrey ran up and began pawing at my face with a towel. The smiling man lay upon me, a golf ball sized hole in his forehead and his blood and brains splattered on my face and the wall behind me.

Knowing Jeffrey's pacifist leanings I confess I half-expected him to come apart after committing such an act of violence, but to his credit he looked more annoyed than anything else as he rolled the body off the bed and wiped me clear of debris, finally dialing 911 only once he was satisfied that I was made sufficiently comfortable.

After firing he had dropped Agent Pierce's gun back down by his body, and for a moment I debated whether he should wipe it down, but in the final analysis all Jeffrey had really done was shoot an intruder who was attempting to murder me, hardly a punishable offense.

The police have come and gone now, taking with them the body of poor Agent Pierce. It is a sad thing that the rest of you never had the opportunity to meet him in the flesh, as he was an intelligent, capable and free-thinking man who-while he admittedly used questionable tactics-was legitimately devoted to seeking justice. Frankly and personally, he and I struck up an extremely warm friendship these past few days, and his sudden, shocking loss is deeply appalling to me on a number of levels.

We have lost two of our number in as many days (no matter what one thought of the demise of Mister Tate, he was ostensibly working on our behalf) and while in the past when we have been laid low by our enemy I have taken it upon myself to exercise my will to bolster our spirits, now I profess that I cannot find the strength. If I had not pressed my desire for justice-or perhaps vengeance-would all these people still be alive today? Would not my son be safe in his home, free of the calumny that now dogs him? In my quest for the truth, have I only visited more violence and evil upon the world?

As I ponder these horrid questions, the practical needs of the moment press down upon me. I had put off hiring security as I was loathe to bring anyone else into a position of danger and also because I doubted that our enemy would see a paralyzed old woman as worth taking the time and effort to kill, but it appears I must take action to protect myself. Jeffrey sweetly volunteered to have me moved to his personal apartment, but he also conceded that his pet beagle's constant barking and face-licking would not assist in easing my mind. First thing in the morning I will hire a professional whose sole function is to protect this house and those dwelling within.

Upon waking we can discuss the many items of interest brought to light in the previous post. I feel we have been granted an astonishing glimpse into the world of our enemy, and imagine we will be dissecting the information it contains for quite some time.

And before I forget, Taras' comments on the conquerors of Kiev spurred me to once again scrutinize the pages of history and find another discrepancy. The book reports that the Roman Empire fell in 476 A.D., and this is incorrect. It met its demise in 477 A.D. I imagine that there are insufficient records available for Doctor Tanaka to perform a thorough accounting of the date's veracity, but once again it is not a number I would ever fail to remember.

Tate: Taras

A fine snow slowly fell upon the city of Kiev, as powdery and gritty as flakes of ash from a crematorium's chimney. The snow only barely stuck, covering the concrete like a thin, slippery membrane that was easy to forget was there right up until your feet shot out from under you and you found yourself foolishly gazing up at the sky. When the snow came down in thick, white flakes it seemed to cleanse and refresh the dusty, ancient city, or at least disguise its multitude of sins, but this snow looked gray before it even hit the ground. Eskimos were said to have hundreds of different words for snow, and the old man was sure that if they had a name for this one, it would be a curse.

Spying his fare, the man opened the taxi cab's driver's side door and slowly extricated himself from the car, steadying himself using two mismatched, wooden canes. He hobbled over to the man just exiting the airport's baggage claim and gestured meekly toward his cab, urging him in. The man was pale and muscle-bound, with a shaved head and a barb-wire tattoo creeping up the side of his neck. He turned up his lip at the old man's enticements, growling in heavily accented Russian, "F*ck off. I need someone who knows how to find sh*t in this town."

The old man cleared his throat. It had been months since he'd last used his voice. "Booze, grass, coke, guns, girls, boys... also I have just purchased a car deodorizer. It is green, in the shape of a tree and grants the illusion of cleanliness." The young American shrugged and threw his suitcase into the backseat, lunging in after it. The old man shuffled back to the front of the cab, narrowly avoided slipping on the damnable snow and eased himself down into the driver's seat.

As he put the car in gear and pulled away from the curb, the old man heard the American say, "I'm not into guys, so forget that sh*t right now. I need a piece and some blow. And girls. Young."

The old man sighed and peered out the driver's side window as they drove out of the airport complex and into the city. Because he enjoyed the architecture and never passed up a chance to see it, he guided the car past the Kiev Pechersk Lavra, the Monastery of the Caves. Some monk long ago had wandered here and chosen a cave in which to start a monastery, and Prince Iziaslav I of Kiev went ahead and just gave him the whole mount. The monks did all the work building churches and bell towers and digging out catacombs, and the Prince was blessed and ushered into heaven for gifting them a giant rock he'd probably never even known existed before then.

On their right the Dnieper river wended its way around the city, a rusted barge chugging its way through its polluted, dark water. Since Chernobyl spewed its radioactive discharge into the Dnieper over twenty years ago, the old man always had the urge to walk near the water on cold winter days just for the illusion of warmth. In a few thousand years the river would finally purify itself, but of course it had nowhere near that kind of time.

"I want girls no younger than twelve, got it? Girls that won't be missed." The American lit a cigarette, and the smell wafted up front. The old man had given up smoking years ago because it reminded him of Hollis, but on snowy days the craving for tobacco still gripped him. He breathed in deeply, enjoying even the second hand smoke, and pondered asking the American if he could have one. He decided just to be patient and take the pack later if he still felt the urge.

"Nine. I can make a call and probably get a ten year old as well. It will cost."

The American spat on the rubber mat covering the floor in the back. "Nine? F*ck that. I never done a girl younger than twelve."

The old man swerved to avoid an old woman whose heel had broken in the middle of the crosswalk. "A man with standards, and in my cab. It's a Christmas miracle."

"This ain't your cab." The young man pointed to the photograph on the back of the driver's seat. "The picture is of a young guy."

"My son. We share it. You looking for anyone or anything in particular?"

He took a drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing red. To say that he pondered the question would be going too far. More accurately, he finally remembered the answer. "Yeah. Yeah, actually, why not? I'm looking for a guy named Taras. Taras the Mutineer. Heard of him?"

The old man smiled. "The name is redundant. 'Taras' means mutineer. It would be like naming a boy 'Michael, Like Unto God'." The look on the young man's face in the rear view mirror was blank. "Michael means 'like unto God'."

Snorting, he replied, "No sh*t. My bitch in my last stretch in the joint's name was Mike. That's hilarious. My name's Ricky. What's that mean?"

"That your parents were first cousins?"

It took a good ten seconds before Ricky processed what he'd heard, then he lunged up at the old man, putting a hand around his throat. "I'll f*ckin' cut you, you f*ck with me, *sshole. You know who I am?" The old man nodded slowly, struggling to keep the car on the road, then he pointed to a bottle in a slim, brown bag on the seat next to him.

"Apologies. It's yours. And the girl, I pay for, just please don't hurt me." Ricky snatched at the bottle and nodded, satisfied with the reparations.

The old man absently rubbed his neck as they passed a block of apartments that had been entirely leveled by Germans in World War II, then rebuilt. They had also been destroyed by fire and rebuilt again in the seventies. The old man imagined the same dwellings being put to the torch by Genghis Khan's Mongols when they had annihilated the city back in the twelve hundreds. Laying waste to Kiev was the conqueror's rite of manhood. Kiev stood like a resigned, grim-visaged bride just waiting at the alter for foreign lords to defile her. The only black mark on Rome's record was that they had not invented Kiev simply to crush it. Napoleon's greatest regret in life had to have been that he failed to advance past Moscow to Kiev to deflower her.

Meanwhile, Ricky sucked at the bottle in the backseat, griping about the way Russians peppered their vodka. Normal vodka wasn't good enough? They had to put pepper in it? The old man rolled his eyes and was patient, and in a few minutes the young man was unconscious.


It was said that if the Red Lady of Babil was the oldest of them, Theophanes wasn't far behind. While Taras had never met him personally, he knew all about the ancient Greek's habits. Every time Theophanes awoke to the dawn of a new world he rose from his bed, stretched and gazed out of his window at the island of Evia sprawling beneath him. Then he sat down and wrote four words in Greek on parchment, striking out two of them. Finally, he prepared and drank an entire bucketful of poison, his body twisted at the foot of his bed, frozen in his death throes and cold by noon.

Taras spent decades of time and millions of dollars tracking down that little slip of parchment, but he had finally done it in nineteen seventy six, the so-called bicentennial year that celebrated the United States' "freedom". He brought the parchment back to Kiev and hung it on the wall of his bar, framed for all to see, though no one did. Translated from the Greek, it read: SAME SH*T, DIFFERENT DAY. The words "DIFFERENT DAY" had a line through them.

One year to the day after acquiring the parchment, Taras took it for a walk after consuming far too much vodka and stumbled into one of Kiev's more disreputable alleys. There he was surprised to see the magician putting on a show for a pack of orphan children. He had not seen the magician since the day they had made their bargain and he had performed his trick.

He flipped his cape back and forth, showing one side crimson and the other black. Gesturing for a volunteer, a boy not more than thirteen stepped forward, his step unsteady. The magician smiled at him, his mouth full of straight, white teeth, but this only caused the boy to break out in a sweat. The orphans halfheartedly jeered him for his cowardice, but even they could sense that there was something not entirely benevolent about this performance. The magician held up a hand for silence and the alley became utterly still, with even mighty and ferocious Taras standing in the back row holding his breath. Then with a flick of his wrist he flipped the cape up in the air and caught it in front of the boy, holding it in such a way that it blocked him from view. The magician's eyes shut in concentration, and from somewhere far, far away they could hear and feel a deep humming, a vibration deep in their bones. The hum combined with a high-pitched whine that hurt their teeth and caused the empty liquor bottles in the alley's garbage cans to rattle. The hum and whine grew louder and louder until most of the orphans had tears staining their cheeks, and then abruptly it ceased as if it were never there.

With a flourish, the magician lifted up the cape to reveal that the orphan boy had disappeared, and he smiled once more as the childrens' applause echoed in the alley. Before it could die down, he reached out his hand and tossed a handful of shiny gold coins among the orphans who squealed with joy. All except one tiny girl not more than eight years old who strode up to the magician and looked up at him with enormous brown eyes, asking plaintively, "But where is he? Where is my brother?" The magician silently shook his head. He began to walk away but her tiny, dirty hand grasped at his cape. "How did you do it?" Grinning ever so slightly he bent down, put his mouth to her ear and cupped a hand over it so no one else could hear. When he was done whispering, she smiled the smile of all those who have seen something truly magical. It was amused, amazed and... something else. The little girl walked away smiling and never, ever stopped.

Taras stared at the magician and pulled the parchment from his pocket. He decided to be clever. "Can you autograph this? It seems only fitting."

The magician's dark eyes stared into his and Taras wobbled, his drunkenness evaporating in an instant. The eyes stared and stared, growing larger and larger, darker and darker until the rest of the world narrowed and it seemed that there was nothing in the universe but those eyes. Their darkness was consuming, voracious and infinite. The magician never spoke, but the message resonated with hideous clarity. I have signed it. I signed the parchment and the ink. I signed the writer and his desk and the island upon which they sat. I signed the lands and the seas and the skies and all they contain. I signed the heavens and the Earth, and I signed you, Taras the Mutineer. I signed your hair, your skin, your muscles, blood and bones. My name is written in darkness upon your soul.

The mighty and ferocious Taras fell to his knees then and wept. He wept through the day and into the night. He wept until no more tears would come and then he wept some more. For three days and nights he sobbed until they came and put him in an asylum. On the fourth day he finally slept, and when he awoke he broke out of the hospital, took the parchment back to the bar, set it on its place on the wall and burned the building down, the fire spreading to the apartment complexes above and beside. Eight people died, ten suffered severe third degree burns and the entire block was utterly destroyed as it had been in the days of the Great Patriotic War, the Mongol invasion and so many other occasions when Kiev had been raped by conquerors.

Above the bar was an apartment owned by a ring of black marketeers involved in counterfeiting American bicentennial commemorative metal cookie jars. When the roof collapsed one of the jars fell down into the bar, knocked the parchment off the wall and landed on top of it face down, covering it.

The parchment was the only thing to survive the blaze perfectly intact.

When the fireman handed it to Taras he folded it, put it carefully in his pocket and decided to never again try to be clever with the magician.


Ricky Tate awoke with a start. He was entirely naked, his wrists bound with a chain connected to a thick metal hook which hung from the ceiling. Ricky swung very slightly back and forth, the tips of his toes just scraping the round, metal drain set into the concrete floor beneath him. He tried to speak, but discovered that he had been gagged, his mouth forced open wide by a foul-smelling towel.

A door opened and a gray light shone in, revealing his surroundings as being that of a simple shed, the walls adorned with rusty tools and cans of paint that had long since separated. The old cab driver strode in (suddenly walking quite well without his canes) and went over to a dusty workbench that stood against the far wall. Ricky tried to speak, but through the gag it just came out as a meaningless groan. The old man opened a drawer in the bench and brought out a hunting knife with a brown, leather-bound hilt and serrated jags on one edge of the blade.

The American knew nothing and the old man knew it. He could go through the charade of questioning him, but he was tired of speaking. Remembering the quality of their previous conversations, on the off chance that Ricky decided to try and think of something to say he decided to leave the gag in.

One to torture, one to be tortured and nothing to come of it but blood down a drain. One cut, the other screamed, nothing learned, the status quo maintained. It was all very Russian.


Leopold had visited him just after the turn of the century, right before Einstein was going to formulate his theory of special relativity again. Taras got a little thrill every time the kindly German had his stroke of genius. The thrill didn't last, but he still awaited the event with anticipation every time. Leopold bubbled with excitement, describing all the ways they could use their abilities to help change the world. His enthusiasm was like a tonic, especially considering how much time Taras had spent in Kiev, a city whose main industries were vodka and despair. Taras nodded patiently to Leopold, kicked everyone out of the bar and kept pouring drinks. He had been like that the first time, too, and he loved Leopold for it.

He had been to see some of the others with discouraging results. Nhlakanipho Mabuza never stopped f*cking one of his wives during the entire visit and as such the conversation had suffered. The Red Lady just stared at him over her veil, but at least she had given him tea. He had received the most elaborate welcome from Hollis in America, but the two had a falling out over some perceived slight over dessert and Leopold had wound up running for his life to the sea.

It was only a matter of time before the Belgian would learn the limits of their powers, and time was not a commodity in short supply. They each had their special tricks, but should they try and use them in a fashion unapproved of by the magician they would quickly find that their efforts would come to naught or even backfire.

After Leopold left, the two men having embraced and sworn their friendship, a rabid wolf emerged from the woods surrounding Hollis Crossroads and bit the popular postman Jebediah Greely on the ankle, gnawing off his foot. He died three days later. The day after he expired, one of Kiev's most promising young ballerinas-a golden-haired angel of a girl named Galina-was bitten on her rosy cheek as she slept by a giant, poisonous centipede. Her left eye ballooned and popped by the next morning, and she was dead by noon.

The two men tired of their feud after this, but Taras quit smoking as cigarettes reminded him of Hollis, and the profit from them went to his part of the world.


A flick of the knife, and another piece of Ricky flopped down on the metal drain with a wet smack. He screamed into the towel gag, and the old man sighed, bored and thirsty. It was tedious work, but he wanted to be certain that they sent no one else to Kiev. He had received the order just that morning to kill whomever they sent and had hastily stolen a taxi, all the while terrified that they would send the boy, Leopold's descendant. His relief had been palpable when he saw this thick-necked, mean-eyed primate swagger from the airport gates. He could not-would not help them in their struggle against the magician, perhaps because it was not a struggle at all. Does the horizon struggle to keep the sun in the sky in the evening, attempting to forestall the coming darkness? They sought to battle him in chess but possessed only checkers.

"Theophanes," the old man whispered to himself. "You are truly wise, my friend, or at least you became so after you sealed your bargain." From behind him Ricky Tate moaned in response. The old man chuckled and shook his head. "My apologies, my good man. I am old, I am old. I have to admit, I had completely forgotten I had not killed you yet." The knife slashed his throat and blood poured over his chest like an overflowing toilet, gushing down and pooling by the drain in the floor.

The old man eyed the cigarette pack on the workbench, walked over to it and crushed it into a ball in his powerful fist. For Leopold, he could resist. The world had only a year or two left at most anyway, he could wait at least until the next world to revisit old habits.


The Dnieper river flowed slowly by, and the old man sat at its bank struggling mightily with the tiny keys of Ricky Tate's electronic device. He would take great pleasure in hurling the annoying gadget into the cold, radioactive water when he had finished his entry. The young man had helpfully left the code key active, and while it was impossible to read what had been previously written, anything could be typed in and transmitted. It didn't matter, the magician read everything and he didn't need codes or magic to do it. Checkers vs. chess. Horizon vs. night.

Pierce: Shipment Received

I have the package. Thank you for doing the right thing. I never believed that you had any intention of actually creating the virus using the formula, but it was simply far too dangerous to go another moment with it out in the open as it could have fallen into the wrong hands.

I realize that we didn't have the most pleasant of introductions, so let's begin again. For the purposes of this archive you can call me Agent Pierce. Three years ago I became aware of Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's "studies" in Atlanta, where he had insinuated himself into the workings of the Centers For Disease Control. I suspected that together with his assistant Mr. Tanaka, Yoshida was merely using the Centers' data for his own purposes, that of creating a new virus for use as a weapon. The information I possessed had been gained through means that were unsuitable for use in court, and my superiors were uninterested in pursuing the case as strongly as I was, mainly because they couldn't comprehend the science and because frankly if the alleged perpetrator isn't of Middle Eastern decent they tend to be indifferent these days.

Nevertheless I continued steadily attempting to build a case, and just when I thought I had him locked in he was killed in the hit and run crash. I did what I could to find whatever work he may have left behind, and after reading these archives I see that his son Kisho knew there was a hidden repository, though he obviously was in no hurry to recover them, not knowing what they were and having little interest in what he believed was his father's work. I believe it was simply Kisho's natural contrariness that led him to keep this information to himself, not a desire to do harm to others.

Since then the case remained dormant as there were no further leads. Still, I made sure that I kept my ears out should I have misjudged Kisho's involvement. Though he had only just turned eighteen, I made arrangements to be made aware should he say key words over the phone. That's when I was alerted to the call from Miss Stroud and from there your activities have been quite pronounced.

Mr. Howland, based on everything I've seen and read, I tend to believe in your innocence. That in mind, I'm not sure a judge and jury would see it the same way, especially down in Georgia. I'm officially recommending that you turn yourself in. Officially and for the record, I believe you should do that, and when I finish sending this post I will be notifying the authorities down in Texas as to your whereabouts (you did mention these time-stamps aren't working, didn't you?). With the new, falsified I.D.'s in your possession and your significant resources you might be able to escape. My only hope is that the two of you don't charter a small plane from an independent airfield and fly to another state as that would make the manhunt far more difficult. From there you could press on to one of the coasts and rent a Learjet, making your way to the Pacific where you could, with luck, locate the murder weapon. Officially, this would be tragic. Worst of luck to you.

As to all the absolute insanity that I've read in these pages, I can't imagine what's true and what isn't. It's abundantly clear that you believe it, and it ties together loosely with the facts I've gathered on my own, but I'm reserving judgment.

That being said, for the sake of finding this "Magician" and the man calling himself Hollis, I believe we should proceed as if it were true. While Josh and Mary focus on recovering the knife, I think we should be proactive. Leonard/Leopold mentioned a number of names (which I've run through databases and come up with nothing) but he also mentioned a place. He spoke of a man named "Taras" in Kiev. Kiev isn't that large a city, so I believe we should send someone in to see if we can find him. I have a man in mind, though he should only be given a code that will allow him to post, not read what has already been written here. This "Taras" was mentioned in the same breath as Hollis, so I'm going to assume that he is staggeringly dangerous. Regardless, this Magician and Hollis have always picked the time and place of our encounters, so I believe it's about time we turned the tables.

Opinions? Ideas?

Cynthia: Lacesso

The agent from Homeland Security refuses to relent, rightly suspecting me of remaining in contact with Joshua. I have yet another interview with him early tomorrow morning. The questions he is asking and the direction his interrogation is probing leads me to believe that his focus is on the elder Doctor Yoshida's research on the human Calicivirus project. I am pondering allowing him access to this archive as it clearly places the blame for the creation of the virus on three dead men: Yoshida, Leonard and my husband. If the agent believes even part of this record, he might be a very valuable ally with the potential to clear our names. It would be a considerable gamble, but the upside is too significant to ignore. At worst he will simply arrest me on the spot, and this holds no great threat to me as I am already a prisoner of my own body.

Should the agent be inclined to disagree with our assertion of innocence, the two of you should do your best to remain hidden. First thing in the morning check out of the hotel and continue traveling westward. Do not post your location, merely continue your march without leaving a paper trail. Use the identification blanks to forge a new identity for Miss Stroud and purchase a new vehicle paying cash.

I do not know how much of Leonard's post was true and how much was a fabrication of his own mind, but having experienced a good deal of doubt concerning my own mental stability of late, I am of the inclination to take most of what he wrote as at least partially credible. He believed that it was important to recover the murder weapon- the Magician's knife- and it is my opinion that that should be our paramount priority. Whether he was correct or not in his assumptions, the acquisition of evidence in the murder of Mrs. Walentowicz is still a valid goal.

I find myself struggling with placing my innermost thoughts and feelings down in this journal, but as Joshua has reminded me in the past, I cannot ask you to do something I am unwilling to do myself. I shall endeavor to rise above my reticence and communicate what are, for me, subjects I would not under normal circumstances broach in any company.

To wit: if Leonard asked my husband Scott to fund Yoshida's Calicivirus project without informing him what it was he was becoming an accessory to, I will never forgive him for it. While it seems obvious that Leonard had been driven insane in the very last moments of his life, the project went on over the course of years, and he had every chance to amend his decision. He was wise to take the coward's way out, for I would have spent the rest of my own life making every effort to punish him for the loss of my husband. I truly believe that if Scott had not been enmeshed in this filthy business via Leonard/Leopold then he would still be alive today. For this, I will always despise him.

Josh: "If Any Man Says He Hates War More Than I Do, He Better Have A Knife, That's All I Have To Say"- Jack Handey

We knew we wanted to grab the murder weapon before, but with this new info I think it's more important than ever that we get our hands on it.

Yoshida, we know the boat with the knife on it is heading for Japan, so would you go to the port and see what you can do about getting a hold of it?

Mary: Bingo

October 29th, 2008: Josh and I pulled up to the Hollis Nursing Home later than I had hoped after stopping off to buy him his new suits. It was past nine in the evening, and a bright moon loomed large in the Georgia sky. We drove into the parking lot and I pulled into a spot far away from the front door. Josh looked at me quizzically, but I told him that I wanted to find a side or rear entrance to have a look around first to get a sense of what the place was like without a tour guide. He was apprehensive, but I told him to trust me- if we were caught we could simply say that we made an innocent mistake. What we needed to remember was that we were there scouting the home and considering putting my dear, old, infirm, imaginary mother there, which meant we were the customers, and customers are at least theoretically always right, no matter how dumb they are for going in the wrong door.

Remembering our cover as husband and wife, I switched my favorite ring from my right hand to my left and held out my arm for him to take, but Josh just stared at it like I was an alien that had landed next to him on the asphalt. I reminded him that we were supposed to be married, and he said that with his newly-blond hair we looked more like brother and sister. I wish he had told me beforehand that he would find it so impossible to even pretend that we were a couple- I would have come up with something else. Finally, after I insisted, he took my arm and we walked as quietly as we could around the side of the structure in search of an alternate entrance.

On the right of the nursing home, the drooping branches of a line of weeping willow trees hovered over a simple concrete path. Brushing leaves out of our faces as we walked single-file, it was only a few feet until we came to a glass side-door. To my surprise, it opened. Every door but the main one in a nursing home should be locked to the outside at all times, and I joked to Josh that I was already considering dumping my imaginary mother somewhere else that was a little more secure. After waiting a second for a chuckle that never came, I once again held out my arm for him to take, and he again just stared at it like it was a dead fish. Finally I just decided to give up on the cover and walked inside alone into a musty-smelling hallway with muzak piping softly from a loudspeaker in the ceiling.

The hallway stretched out straight ahead for quite a ways, with numbered doors on either side covered in various macramé, knitted and dried-macaroni-covered decorations. I stepped up to a door adorned with a "#1 GRANDMA!!!" plaque and let myself in. Josh hissed behind me to stay in the hall, but I flicked on the lights and took a quick look at the accommodations. The apartment was clean and surprisingly roomy, even sporting a brand-new high-definition television. Of course, it still had the trademark mysterious mustiness that seemingly every old person's domicile possessed, but overall it was probably the most comfortable living arrangements in the entire town. I poked through the nightstand and dresser drawers while telling Josh to keep watch in the hall, and after I was satisfied I crossed the corridor to the apartment opposite and repeated the search. Finally, I had Josh do the same in a third room just in case there was something I wasn't seeing. "Let me know if you find anything in the nightstand or dresser besides clothes, bibles or medication. So far it's all the same story."

He reported back within less than a minute that there was nothing out of the ordinary, with the exception of what he referred to with a shudder as, "A lady's personal pleasure device. With high, high mileage." I rolled my eyes, made my way down the corridor toward the central commons area and froze when I got there.

The nursing home's main room was two stories high with plush leather couches, love seats and recliners scattered about. In the center of the room were three enormous plasma TV's placed in a triangular configuration facing in all directions, the one I could see displaying a silent episode of "Murder She Wrote". One other long hallway connected to the room at a ninety degree angle, the complex built in the shape of an "L". The lights were dimmed and it took a moment for it to sink in that all the many large lumps scattered about the carpeted floor were bodies. Everywhere we looked corpses of elderly people were lying on the ground or on the furniture, their eyes wide with shock and terror. Not three feet away from me an old woman lay prone, her dead body contorted and the area around her mouth scratched and torn by her own bloody hand. There was something else around her lips as well- some brownish goo I couldn't identify.

As I bent down to check the old woman for life signs just in case, I heard someone coming down the other hallway, whistling a tune I didn't recognize. I motioned for Josh to get down behind one of the recliners and hide, and I did the same. The whistling echod off the walls of the main room, then ceased. Slowly and as quietly as I could manage, I eased my gun from its holster, the first time I'd ever drawn my weapon with the thought of having to actually fire it. It was a Glock 26 subcompact slimline model, quite common and easy enough to conceal but still with decent stopping power and ten rounds of ammunition in each magazine. I never carried extra magazines as I had never so much as fired a single bullet in combat much less ten. Besides, until now I had always been of the thought that if it takes more than ten rounds to stop someone then I should probably just put down the gun and concentrate more on prayer anyway. Now, though, hiding behind a love seat and surrounded by wrinkled, bloated corpses, I would not have turned down an offer of extra bullets.

Towards the middle of the room I heard a voice begin to speak and watched Josh's eyes widen in recognition. Silently he mouthed the words, "The Old Man." I thumbed the safety off my pistol, but otherwise stayed stock-still, listening.

I heard The Old Man make a "tsk"-ing sound and say, "Harrison, my good man, this room is a disaster, and there can be no question of it. Do be a fine fellow and open the gas main, we simply cannot leave the old home in such a state. Much as I-"

Rising from behind the love seat and pointing my gun, I yelled, "Freeze!" I had no intention of allowing anyone to destroy more evidence, and knew that I could not permit The Old Man to escape, leaving Josh to take the fall for the murder he had committed. The Old Man was just as Josh had described, even wearing the same clothes, complete with dried blood on his shirt cuff and down his leg where Josh had shot him. He carried a cane, though while it was touching the ground he didn't seem to be leaning on it. Behind him stood an enormous black man dressed entirely in dirty denim, his frizzy, wild hair covered in dust. His smile was wide and never wavered, and it did remind me of the smile on Mrs. Walentowicz's face when we discovered her body. He carried an ancient-looking wood and iron chest-about the size of a microwave oven-seemingly without effort.

Josh hesitantly rose from behind the chair and shuffled over, standing just next to and behind me. The Old Man's expression was one of wonderment, then delight. "Why, Mr. Howland, you are a marvel, sir. A great pleasure to make your acquaintance once more. And what have we here? You must be Miss Stroud. Lovely, lovely girl. If circumstances permitted I would kiss the back of your pale hand and pay you every compliment, but the developments of the day do not permit, I well understand." All the same, he gave a little bow, his pale blue eyes never leaving mine. A shiver went up my spine, and I fought the urge to retch.

I took a deep breath and said, "You are coming with us. You are going to confess to the police that it was you, not Josh, who-"

The Old Man put up a hand to stop me. "I think we both know that will never happen, Miss Stroud. Let us not labor under delusions neither of us share. Now unless you care to shoot me in the back or make conversation that is either more pertinent or agreeable, I will bid you both good night. Come, Harrison." The two men turned, and my finger tightened on the trigger. Foremost in my mind was the fact that if I killed this man, he would never be able to confess to framing Josh for his bodyguard's murder.

I decided to stall him, whispering to Josh, "Call 911, but don't draw attention to it." Then louder, I said, "Then let's make conversation. You know our names- what's yours? How did you kill all these people? Poison? Some kind of gas? Why are you doing this... whatever you're doing? What's your relationship to the driver that crashed into the Howlands and Doctor Yoshida?" My hope was that by bombarding him with questions I might find something he would want to talk about long enough for the police to arrive.

The Old Man turned back to us, as did Harrison, both smiling. The Old Man put out a hand and casually swatted the corpse of an elderly man off a recliner and sat down in the newly vacated seat. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out an unfiltered cigarette, lighting it with a match he had hidden in his palm. I was relieved to see the flame as up until then I hadn't been certain that the room wasn't already filled with gas. Harrison remained standing motionless behind him. The Old Man exhaled, cleared his throat and said amiably, "The name is Hollis, of course. As to my relationship... I am an assistant." He seemed to think better of it immediately, shook his head and amended, "No... not even that. I am a mere stagehand, that is all. Or even simply a favored slave who has been given some small access to a few rooms of the master's house." He chuckled a little at this, and turned back to look behind him at Harrison, whose grinning expression never changed.

He leaned back in the chair, getting comfortable and growing expansive, pausing only for the occasional pull on his cigarette. My pistol was beginning to grow heavy, so I lowered it to my side, still aiming it at him as best I could. Hollis continued, "The trouble with slavery was, they decided who should be slaves based on criteria that was far too broad-based, in my own, humble opinion. Why be beholden to the history of the industry when history could not have less meaning? Every Negro a slave? Every one? Preposterous. Have we not all met the rare Negro who was the match and even the better of some white men?" He leaned forward, warming to his subject. "In the perfect world, slavery should be individually decided. Why, have we not all known at one time or another some shiftless, useless layabout that gives nothing to society and only takes? A man who never once considers any civic responsibility but instead grifts and swindles everything they can hold? Would life not be far better if it were these bottom-feeding leeches who were pressed into slavery, all the decisions they had made wrong all their lives suddenly being rightly made for them instead? Do not tell me you have never met individuals who would not fit this criteria, for I would find such a claim impossible to recognize."

Josh and I exchanged looks, both of us for the first time utterly unable to think of a thing to say. Sensing this, Hollis crushed out his cigarette on the upholstered arm of the recliner and stood. I jerked my gun up and aimed it at him carefully. "I can't let you leave." Ignoring me, he turned toward the front door, as did Harrison. My mind scrambled for something, anything that could be used to delay him. Finally, desperately I blurted, "I have a wager for you."

He turned back to us, his eyebrow cocked. For the first time, I believe he was genuinely surprised. "What? What is this? A wager." His smile split his face, exposing a mouthful of dark, yellow teeth. "This is unexpected. Continue."

Taking a deep breath, I said as evenly as I could, "I bet I can tell you the contents of that chest."

Hollis spared a glance back at Harrison then turned back to me, his blue eyes gleaming. "Doubtful. Highly. But it is your wager, my dear. The stakes?"

"The murder weapon. The blade used to kill Mrs. Walentowicz. I want to know where it is. The Driver's name, I want that too." I tried to think of something else and failed.

Frowning, Hollis said, "The first I would provide, but not the second. However, having found the former it would give a clue to the latter. His initials were carved into the knife's hilt long ago." His expression turning more severe, he added, "Do not refer to him as 'The Driver'. You walk, yet that does not make you 'The Walker'. It is insulting and demeaning to his true profession." Before I could ask what I should call him instead he continued, "And for my prize I ask only that I receive a lock of your pretty, pretty blond hair. That is all." The eagerness in his voice made the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.

Josh spoke for the first time. "F*ck that, old man." Turning to me he said, "Don't do it, Mary. Just shoot the bastard. I don't know why he would want your hair, but whatever he wants that badly would be-"

"I agree to the stakes."

Josh swore again. "Are you entirely insane?! Don't bet with this-"

Hollis raised his voice, saying, "Mr. Howland, the wager is agreed upon." He turned to me confidently. "You may make your guess, my dear. What is inside the chest?"

My heart pounding, I raised my head and said, "Bingo charms."

Giving me his best what the Hell?? expression, Josh put a hand on my arm and began trying to gently pull me back into the hallway. Hollis stared into my eyes for a long moment, then smiled again in that way that made my skin crawl and began softly applauding while still holding his cane. "Bravo, my dear. It seems we may have underestimated you. You are certainly not obligated to answer, but how did you know?"

"It was what I didn't see. There were no charms on any of the bodies, nor in their rooms. Since everyone here was recruited because they were the best Bingo players, it stood to reason that at least some of them would have those charms. I should have thought of it back at Mrs. Walentowicz's house in Milwaukee, but I didn't see her Bingo necklace at the murder scene, either. He took her charm, didn't he? The killer."

Hollis nodded. "He has it in his possession this very moment." He once again sat down in the chair, making himself comfortable and putting a foot up on a nearby corpse. "The game of Bingo began right here in Georgia, did you know that? Back in the twenties. Not the game itself, that had its roots in Europe in the fifteen-hundreds, a game that later was called 'Beano' here in the states until someone was so excited with a win they mistakenly called out 'Bingo' instead and the name stuck." He lit another smoke and continued genially, "The game is played around the nation and the world... it has infiltrated virtually every single city and town in this nation, primarily played by those too old to contribute anything else of worth to the world. It is played in halls and even in churches everywhere, and no one thinks about it for a second." He laughed, a grating sound conveying more cruelty than actual mirth.

He gestured at all the bodies at our feet, saying, "These were the best of the best of them. The world considered them 'lucky' of all things. Ridiculous. Their friends and family were under the mistaken impression that they played Bingo all the time. They thought about playing all the time, but the fact is that the very best played rarely. Played rarely, but won often, and big. We would ask them if they wished to go to one large Bingo contest or another, and you would think that they would all want to go, but it was only one or two every time. Why didn't they all go? Because only one or two knew they would win. They did not win at Bingo because they were lucky or because they played constantly, they won because they only played when they felt that they would win."

Josh stared at him incredulously, "So... all these people were, what... little Bingo Nostradamuses? They could see into the future and tell when they were going to win? Gimme a brea-"

"They didn't know, necessarily, but they felt something. Not with one hundred percent accuracy, mind you, but enough. More than enough." Hollis took another drag and leaned forward in his chair, animated. "Do you have any idea how many people play this game around the globe? With what frequency they sit and stare at that piece of paper, desperate to blot out a single line, their will bent entirely toward that purpose? It is in every community everywhere and no one asks any questions about it because it gives the elderly something to do besides rot, take up space and complain of their own obsolescence."

I considered it. "It's like an experiment. For generations you have people crowd in and take part- actually, they pay to take part- in a system where it's essentially determining, what... how to tell when you are going to win? Seeing the future in a way, is that right?"

Hollis grinned. "Think of the size of the sample... the sheer number of those taking part. Eventually, if someone was paying attention, they could find those impossibly happy few that posssessed... special gifts."

"What about the charms, then?" Josh pointed to the chest. "Those necklaces and bracelets of worthless plastic... are they, what, 'special'? They squirt out of the machine at the factory and give someone the ability to see the future?" I kept my gaze-and my gun-on Hollis, but I could practically hear Josh's eye-roll from behind me.

I took a shot, answering for Hollis, all the while thinking, where are the damn police? "They aren't special when they buy them... but after years and years of being looked at and touched and concentrated on by the best players... they become special?" Hollis winked and gave a single nod.

A thought occurred to me then about something Yoshida had said earlier. Seeing as my guesses had been hitting the mark, I ventured, "The money they won... if these people were the very best of the best- if they somehow knew when they were going to win- they must have made millions. This is a nice facility, but it's nowhere near what they must have been pulling in. The town... all of Hollis Crossroads... this is how you kept it going, isn't it? Subsidizing the entire dying town with money won from the nursing home."

The old man rose from his chair once more and said, "My dear, we have absolutely undervalued you. It is too bad for us that the young gentleman there did not get his way early on as concerns your employment." Hollis brushed a stray cigarette ash off his sleeve and gave an unconvincing stretch. "Well, I believe it is time that I be on my way. While I fully comprehend that the two of you were merely stalling until the authorities could arrive, I found our conversation to be genuinely agreeable." Josh and I shot each other a look, then he continued, "Just so you do not think ill of our local gendarmes here in Hollis Crossroads, I thought it best to kill the town's police force and disable their communications system before the night's foray, so the delay in response time could hardly be considered a mark against them. They are- or were- quite a competent brigade, and I would hate to think their reputation would be slandered based on this evening's events. The call will eventually be re-routed to the sheriff's department, but their travel time is more significant."

I took a deep breath, raised the gun and pointed it at Hollis's head. "I can't let you leave. I want you alive so we can clear Josh's name, but I'll shoot you if I have to. Sit down."

Hollis nodded but didn't move. "I was granted a boon this time around... my special trick. At first I found them unpleasant, but you get used to them. In time. And to answer your earlier inquiry, it was not poison." Another pause, then, "Oh, and to pay up on our little wager, the knife is currently aboard the Liberator, a small cargo ship in the North Pacific bound for Nagasaki, Japan. Farewell, I doubt we shall meet again until the next world."

Tightening my grip and preparing to fire if he took one step toward the door, I began to hear a muted rumbling sound coming from all around me. Keeping my eye on Hollis, I felt Josh tug at my sleeve and whisper my name. Refusing to be distracted, I ignored him, but then he pulled harder. "Mary," he hissed. "Look down." Finally lowering my gaze, I saw the corpse of the elderly woman at my feet shift ever so slightly. A quick scan of all the bodies showed subtle movement. Just then I gave a sharp yelp as the woman's mouth opened and an enormous, black, blood-covered centipede crawled out. This followed by another and another, until centipedes of all shapes and sizes gushed from her open maw, spilling out onto the carpeted floor.

Josh and I staggered back, and we could see that every corpse in the room had centipedes pouring out of their mouths and in the case of the smaller insects, their nostrils. I was petrified that they would begin scuttling over in our direction, but they did the opposite, charging toward Hollis and Harrison. There were thousands of centipedes swarming around his feet, and after a minute we could see that they were moving in a sort of pattern, a figure-eight between his legs. After a few long moments of this, Hollis looked up at Josh and I, smiled that vile, yellow grin and pointed right at us.

Suddenly, all the thousands and thousands of bloody, glistening, writhing centipedes began skittering straight at us. I let out a scream, and this time when Josh pulled at me, I went with him. The two of us ran back down the hallway, the centipedes advancing with astonishing, terrifying speed. The glass door we used to enter had a push-bar on the inside, and we hurtled into it, bashing it open. Josh turned around and began pushing the door closed again, but at the top of it was a hydraulic device that hissed and protested, forcing it to be shut slowly. "Come on, come on," Josh muttered through gritted teeth as the wave of centipedes flowed like an obscene river down the hallway toward us. "Close, goddamn it, close!" he yelled, but it was still open almost a foot wide and the centipedes were almost on us. He turned to me and yelled, "Sh*t, not going to make it. Run!" He abandoned the door just as the insects slammed into it en masse and spewed outside like water through a broken dam. I started to run down the narrow path next to the nursing home heading toward the front of the building, but even as I sprinted I could feel multiple tiny legs begin to crawl up my pantyhose past my ankles and up my calves. I heard Josh scream behind me, "In my pants, biting! F*ck! Don't stop, head for the car!"

We broke from the willows and into the parking lot, the majority of the swarm of centipedes still behind us. I could feel the ones that were on me reach my knee and continue up, their long antennae scraping my thighs underneath my skirt. I screamed again and swatted at them ineffectually as I ran, pulling the car keys out of my purse and praying I wouldn't drop them in my haste. As I unlocked the car with the remote, the centipedes crawled all the way up to my belt and began squeezing through underneath my blouse to my bare belly and back, biting as they went. Finally I reached the car, ramming into the side of it at full speed and nearly losing my balance, narrowly avoiding falling to the ground. Recovering quickly I tore at the handle, flung open the door and dove inside. Once there I pawed at the car door and slammed it shut, then reached over and opened the passenger door for Josh- all while the centipedes under my shirt continued their inexorable, frantic crawl upward, their many wriggling legs grasping for purchase against my flesh.

A moment later Josh threw himself into the car, slamming the door behind him, and the two of us began essentially beating ourselves up, pummeling our own bodies in an attempt to crush the centipedes underneath our clothes. Before we could kill them, though, Josh pointed to the car's dashboard vent, and I saw a pair of long antennae jutting out, waving around tentatively. "They're getting in! Drive, drive, drive, Mary!" I fumbled with the keys, and this time in my panic I actually did drop them on the floor with a clatter. Desperately, I bent over, running my hands over the plastic floormat in search of them. The centipede that had crawled through the vent dropped down right on the back of my exposed neck, and I jerked up with a scream, banging my head on the underside of the dashboard. Before I could completely lose it, Josh quickly swiped at the centipede trying to wriggle up into my hair, pulled it off of me and smashed it against the dashboard, turning it to pulp. A moment later the keys were in my hand, the car was revving and we were peeling out of the Hollis Nursing Home parking lot.

As we hit the street there was a large explosion behind us, and in the rearview mirror I could see flames pouring from the nursing home's many windows. Another few moments and we could see flashes and hear the muffled thumps of other explosions throughout the entire town. "The fire must have traveled down the gas main somehow," I said, my voice sounding distant to me. "The whole town, every building... it's all going, all burning..." I floored it, and Josh and I fled north, bypassing what we could of the ruined inferno that was Hollis Crossroads, the flames reaching up ever higher into the night.

The car swerved all over the road as Josh and I tore open our clothes and crushed the centipedes underneath, their smashed innards mixing with the blood that seeped from our many bites. Modesty was forgotten as we stripped down to our underwear to be certain of killing every last bug, and I never took my foot off the gas. Finally, after driving for a solid half-hour I pulled the car over to the side of the two-lane highway and put it in park.

My voice came out in a husky whisper. "He said not to call him The Driver. Hollis said that he was an assistant... a stage hand, and that he had been granted a 'trick'. Those are show-business terms, and there is only one type of performer that fits the description. I know what to call our enemy now- I know what to call Hollis' master. He was right, he isn't The Driver.

"He is The Magician."

We sat there in silence, our breath ragged, and then I put my head on Josh's shoulder and sobbed, crying and crying until the thought of the swarm of centipedes somewhere behind us spurred me to put the car back in gear and continue the drive back to the city.