WARNING: THIS IS THE FINAL ENTRY IN LEPORIDAE REX. NEW READERS, BEGIN HERE.
Dazed and in shock, much of what happened next was translated and related back to me in the following days.
After I rubbed my eyes and my vision returned, I looked around and saw every single Smiler in the room slumped over dead, eyes open. Emperor Komei stood in front of Hollis and the Red Lady, a pair of samurai holding their arms behind their backs, their supernatural powers now gone. His voice flat and low, he said, "With only one arm and one leg, I was wondering how Sato-san would spend his remaining years. With the two of you alive, I have my answer." The Emperor couldn't resist giving a small, malicious smile. "For you who have been so quick to deal out death to my people, I make this terrible promise: you shall live to die of old age." He nodded down to Sato, who writhed in pain from his shattered kneecap, but still managed to grin sadistically up at Hollis, who was led away, his face aghast.
Then the Emperor leaned down and placed a hand under Fukimitsu's head, the young samurai pale and coughing up blood from the stab wound inflicted by the Red Lady's dagger. At the time I was hardly unaffected by his plight, but now just thinking about his last words as they were translated to me still makes me cry as I type it:
"My Emperor... my lone regret in this life is that this samurai was cursed with such a poor master. A samurai gains honor through hardship and struggle. He proves his mettle by serving a lord who chooses unwisely- who treats him shabbily and orders him to perform dishonorable acts. Would that I have been blessed to be a vassal to another lord, but instead Fate has cheated me of the chance to reveal the full depths of my character... by forcing me to serve the finest man I have ever known."
Fukimitsu reached up then with a bloody hand to touch his master's face even as his eyes went dark and his body became slack in the Emperor's hands. With all the supreme efforts of will I had seen displayed in our struggle, never had I witnessed the resolve it took for the Emperor of Japan not to weep over the death of his descendant, Fukimitsu.
From the stage then, we could hear a groan as Yoshida woke up, apparently having been stunned into unconsciousness by the Magician's disappearance. I'm sure there are some of you reading this who hunger for vengeance against him for what he did, for his betrayal of his country and his friends, but at the time all I felt was pity. What the Magician offered was everything he could have ever wanted, and I had seen enough death and destruction already. I said, "Please, Emperor, spare his life. I know he has done wrong, but..." Unfortunately, as Yoshida and I realized at the same moment, there was no one left alive to translate for us, and the Emperor would hardly believe Yoshida.
Yoshida shook his head sadly as he looked down at me, the massive, muscle-bound Ota lumbering toward him inexorably. "I am sorry, Stroud. You know that, don't you?" He looked up as Ota towered over him, muttering despondently, "What a waste. What a waste." I turned away then, shielding my eyes. I heard a bone snap, Yoshida gave a sharp yelp and then his body hit the floor, dead.
Ota turned and picked up the chest of bingo charms on the stage, upending the box and pouring out the goo that they had been transformed into, all of them destroyed. We would find out later that the whales- every single one of them on Earth- were dead, their bloated corpses washing up on Japanese shores for months.
There were so many questions still unanswered. How had the Magician gotten the whales to serve him? Had he somehow created them all as a species? What part did the Red Lady's rabbit's foot play in the spell (despite months spent as the Emperor's "guest" in his dungeons, she never spoke a single word)? Who was the Magician really? Was he Geoffrey Gagworth, the first magician to perform the "rabbit out of a hat" trick, or was that just an identity he adopted? Was he even human at all?
We do not know and we will probably never know. This isn't some story where every little loose end is tied into a pretty knot. It's real life, and frankly we may be better off not knowing.
From the edge of the stage I heard a groan, and I dashed over to find Taras, still barely alive, his gray hair hanging down in his face and blood flowing freely from his nose, mouth and ears. Despite being in obvious pain, he smiled at me as I leaned down next to him. "I'm dying." He sounded like he just won the lottery. "And this time I shall stay dead, thank God." A puzzled look crossed his face. "How did you know?"
"That you would do it? The more I read your post, the more I suspected you'd betray the Magician if you thought it would actually work. Using the stage magic- the slight of hand Yoshida taught me- it was easy enough to get the hypo into your pocket, knowing that everyone would be busy watching my other hand carve into your face." I pulled his handkerchief from his coat and attempted to dry the blood, but it just kept coming.
He coughed, spattering my shirt-front with specks of red. "He has no blood... will the Calicivirus kill him? Will it infect whatever new world they were transported to? And the Howlands..."
I shrugged and shook my head, not wanting to think too much about it. "I didn't know what it would do, exactly. I think Doctor Yoshida, Kisho's father, had partially formulated it just for this purpose, so that it would affect him. Regardless, when Josh and I were about to destroy it down in Texas we had second thoughts. All that work he'd put in perfecting the formula... and in the end I guess it came down to the fact that the Doctor was fighting against the Magician and so were we, so we kept it around, buying one extra day from Pierce with a bogus story about not being able to get to FedEx in time. You have any idea how hard it is to find a book written in Japanese to shred in a Texas bookstore? Once the Emperor joined us we told him we still had the formula, and he agreed to manufacture it, though on the off-chance the Magician was still reading the archive we decided to keep it secret."
He chuckled, grimacing in pain and holding his stomach. After a moment, he mumbled, "I hear something."
Nodding and humoring him, I replied, "All right, Taras. It's all right now."
The old man shook his head peevishly. "I know what dying's like, woman. I've done it a hundred times. I said I hear something. From the stage."
Rising, I looked toward the dais, now hearing it as well. It sounded like someone sniffling. I wandered over slowly, peered around the floor and finally found the Magician's cape at the rear of the stage. Underneath it was a trembling lump, and I knelt down next to it and pulled the cape back, revealing a small, blond-haired boy, his face smudged, tear-stained and terrified. His blue eyes focused on me, and he spoke in what sounded like Russian.
From behind me Taras croaked, "It's the orphan. From the alley. The one the Magician made disappear."
Suddenly the boy started babbling, the words coming out in a rush. Taras translated, "He wants to know where he is. He says he has been in darkness for so very long. He asks, 'was it a dream? A nightmare? Am I dreaming now?' He asks where is his little sister. He asks again where he is."
The boy and I stared at each other for a long, long moment, and then I reached out and pulled him to me, hugging him and stroking his blond hair. He began to sob, crying into my chest with great heaving breaths. I began to cry as well, my tears falling onto the top of his head as I held him tight. "Tell him..." I tried to find the words, tried to think of a way to explain what had happened so that he could possibly understand. "Tell him..." I started again, not knowing that Taras was already dead, his face affixed with a beatific smile.
I squeezed the little boy even tighter as he clung to me with all the strength in his young body. "Tell him he's home.
"He's home."
FINAL ENTRY
Showing posts with label rabbit. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rabbit. Show all posts
Monday, March 9, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Josh: Setting The Stakes
In addition to the cell phone issue, I want to talk to your uncles personally, Yoshida. We're going to need their help, and it's time to see what forces we can rally.
Here's our State of the Union, so to speak (painting from ralphbakshi.com):
The Magician is coming to Japan. When he gets here, he'll perform some kind of "trick" that will- as far as we can gather- end the world as we know it. With what we've seen of his power so far, it seems reasonable to assume that he can actually do it. Why it has to be in Japan, I don't know, but he will come, and I imagine he'll bring friends.
We are not without weapons. The Magician's knife can actually hurt his people as opposed to other, more conventional arms. The bingo charms have the power to kill as well, at least against the animals he controls.
We need to know where in Japan he's going. Can he perform his trick anywhere in Japan? If so, we've got a hell of a lot of ground to cover. From Leopold's post we know this:
Well, we've already decided not to separate the knife and the charms because we don't want to let them out of our sight, and if we use the knife in combination with the charms it's a very effective weapon. And we've destroyed the Calicivirus formula already so that's not an option (killing virtually everyone in the world? Yeah, didn't seem like that great of an idea). He can get a rabbit anywhere, but the blood part is still a mystery. I suppose there's a good chance he has a vial of it saved or something, but there's not much we can do about that at this point.
So we need help. The Magician has already shown that he prefers to travel by sea (and with the whales doing his bidding I don't blame him) so we need to watch the ports. For that we need Yoshida's uncles. Beyond that, we need to somehow find out where in particular he's going in Japan, but one thing at a time.
Japan is our last stand. Everything rests on this final battle. He's coming, and I intend to be ready.
Here's our State of the Union, so to speak (painting from ralphbakshi.com):
The Magician is coming to Japan. When he gets here, he'll perform some kind of "trick" that will- as far as we can gather- end the world as we know it. With what we've seen of his power so far, it seems reasonable to assume that he can actually do it. Why it has to be in Japan, I don't know, but he will come, and I imagine he'll bring friends.We are not without weapons. The Magician's knife can actually hurt his people as opposed to other, more conventional arms. The bingo charms have the power to kill as well, at least against the animals he controls.
We need to know where in Japan he's going. Can he perform his trick anywhere in Japan? If so, we've got a hell of a lot of ground to cover. From Leopold's post we know this:
"...he will perform a trick. He will use the charms, his knife, a rabbit and his own blood, though his body contains no blood any longer, if it ever did. It is quite probably too late to stop the charms, but the knife and his blood may yet be within your grasp. Keep them separate and failing that, use Yoshida's formula."
Well, we've already decided not to separate the knife and the charms because we don't want to let them out of our sight, and if we use the knife in combination with the charms it's a very effective weapon. And we've destroyed the Calicivirus formula already so that's not an option (killing virtually everyone in the world? Yeah, didn't seem like that great of an idea). He can get a rabbit anywhere, but the blood part is still a mystery. I suppose there's a good chance he has a vial of it saved or something, but there's not much we can do about that at this point.
So we need help. The Magician has already shown that he prefers to travel by sea (and with the whales doing his bidding I don't blame him) so we need to watch the ports. For that we need Yoshida's uncles. Beyond that, we need to somehow find out where in particular he's going in Japan, but one thing at a time.
Japan is our last stand. Everything rests on this final battle. He's coming, and I intend to be ready.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Mary: The Magician's Knife
November 24th, 2008:
After Josh and I destroyed the Rabbit/Human Calicivirus down in Texas, I had put rabbits out of my mind completely, thinking that there was nothing more of interest involving them.
However, once Yoshida brought them up again, I took another look at the Magician's knife. We'd mentioned before that it was oddly curved, and I did a quick search to see if I could find a knife that had the same shape, finding one in a matter of moments (sample photo below).
It's a rabbit-skinning knife.
After Josh and I destroyed the Rabbit/Human Calicivirus down in Texas, I had put rabbits out of my mind completely, thinking that there was nothing more of interest involving them.
However, once Yoshida brought them up again, I took another look at the Magician's knife. We'd mentioned before that it was oddly curved, and I did a quick search to see if I could find a knife that had the same shape, finding one in a matter of moments (sample photo below).
It's a rabbit-skinning knife.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Yoshida: 35
I know the Magician's identity.
After I left Howland and Stroud I made my way across town to visit my sensei in the art of stage magic. While I have little desire to go into specific detail, recording the exact dialog of the encounter as everyone else here insists on doing, I do feel some obligation to "show my work" in how I arrived in the answer. At least with my chronicle of events the accuracy of what was actually said will be an improvement over the dismally deficient and preposterously subjective recitations of those who lack a nearly photographic memory, as I do.
For the first ten minutes of the instruction, my master merely quizzed me as to what had been previously learned, satisfying himself that I had indeed been practicing and could now perform the various tricks he'd taught me. Inoue-San then decided to begin training me in a new trick.
INOUE: Now I will teach you the rabbit out of the hat trick.
YOSHIDA: No. Something else.
INOUE: I am the teacher. If you wish to know how to become a magician, you need to know this trick.
YOSHIDA: No. I loathe rabbits. When I was young my father worked with them in Australia. Their smell makes me gag to this day.
INOUE: The "pull the rabbit out of a hat" trick is iconic [I believe this is the English word closest to what Inoue was attempting to describe]. When anyone thinks of a magician, the rabbit out of a hat is the trick that pops into their minds first.
YOSHIDA: The rabbit out of a hat. The Magician. The rabbit out of a hat. He pulls the rabbit out of a hat. The Magician. When someone thinks of that trick, they think of him.
INOUE: Are you all right? You seem odder than normal, with all respect to your family.
YOSHIDA: Mrs. Justina Walentowicz. Her head was pulled down through her torso.
INOUE: Excuse me?
YOSHIDA: Then he pulled it up through the incision in her belly. He pulled it up. He pulled it out of... he was performing the rabbit out of a hat trick with her head, announcing himself.
INOUE: You're making me sick. Settle down now, and I'll teach you.
YOSHIDA: He was showing us right from the beginning. He even put the rabbit's foot in her brain. Rabbit out of a hat trick. The Magician. Of course.
INOUE: Whose brain? What are you saying? You are worrying me.
YOSHIDA: What do you know about the rabbit out of a hat trick? You must tell me everything you know immediately.
INOUE: Well, uh... you require a hat-
YOSHIDA: No, idiot! Not how to perform it. Tell me about it! I want to know everything.
This is the story he told (with corrections and additional information supplied by myself):
In England, in the year 1831, an itinerant magician was wandering between towns, performing magic tricks for food. On one of his stops, a member of the local aristocracy happened to notice that he had a rabbit caged along with his belongings. The lady was a grand supporter of the newly-formed Animal Protection Legislation Act (much like your similarly misguided American SPCA), and she fetched the local constable to report the magician for animal cruelty.
The magician was quick on his feet, informing the constable and the lady that the rabbit was in fact part of his act and not dinner, and the lady demanded to see what trick the rabbit could possibly assist with that very night. As you can surmise, at the finale to his show, the magician thanked his "friend" for all his help that night, pulling the rabbit from his hat to the wild applause of the crowd and the great annoyance of the thwarted lady.
This is the first record of any magician ever performing the "rabbit out of a hat" trick.
The magician was known as The Great Gagasti.
After I left Howland and Stroud I made my way across town to visit my sensei in the art of stage magic. While I have little desire to go into specific detail, recording the exact dialog of the encounter as everyone else here insists on doing, I do feel some obligation to "show my work" in how I arrived in the answer. At least with my chronicle of events the accuracy of what was actually said will be an improvement over the dismally deficient and preposterously subjective recitations of those who lack a nearly photographic memory, as I do.
For the first ten minutes of the instruction, my master merely quizzed me as to what had been previously learned, satisfying himself that I had indeed been practicing and could now perform the various tricks he'd taught me. Inoue-San then decided to begin training me in a new trick.
INOUE: Now I will teach you the rabbit out of the hat trick.YOSHIDA: No. Something else.
INOUE: I am the teacher. If you wish to know how to become a magician, you need to know this trick.
YOSHIDA: No. I loathe rabbits. When I was young my father worked with them in Australia. Their smell makes me gag to this day.
INOUE: The "pull the rabbit out of a hat" trick is iconic [I believe this is the English word closest to what Inoue was attempting to describe]. When anyone thinks of a magician, the rabbit out of a hat is the trick that pops into their minds first.
YOSHIDA: The rabbit out of a hat. The Magician. The rabbit out of a hat. He pulls the rabbit out of a hat. The Magician. When someone thinks of that trick, they think of him.
INOUE: Are you all right? You seem odder than normal, with all respect to your family.
YOSHIDA: Mrs. Justina Walentowicz. Her head was pulled down through her torso.
INOUE: Excuse me?
YOSHIDA: Then he pulled it up through the incision in her belly. He pulled it up. He pulled it out of... he was performing the rabbit out of a hat trick with her head, announcing himself.
INOUE: You're making me sick. Settle down now, and I'll teach you.
YOSHIDA: He was showing us right from the beginning. He even put the rabbit's foot in her brain. Rabbit out of a hat trick. The Magician. Of course.
INOUE: Whose brain? What are you saying? You are worrying me.
YOSHIDA: What do you know about the rabbit out of a hat trick? You must tell me everything you know immediately.
INOUE: Well, uh... you require a hat-
YOSHIDA: No, idiot! Not how to perform it. Tell me about it! I want to know everything.
This is the story he told (with corrections and additional information supplied by myself):
In England, in the year 1831, an itinerant magician was wandering between towns, performing magic tricks for food. On one of his stops, a member of the local aristocracy happened to notice that he had a rabbit caged along with his belongings. The lady was a grand supporter of the newly-formed Animal Protection Legislation Act (much like your similarly misguided American SPCA), and she fetched the local constable to report the magician for animal cruelty.
The magician was quick on his feet, informing the constable and the lady that the rabbit was in fact part of his act and not dinner, and the lady demanded to see what trick the rabbit could possibly assist with that very night. As you can surmise, at the finale to his show, the magician thanked his "friend" for all his help that night, pulling the rabbit from his hat to the wild applause of the crowd and the great annoyance of the thwarted lady.
This is the first record of any magician ever performing the "rabbit out of a hat" trick.
The magician was known as The Great Gagasti.
Monday, December 8, 2008
Leopold: Valediction
My thoughts grow more scattered and I do not have long. If there is such a thing as a benevolent God or Gods, my single desperate prayer is that I am allowed to stay dead. To begin:
In attempting to explain the events that led her to contact me and ask for my help, Cynthia eventually decided to allow me access to this archive, and for this I am most grateful. I write this valediction while flying on my golden, gleaming, private jet, soaring through light blue skies over dark blue, glittering seas, and while most would consider the sight beautiful or even breathtaking, I for one care not a whit for it. The world is an ancient, used-up thing, running down to its final hours and I both cannot stand to see it grow another minute older and at the same time cannot bear to watch it die. I suppose I am a coward. It is why I became who I am and why I have not the stomach to fight an unwinnable battle now.
While I can, I shall inform you of what you face, or more properly what faces you. I trust you will find my knowledge of the matter to be as pathetically limited and useless as I have, and probably even moreso as my faculties desert me.
He is old... far older than myself or Hollis or Nhlakanipho Mabuza or Taras the Mutineer or Crayton or even the Red Lady of Babil, who is so old she no longer remembers her own name. He is older than all of his creations combined, and he changes his name with every new conquest. The human soul is not meant to be trapped inside a host for longer than a few hundred years. It gets pulled taut and stretched so thin that it feels as though you can see through it, the world tinted with a filthy gray haze.
Is he even human any more? Was he ever?
My mind is going... I know that now. He is withdrawing his favour, allowing me to unravel because he knows that I have broken my oath to him. There is so much I want and need to tell you, but it is all a swirling, glittering dust in my brain.
Before I can forget or before I am forced to forget, I tell you this despite knowing that any endeavor to stop him is almost certainly doomed: he will perform a trick. He will use the charms, his knife, a rabbit and his own blood, though his body contains no blood any longer, if it ever did. It is quite probably too late to stop the charms, but the knife and his blood may yet be within your grasp. Keep them separate and failing that, use Yoshida's formula.
There are twenty-five million American dollars in a Swiss bank account under the name "Joshua Frederick". Falsified driver's licenses and passports under that name are being delivered to your hotel now.
Some barriers are beginning to erode in anticipation of what is to come. You will hear things... comments coming from the mouths of those who speak them but do not think them. Expect this phenomenon to increase in the days ahead and try to pay it little mind as most of the bleed-through thoughts will be gibberish.
I willingly ceded him my homeland and was then granted dominion over it in the next world when it was renewed; I swore my oath because someone else would have anyway and I thought I could use the power to make things better, but whenever I tried of course it always went wrong. Women and children... I wanted to pass laws protecting them but was defeated. He has a particular hatred for women, though I know not why and neither did Taras when I asked him in Kiev.
I feel it now, his gaze upon me... there can be no question that he knows, that he is doing this to my mind from afar. I had such vast power, such wealth and endless grinning slaves, but it was I who was the slave, though I wore a crown.
Oh, God, Scott I didn't know... I hoped he could not, would not find out. I thought that if I kept you totally in the dark and asked you to do me the favor on faith that you might be safe. I had to end this, had to break the cycle, cut short the loop and pray that either time would play out as normal or simply end. I had hoped so foolishly that if you had supported Yoshida's efforts at a last-ditch failsafe plan he wouldn't notice. Sorry, so sorry, nothing but sorrow for you and for us all. You would think after so many generations it would be easier to accept the death of your own blood. Scott, please forgive me and forget that favor I asked you- Doctor Yoshida will find funding on his own somehow. Forget the favor. Scott, do me a favor and send me photographs of that newborn son of yours. Please do. Please do not send the check. Nevermind, please. Void, void, void, void please write void on the check if you would, my second cousin my great, great, great grandson, my blood, your blood, your blood if you wouldn't mind, mind, mind my mind is going goddamn you to hell you beast I will fight for this for one more minute I will be myself and sign my name and write my will and use my will and please God let me stay dead this time I'm so sorry I'm I am I am I remain for this cycle and next and forward through all eternity, eternally, eternally yours,
Eternally Yours,
Leopold George Christian Frederick, Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Duke of Saxony, King of the Belgians
In attempting to explain the events that led her to contact me and ask for my help, Cynthia eventually decided to allow me access to this archive, and for this I am most grateful. I write this valediction while flying on my golden, gleaming, private jet, soaring through light blue skies over dark blue, glittering seas, and while most would consider the sight beautiful or even breathtaking, I for one care not a whit for it. The world is an ancient, used-up thing, running down to its final hours and I both cannot stand to see it grow another minute older and at the same time cannot bear to watch it die. I suppose I am a coward. It is why I became who I am and why I have not the stomach to fight an unwinnable battle now.
While I can, I shall inform you of what you face, or more properly what faces you. I trust you will find my knowledge of the matter to be as pathetically limited and useless as I have, and probably even moreso as my faculties desert me.
He is old... far older than myself or Hollis or Nhlakanipho Mabuza or Taras the Mutineer or Crayton or even the Red Lady of Babil, who is so old she no longer remembers her own name. He is older than all of his creations combined, and he changes his name with every new conquest. The human soul is not meant to be trapped inside a host for longer than a few hundred years. It gets pulled taut and stretched so thin that it feels as though you can see through it, the world tinted with a filthy gray haze.
Is he even human any more? Was he ever?
My mind is going... I know that now. He is withdrawing his favour, allowing me to unravel because he knows that I have broken my oath to him. There is so much I want and need to tell you, but it is all a swirling, glittering dust in my brain.
Before I can forget or before I am forced to forget, I tell you this despite knowing that any endeavor to stop him is almost certainly doomed: he will perform a trick. He will use the charms, his knife, a rabbit and his own blood, though his body contains no blood any longer, if it ever did. It is quite probably too late to stop the charms, but the knife and his blood may yet be within your grasp. Keep them separate and failing that, use Yoshida's formula.
There are twenty-five million American dollars in a Swiss bank account under the name "Joshua Frederick". Falsified driver's licenses and passports under that name are being delivered to your hotel now.
Some barriers are beginning to erode in anticipation of what is to come. You will hear things... comments coming from the mouths of those who speak them but do not think them. Expect this phenomenon to increase in the days ahead and try to pay it little mind as most of the bleed-through thoughts will be gibberish.
I willingly ceded him my homeland and was then granted dominion over it in the next world when it was renewed; I swore my oath because someone else would have anyway and I thought I could use the power to make things better, but whenever I tried of course it always went wrong. Women and children... I wanted to pass laws protecting them but was defeated. He has a particular hatred for women, though I know not why and neither did Taras when I asked him in Kiev.
I feel it now, his gaze upon me... there can be no question that he knows, that he is doing this to my mind from afar. I had such vast power, such wealth and endless grinning slaves, but it was I who was the slave, though I wore a crown.
Oh, God, Scott I didn't know... I hoped he could not, would not find out. I thought that if I kept you totally in the dark and asked you to do me the favor on faith that you might be safe. I had to end this, had to break the cycle, cut short the loop and pray that either time would play out as normal or simply end. I had hoped so foolishly that if you had supported Yoshida's efforts at a last-ditch failsafe plan he wouldn't notice. Sorry, so sorry, nothing but sorrow for you and for us all. You would think after so many generations it would be easier to accept the death of your own blood. Scott, please forgive me and forget that favor I asked you- Doctor Yoshida will find funding on his own somehow. Forget the favor. Scott, do me a favor and send me photographs of that newborn son of yours. Please do. Please do not send the check. Nevermind, please. Void, void, void, void please write void on the check if you would, my second cousin my great, great, great grandson, my blood, your blood, your blood if you wouldn't mind, mind, mind my mind is going goddamn you to hell you beast I will fight for this for one more minute I will be myself and sign my name and write my will and use my will and please God let me stay dead this time I'm so sorry I'm I am I am I remain for this cycle and next and forward through all eternity, eternally, eternally yours,
Eternally Yours,
Leopold George Christian Frederick, Prince of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, Duke of Saxony, King of the Belgians
Monday, November 24, 2008
Josh: You Can't Tell The Players Without A Scorecard, So I'm Making A Scorecard
Okay, time out. I feel like events are absolutely spinning out of control here and I need to get a handle on them. To recap and provide a time line (and correct me if any of this is out of whack, I may not be entirely accurate as I was just blown up last night):
-Over a decade ago, Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida and his assistant Tanaka begin experimenting with the Rabbit Calicivirus on Wardang Island, Australia, secretly releasing the infected test-subjects onto the continent and wiping out ninety-five percent of the rabbit population. He does this as a dry run to see how the virus would work if adapted for humans.
-Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida moves to Atlanta, Georgia and gains access to the Centers For Disease Control, or CDC (at right. Put up a boring, official government seal, eh, Mary? Well, two can play at that game!) This allows him to work to perfect the human Calicivirus strain with financial aid from (and I still find this just about impossible to believe) my father, Scott Howland.
-As Shigekazu and Tanaka are about to fly back to Japan with the formula that will essentially kill all human life on Earth, their car is hit by a semi truck. Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida is killed instantly while Tanaka is dragged off into the backwoods of a small town called Hollis Crossroads by The Old Man (I'm just going to go ahead and capitalize it. I thought of calling him "The Southern Gentleman" or "Colonel Sanders" or something, but frankly having dealt with him first-hand I'm way too terrified of him to get cute with a nickname). The Old Man rams a chisel into Tanaka's spine to paralyze him from the neck down, then spends the next year (!) teaching him to speak English.
-Meanwhile, six months or so later in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a semi truck broadsides my parent's car, killing my father Scott and paralyzing my mother Cynthia from the neck down. This is the one that I cannot wrap my head around. The deliberate act six months before was to paralyze Tanaka... the random act six months later paralyzes my mother in precisely the same way.
-The aftermath of the attack is witnessed by Mrs. Justina Walentowicz, who just happens to be one of, if not the luckiest Bingo player in the state (B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O. and B.I.N.G.O. was his name-O. Good, hopefully now it's stuck in your head, too).
-My mom and I start investigating the crash, hiring Mary Stroud, a P.I. from Madison, Wisconsin. Mrs. Walentowicz gets interviewed a couple of times, then she's horrifically murdered, her head pulled down into her abdomen and up through a hole cut in her stomach. In her smiling mouth is a photograph of the semi truck she thought she saw drive away from the crash. Pushed up and into her brain is a freshly amputated rabbit's foot infected with the Calicivirus.
-In researching the rabbit's foot and trying to narrow down where it came from, we contact Wardang island and acquire the number for Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's son, Kisho. In addition to having a charming, bubbly personality, Kisho is set to identify the virus of that particular rabbit's foot and determine which continent it came from (and by the way, I'm ready to just call that one over and say it came from Wardang Island. Test away, but I have no doubt). In conversation with Kisho, we find out about his father and the semi truck attack.
-I fly down to Atlanta to get Shigekazu's notes on what we think are the rabbit Calicivirus and also to poke around a bit and get more information on his murder. Mary stays in Milwaukee to keep in touch with Detective Ward, the officer in charge of the Walentowicz case, and also secretly to investigate my family, her own employers (sneaky monkey).
-While recovering Shigekazu's research, a man with an Australian accent leaves me a note giving an address in a small town called Hollis Crossroads and a reference to Tanaka. Meanwhile, Mary discovers that my father wrote Shigekazu a check for three million dollars.
-Sh*t gets weird in Hollis Crossroads to say the very least. What up until this point I considered to be a murder investigation turned into an absolute horror show. So much happened out at that damn house I think I'm going to spend years unraveling it and undoubtedly trying to suppress it. The Old Man killed my bodyguard and essentially framed me for it, Tanaka was unknowingly covered with centipedes (and was there special meaning behind that? I mean, it was beyond creepy and gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it, but did they have some significance beyond that?) and The Old Man's assistants killed Tanaka and themselves all while wearing the same smile Mrs. Walentowicz had (I believe I called it one part amused, one part amazed and one part batsh*t crazy. I'm standing by that description). Finally, we learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that I way-overuse parentheses (true).
-Finally, The Old Man was humming the bingo song (was his name-O) which, along with the matching smiles reminded us of poor Mrs. Walentowicz. Mary called her daughter, found out just how awesome a bingo player she really was and learned that she had been given a special offer to join a retirement community for great bingo players only: a rest home that just happened to be located in Hollis Crossroads. Mary and I are going to go and check it out tonight under the pretense of a married couple considering putting her mother in the home.
The thing I can't stop thinking about is the fact that the murderer driving the semi (Let's just call him The Driver from now on, k?) who killed both my and Kisho's father probably saved the world by doing so. Whoever he is, he and The Old Man are cold-blooded murderers and utter monsters... but are they really the good guys here? I'm going to do my best to bring them to justice, but is that even really the right thing to do?
Also, things happened at that house that I cannot begin to explain. Was most of it a trick somehow? A carefully crafted illusion? Or was it something more? If it was... if it was really what I think it was, then what chance do we have?
Okay, I feel more up to speed. Not better, particularly, but more up to speed. Time in.
-Over a decade ago, Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida and his assistant Tanaka begin experimenting with the Rabbit Calicivirus on Wardang Island, Australia, secretly releasing the infected test-subjects onto the continent and wiping out ninety-five percent of the rabbit population. He does this as a dry run to see how the virus would work if adapted for humans.
-Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida moves to Atlanta, Georgia and gains access to the Centers For Disease Control, or CDC (at right. Put up a boring, official government seal, eh, Mary? Well, two can play at that game!) This allows him to work to perfect the human Calicivirus strain with financial aid from (and I still find this just about impossible to believe) my father, Scott Howland.-As Shigekazu and Tanaka are about to fly back to Japan with the formula that will essentially kill all human life on Earth, their car is hit by a semi truck. Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida is killed instantly while Tanaka is dragged off into the backwoods of a small town called Hollis Crossroads by The Old Man (I'm just going to go ahead and capitalize it. I thought of calling him "The Southern Gentleman" or "Colonel Sanders" or something, but frankly having dealt with him first-hand I'm way too terrified of him to get cute with a nickname). The Old Man rams a chisel into Tanaka's spine to paralyze him from the neck down, then spends the next year (!) teaching him to speak English.
-Meanwhile, six months or so later in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, a semi truck broadsides my parent's car, killing my father Scott and paralyzing my mother Cynthia from the neck down. This is the one that I cannot wrap my head around. The deliberate act six months before was to paralyze Tanaka... the random act six months later paralyzes my mother in precisely the same way.
-The aftermath of the attack is witnessed by Mrs. Justina Walentowicz, who just happens to be one of, if not the luckiest Bingo player in the state (B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O., B.I.N.G.O. and B.I.N.G.O. was his name-O. Good, hopefully now it's stuck in your head, too).
-My mom and I start investigating the crash, hiring Mary Stroud, a P.I. from Madison, Wisconsin. Mrs. Walentowicz gets interviewed a couple of times, then she's horrifically murdered, her head pulled down into her abdomen and up through a hole cut in her stomach. In her smiling mouth is a photograph of the semi truck she thought she saw drive away from the crash. Pushed up and into her brain is a freshly amputated rabbit's foot infected with the Calicivirus.-In researching the rabbit's foot and trying to narrow down where it came from, we contact Wardang island and acquire the number for Doctor Shigekazu Yoshida's son, Kisho. In addition to having a charming, bubbly personality, Kisho is set to identify the virus of that particular rabbit's foot and determine which continent it came from (and by the way, I'm ready to just call that one over and say it came from Wardang Island. Test away, but I have no doubt). In conversation with Kisho, we find out about his father and the semi truck attack.
-I fly down to Atlanta to get Shigekazu's notes on what we think are the rabbit Calicivirus and also to poke around a bit and get more information on his murder. Mary stays in Milwaukee to keep in touch with Detective Ward, the officer in charge of the Walentowicz case, and also secretly to investigate my family, her own employers (sneaky monkey).-While recovering Shigekazu's research, a man with an Australian accent leaves me a note giving an address in a small town called Hollis Crossroads and a reference to Tanaka. Meanwhile, Mary discovers that my father wrote Shigekazu a check for three million dollars.
-Sh*t gets weird in Hollis Crossroads to say the very least. What up until this point I considered to be a murder investigation turned into an absolute horror show. So much happened out at that damn house I think I'm going to spend years unraveling it and undoubtedly trying to suppress it. The Old Man killed my bodyguard and essentially framed me for it, Tanaka was unknowingly covered with centipedes (and was there special meaning behind that? I mean, it was beyond creepy and gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about it, but did they have some significance beyond that?) and The Old Man's assistants killed Tanaka and themselves all while wearing the same smile Mrs. Walentowicz had (I believe I called it one part amused, one part amazed and one part batsh*t crazy. I'm standing by that description). Finally, we learned beyond a shadow of a doubt that I way-overuse parentheses (true).
-Finally, The Old Man was humming the bingo song (was his name-O) which, along with the matching smiles reminded us of poor Mrs. Walentowicz. Mary called her daughter, found out just how awesome a bingo player she really was and learned that she had been given a special offer to join a retirement community for great bingo players only: a rest home that just happened to be located in Hollis Crossroads. Mary and I are going to go and check it out tonight under the pretense of a married couple considering putting her mother in the home.
The thing I can't stop thinking about is the fact that the murderer driving the semi (Let's just call him The Driver from now on, k?) who killed both my and Kisho's father probably saved the world by doing so. Whoever he is, he and The Old Man are cold-blooded murderers and utter monsters... but are they really the good guys here? I'm going to do my best to bring them to justice, but is that even really the right thing to do?
Also, things happened at that house that I cannot begin to explain. Was most of it a trick somehow? A carefully crafted illusion? Or was it something more? If it was... if it was really what I think it was, then what chance do we have?
Okay, I feel more up to speed. Not better, particularly, but more up to speed. Time in.
Yoshida: 7
I do not believe you.
In my father's files there should be a red folder. In the folder will be his project summary. Fax me this page. If he was doing what you claim he was, it will be a simple matter to verify the genome sequences.
If the DNA is human, I will be attempt to believe your preposterous story. If it is rabbit DNA, prepare for a long life behind bars.
In my father's files there should be a red folder. In the folder will be his project summary. Fax me this page. If he was doing what you claim he was, it will be a simple matter to verify the genome sequences.
If the DNA is human, I will be attempt to believe your preposterous story. If it is rabbit DNA, prepare for a long life behind bars.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Josh: The Old Man
This post has my name in the title, but Mary is playing secretary and taking dictation for me as my injuries tend to make typing difficult. We made it to Atlanta and have checked in to a different hotel (The Ritz-Carlton) under Mary's name, as mine might draw the wrong kind of attention. It's almost midnight and I'm beyond exhausted, but I have to get this down before the details escape me.
It's been the longest twenty-four hours of my life, so strap in, this is going to take a while to tell. If you don't believe it, I absolutely understand, because I was there, I saw it happen and even I'm skeptical.
A note on format: there's quite a bit of "dialog" in here, and both Mary and I have been struggling with how to write that out in these posts. We've sort of been putting it in "book form", where we just write down what people said as if you were reading it in a story. It's certainly weird to do when it's your own life, but I think both of us feel that it puts you (the reader) more in our position, and lets you know what events were actually like. Obviously, these are our impressions and recollections of what was said- it's not like we're remembering conversations verbatim, so don't take every word as Gospel. It's a work in progress, so if anyone has a suggestion for a better way to do it, let me know. I might mess around with a screenplay format and see if that works, I don't know-
(How long will you be stalling before you get to what happened, Josh?- Mary)
Mary wrote that. Cruel woman, taking advantage of the non-typing infirm. Fine, here we go.
Last night after I finished posting I drove my rental car over to the offices of Executive V.I.P. Security in downtown Atlanta, filled out seemingly a dozen forms and underwent a credit check. They were (rightfully) concerned about the fact that I needed a bodyguard on such short notice, and that my description of my situation was both menacing and vague. Finally, upon receiving a sizable "hazard pay" bonus but still with obvious reservations they assigned me a bodyguard and sent us on our way.
My bodyguard was black, bald, squat and without anything resembling a neck. He was only about six feet in height, but seemed equally wide, and I was thankful I'd decided to rent a luxury sedan instead of a compact. His name was Adalius, and any thoughts I had about him being all brawn and no brain were dispelled on the walk to the car.
ADALIUS: So, what... you a rich white boy like to dress down in flannel and jeans and all that sh*t so you don't look rich and seem like just another dude, huh? Probably got all that liberal white guilt about black folk, am I right? Sh*t, I know I'm right, baby.
ME: That's not bad.
ADALIUS: You need me to drive?
ME: I guess not.
ADALIUS: Fire it up, then. See, I knew if I said, "You need me to drive", you'd be all like, "Uh... I better say I don't because otherwise it'll seem like a racial thing", even though you really did want me to drive, probably 'cause I know Atlanta and you don't.
Me: Actually, why don't you drive-
ADALIUS: It's too late for that sh*t, motherf*cker, you driving. (Laughs) I'll work the radio, you don't know these stations, know what I mean? You probably want to smoke some reefer, too, all that flannel. You got any weed?
Me: (Starting the car) Uh, no... not on me-
ADALIUS: I know where we can hook you up. Drive, baby, I got your back. You with Adalius now, you ain't got sh*it to worry about.
We drove for a good hour and a half in the darkness, rolling out of Atlanta and southwest toward Alabama. The expressway gave way to a two-lane highway, which then became a simple asphalt road, the streetlights becoming more and more sparse. Adalius spent his time punching buttons on the radio, trying to find the R&B stations that had the furthest range and regaling me with stories of the time he did security for rapper Jay-Z and witnessed first hand the greatest sight he had ever been blessed to see.
ADALIUS: Beyonce's booty is more than just a physical manifestation of perfection, baby- that sh*t is supernatural! That ass got its own aura, know what I mean? Goddamn, did this road just turn into dirt? It's a good thing I'm packing, know what I mean? These rednecks ain't particularly fond of black folks, especially not one as pretty as me. Tell me again how this ain't a drug deal.
ME: This is not a drug deal.
ADALIUS: F*ck you, it ain't. If this is a drug deal, I'm joining their side, you know what I mean? Don't f*ck me on this, Josh.
ME: I swear to God this is not a drug deal. Honestly, I don't really know what it is. I'm just here to get some answers, that's all.
ADALIUS: This shit is dangerous, I can feel it.
ME: Maybe. If I didn't think it could get weird, I wouldn't have hired you, right?
He nodded uneasily, leaning forward in his seat to squint out into the darkness. One bend in the road later, we drove up to the address, a once-majestic three-story home with peeling paint and moss creeping up past the first floor windows. All the shades were drawn, though we could see faint light from inside around the edges. We got out of the car silently, keeping the headlights on and pointed toward the front door. The only sound was the muffled chittering of bugs and our own, nervous breathing. I started walking slowly toward the house, Adalius falling in behind me.
The porch was slanted and half-rotted, a rusty hatchet inexplicably stuck into the hand-rail. I put a hesitant foot down on the first step, listened as it creaked ominously and stepped back quickly. Then I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, "Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?"
There was a pause, then from inside the house came a frantic, terrified yell. "Help! Help me, I beg you! Help! Help!" The words came with a thick Japanese accent and just kept coming, the cries for help continuing on and becoming more frightened.
I looked back at Adalius to see him shaking his head. "F*ck that. Cop time." he said, and pulled out his cellphone. He grit his teeth, muttering, "No signal. You?" I checked the Blackberry and couldn't dredge up a hint of a connection.
ADALIUS: I ain't no S.W.A.T. team. This ain't my thing.
ME: You can hear him. That guy's not faking. Come on, we'll go in together. I don't like it either, but... (motions toward the direction of the voice)
ADALIUS: (Pauses as we listen to the cries for help) F*ck it, then. Alright. Take that hatchet.
ME: What?
ADALIUS: Take the blade. I can't watch your back and do this at the same time. Back me up or I'm sitting my ass in the car.
He pulled his gun, a small, black automatic pistol while I wrenched the hatchet out of the porch's soft wood. The hatchet may have been rusty and old, but a quick, painful run of my thumb across its edge told me it was razor sharp. Out of the corner of my eye I saw either a small rodent or a large insect scurry off the edge of the porch as Adalius gingerly walked up the steps. I yelled, "We're coming! Hold on!"
Immediately we heard, "Thank you! Thank you! I am here! Be careful, he's-" the voice stopped, muffled, and Adalius and I exchanged looks. He grit his teeth, took the safety off his pistol and warily proceeded over the threshold, pushing the front door aside with his free hand. The foyer was dark and smelled of mold, funneling down into a long, straight hallway lined with darkened doorways. The layout of the house was unusual, the three-story quasi-mansion at some point long ago seemingly having been converted into a now mostly-vacant boardinghouse. At the end of the corridor we saw light coming from under doors on the left and right. All was quiet except for the groaning of the floorboards underneath our feet. We glanced on either side of us through the open doorways into the first rooms, but both were pitch dark.
As Adalius passed the first set of darkened doors, I saw a figure dart out of the room on the right, and before I could react he grabbed me from behind, one arm crossed over my chest, the other locked down onto my right hand, clenching over my fingers and keeping my grip tight on the hatchet. I let out a stunned gasp and Adalius turned around, his look annoyed. "What-" I was tossed around like a doll-like one of those stuffed dance partners used to teach the tango. Whoever was behind me pulled back my hand and with sudden, startling ferocity swung the hatchet into Adalius' skull, the blade smashing down and burying itself up to the hilt in his brain.
He fell with heavy thud and clatter, and whoever held me released me suddenly, pushing me into the doorway on the left with surprising gentleness. I stood in the darkness, stunned, reeling and cradling my right wrist. It was either sprained or broken, but before I could determine which I saw my attacker bend down and drag Adalius' body effortlessly out of the front door and down the porch steps. Staggering back into the hallway shell shocked and petrified with fear, I felt my foot kick something heavy and small, and knew immediately what it was. I reached down with my left hand, picked up Adalius' pistol and weaved my way back outside.
Adalius' killer had pulled his body down to the ground, where it lay in an awkward heap, illuminated by the rental car's headlights. The killer stood over him, silhouetted by the beams, but even by his shadow I could tell that his hand was darting into his jacket. "Don't!" I yelled, the gun firing mostly by accident. I shot wide-right, a puff of dirt jetting up from the ground behind him. Gunsmoke hung in the air between us, and I could see him slowly pull out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. When I shot at him he hadn't flinched at all.
His voice came out in a thick Southern drawl, all deep honey and molasses. "I see you found the hatchet." He lit a match and took a long drag off the cigarette, the flame illuminating his face in the darkness. I was astonished to see that he was old, at least sixty, his face deeply lined and his hair pure white. He wore a rumpled suit and tie, the fresh blood spattering his cuff seeming to glow in the glare of the headlights. "I thought you might. I do want you to know that it was never my intention to injure your wrist. My apologies, son. We are not perfect, much as we wish we were." His smile was somehow mocking and sincere at the same time, and as I tend to relate every real-life experience back to movies and TV, it felt for all intents and purposes like I was being f*cked with by Matlock.
"Why..." I stammered, my voice thick. "Who are you, and why-"
"Mr. Tanaka is waiting for you, Mr. Howland. He has waited quite a while. Would you care to adjourn inside?" He waved toward the house with his cigarette, the gesture both languid and theatrical.
I thought a moment, then nodded, motioning for him to go first. He did, sauntering across the dirt in front of the porch and up the stairs past me. I kept the gun pointed at his back the entire time, careful to keep my finger off the trigger to avoid a repeat of my accidental firing earlier. We walked down the hallway and he turned to the last door on the left, opening it. The light from the room hit him, and I was astounded to see that he was only about five and a half feet tall with a slight build. He strode inside with me right behind him, and I openly gaped when what I saw reminded me of home.
A Japanese man I assumed was Tanaka laid in a bed covered by a brown, stained, thick, paisley-patterned comforter. The walls were covered in ancient, striped wallpaper and there was a cheap, country-craft fair-quality painting of whales spewing water through blow holes opposite the bed. Sitting next to the bed in a wooden chair was a young black woman with wild, frizzy hair wearing a worn, frayed, dark blue dress. On a chair at the foot of the bed sat a young black man wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. Even at a glance it was obvious they were siblings. Both wore the same smile: equal parts amused, amazed and batsh*t crazy. The Japanese man was as terrified as anyone I had ever seen, the black woman's hand clamped over his mouth. As I entered the room, she removed it and he began sobbing and babbling, so terrified he forgot himself and spoke nothing but Japanese. I kept the gun on the old man who stepped next to the black woman, but my eyes were drawn to the beeping machines that surrounded the bed and were attached by various tubes and wires to Mr. Tanaka: they were the same medical equipment required to keep my mother alive.
The old man spoke, raising his voice to be heard. "English, Mr. Tanaka. Remember, sir? English, if you please. That's a good man." Tanaka's eyes locked on to the old man, his crazed yells dying in his throat. The old man motioned for the black woman to rise from her chair, which she did. "Do be a lamb and sit in the corner with your brother, away from Mr. Howland and Mr. Tanaka so they may be allowed to concentrate on their conversation, if you would." The woman and her brother both did as they were told, walking to the far, dusty corner of the bedroom and sitting patiently on the floor, their smiles never wavering. Their eyes stayed on the old man. He sat in the chair at the foot of the bed and leaned back, puffing on his cigarette and inviting me with a cheery wave to sit down next to Tanaka.
Warily, I made my way across the room and sat down at Tanaka's bedside, keeping my gun on the old man. "Make a move and I shoot. Understand?"
He nodded, grinning slyly. "Having experienced your marksmanship once tonight, I live in fear for the plaster on the wall behind me." Giving a wink, he added, "But your meaning is heard and understood. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. I have not spent all this time providing instruction to Mr. Tanaka in the English language merely to deny him the opportunity to speak it."
I turned to Tanaka, dumbfounded. "He taught you English? Here?" Tanaka nodded.
TANAKA: I have been held prisoner here for... I do not know how long. A year? Two? Please to keep pointing gun at him.
ME: Last I heard you quit working for Doctor Yoshida. What happened?
TANAKA: Crash. Yoshida-san and I drove, and big truck hit car. Doctor died right away, I have some cuts, blemishes?
OLD MAN: Bruises.
TANAKA: I am pulled from car by... them. They were not the truck driver, he drive away. They bring me back to this place, feed me, bandages. He says, "Need surgery". They bring me to kitchen, put me on table, face down. I tell them no, I am fine, but they take off clothes, hold me down. He... he takes knife, knife but flat on end...
OLD MAN: Chisel.
TANAKA: He puts it on my back, I feel how sharp. I beg him, whatever he is going to do, please no, please do not. Those two in corner and a third hold me down, I struggle, but cannot get loose. He does not use hammer. He pushes only with hand, I scream and scream and he pushes it into my flesh, into my back, deeper and deeper. I feel blood pouring down my sides, blood flowing over my neck and up my chin and he pushes. Then I feel nothing. Nothing ever again below neck. Oh, God, nothing, nothing.
ME: It's alright, I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to get you to a hospital.
OLD MAN: Tell him about your work.
ME: Shut the f*ck up.
OLD MAN: Tell him, Mr. Tanaka.
TANAKA: I... I work for Doctor Yoshida, help on Wardang Island with rabbits. Infected. Doctor Yoshida knows, I only assistant.
OLD MAN: You are too modest, sir. Tell him about your work.
TANAKA: It is... is work with rabbits. With the virus.
ME: What was it? You can tell me.
TANAKA: The rabbits were... they were test, dry run. He let rabbits loose on mainland.
ME: Yoshida let the rabbits loose on purpose? He did it? Infected all of Australia with the Calicivirus?
TANAKA: Hai. Yes. He and I. Then to America, to Atlanta for further research at CDC, the headquarters. Mutation of virus, strengthening and... what is word, clothes...
OLD MAN: Tailoring. Heh, clothes, tailoring. Pray, continue.
ME: CDC, that's, what-the Center for Disease Control? That's in Atlanta?
TANAKA: Yes. We worked... we were almost finished. We were to leave back for Japan when there was the crash.
ME: Finished with what? Tailoring what?
TANAKA: You said you would take me. To hospital. To help.
ME: I will. What were you doing?
TANAKA: Adapting Calicivirus for humans. Please do not leave me here. Please, I beg of you-
ME: People? On people? Do you know what that virus does? Are you f*cking crazy? That damn thing has a ninety-five percent death rate in rabbits!
OLD MAN: Ninety-nine plus in people, with the modifications the gentlemen made. A remarkable improvement. Pardon the interruption.
ME: What the hell? What in the hell? You and Yoshida were going to kill almost everyone on the planet? Why in God's name... what were you thinking?
Just then, an absolutely enormous, glistening centipede skittered over the other side of Tanaka's pillow and right over his face. It was as long as a flashlight. He and I screamed at the same time. Before I could even react, it ran down Tanaka's neck and under the covers. Tanaka screeched for me to kill it, his head shaking and gyrating in a useless, panicked attempt to somehow move his paralysed body. Still trying to keep the gun on the old man, I reached down with my sprained right hand and slowly lifted up the blanket in the middle of the bed. He was naked, his flesh pale where he still had skin. The bed underneath the thick comforter was writhing with centipedes, at least fifty of them scuttling over each other. Seeing my face, he asked me if I saw the centipede-begged me to please find it and kill it as he couldn't bear to think of such a thing crawling over him in the night.
At this point the old man rose and moved so swiftly that he was out of the room almost before I knew he was gone. I yelled and ran after him, charging down the hallway a few footsteps behind as Tanaka's bellows echoed off the walls. In moments I was leaping off the front porch, aiming my gun at the old man and screaming for him to stop before noticing that he already had. He stood where he had before, casting his shadow over Adalius's corpse.
I was almost out of breath from sprinting from the house, but his voice was as smooth and easy as ever. "Once I had a dream. There were these old slave women down by an old, mammoth, dead tree. As I approached, one of the women held up a little baby, not more than three months old. It slept as she lifted it gently up, and I noticed that hanging down from the branch above was a noose. She placed the baby's head into the noose, tightened it and let it go. The baby's face grew red, then purple-"
"Shut up! Shut up, I am going to shoot you!"
He continued, ignoring me, "-And when I asked her what she was doing, she turned to me and said as matter-of-factly as you please, 'We're hanging the babies'. I looked around and hanging from every branch was a tiny dead body." He lit another cigarette as my pistol shook in his face. "Mr. Tanaka's kind will come around, Mr. Howland. Have no fear. Their kind will be far easier to tolerate in the next world."
I laughed. "An Evangalist and a racist. The old magical combination. Get back inside the house-I'm taking Tanaka to a hospital and I'm not letting you out of my sight, you sick bastard." The old man looked at me and shook his head slowly, smiling. He started humming a tune-some children's song-and from his right sleeve a smaller centipede about two inches in length poked its head out, waved its antennae around testing the air and darted back in. I stared for a long moment, then refocused. "I said march." Again, he shook his head. I pointed the gun at his kneecap and gave him a questioning look. He kept smiling. I fired.
Saying that I shot out his kneecap and he went down would be wrong-it was more that I shot out his kneecap and he just decided to sit down, with all due grace. I started to turn to go back inside, but stopped and asked, "Why tell me that story about the babies and the tree?"
Shrugging, he said, "Only to delay you." From inside, Tanaka's yells had turned to full-on shrieks. I cursed and sprinted up the stairs back inside, tearing down the long hallway and left into Tanaka's room. The room stunk of something, and the black woman was now laying next to a red-faced Tanaka in the bed. Her brother was gone. It took a moment to realize that Tanaka and the girl were soaking wet, and the second she struck the match I recognized the smell: gasoline.
In a split second the bed was engulfed in flames, the whoosh of the fire drowning out Tanaka's agonized wails. Driven from the room by the heat and smoke, I blundered back down the hall and fell down the front steps. Jumping up as fast as I could to keep from being overpowered by the old man in case he had crawled back toward the direction of the house, I was disappointed to find no sign of him at all.
Coughing, my wrist hurting and my mind reeling, I shuffled over to the car, sparing only a quick glance at Adelius, his eyes frozen open in the headlights. Fumbling for the car keys, I had my hand on the door handle before I realized there was someone sitting in the driver's seat with the window rolled up. It was the black girl's brother, his hands on the wheel at ten and two, staring up at me with the same smile as before; the same smile-I realize now-that was on Mrs. Walentowicz's cold, dead face when we found her. As I stared at him, dumbstruck, I jumped when the car's cigarette lighter popped from it's holder in the ashtray next to him. I remember thinking, they still make cars with those? when he pulled it out and held the glowing, red, concentric circles up to his face. "No..." I mumbled. "No, I can't take any more. Don't..." Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the car's molten-hot cigarette lighter into his open left eye, the cornea sizzling with a sound I could hear even through the glass. I felt the bile rise in my throat and began to gag when I noticed that he also was soaking wet, a large, round, red, metal can set on the passenger seat beside him.
Turning to run, my ears were deafened by a thunderous sound and I was blasted away from the car and into the woods, careening off a tree and coming to a charred, smoky rest in the brush. I crawled mindlessly, tearing my clothes and shredding my hands on the thorny undergrowth in my desperate, relentless drive to get away, anywhere, as far as possible and as fast as I could. Finally, after I don't know how long, I finally passed out, curled up into the fetal position and shivering, my teeth chattering. I was almost positive I had suffered a concussion in the explosion, and I remember reading that the one thing you couldn't do with a concussion is fall unconscious, but at that point I really could not have cared less.
I must have been out of it for almost the entire day, because when I woke up I thought it was dawn but when I checked my watch I saw it was already dusk. I scrambled through the undergrowth of the forest until I finally saw an old house with a pickup truck parked in the dirt driveway. I got in, found the keys were in the ignition and took off, heading back to Hollis Crossroads.
I can't expect any of you to believe what I've told you. Now, sitting here in this plush hotel room it all seems nightmarish, hazy and unreal, but I know what happened. I know what I saw. You might believe me, but the police never will. The security company was already suspicious of me when they assigned Adalius to the job, and my fingerprints are all over that hatchet-the old man never touched it. That's why I stole the pickup truck and ran. When they figure out that I wasn't the corpse in the rental car I'm going to be hunted down by every cop in the state.
I wish I had some conclusions or insight... some final thought to tie it all up. I don't. The only things I know is that Mary has way more of a temper and potty mouth than I thought, Yoshida won't be asked to give my eulogy when I actually do croak someday, and the second I finish this sentence I'm going to lay back on the bed, close my eyes and sleep for a month.
It's been the longest twenty-four hours of my life, so strap in, this is going to take a while to tell. If you don't believe it, I absolutely understand, because I was there, I saw it happen and even I'm skeptical.
A note on format: there's quite a bit of "dialog" in here, and both Mary and I have been struggling with how to write that out in these posts. We've sort of been putting it in "book form", where we just write down what people said as if you were reading it in a story. It's certainly weird to do when it's your own life, but I think both of us feel that it puts you (the reader) more in our position, and lets you know what events were actually like. Obviously, these are our impressions and recollections of what was said- it's not like we're remembering conversations verbatim, so don't take every word as Gospel. It's a work in progress, so if anyone has a suggestion for a better way to do it, let me know. I might mess around with a screenplay format and see if that works, I don't know-
(How long will you be stalling before you get to what happened, Josh?- Mary)
Mary wrote that. Cruel woman, taking advantage of the non-typing infirm. Fine, here we go.
Last night after I finished posting I drove my rental car over to the offices of Executive V.I.P. Security in downtown Atlanta, filled out seemingly a dozen forms and underwent a credit check. They were (rightfully) concerned about the fact that I needed a bodyguard on such short notice, and that my description of my situation was both menacing and vague. Finally, upon receiving a sizable "hazard pay" bonus but still with obvious reservations they assigned me a bodyguard and sent us on our way.
My bodyguard was black, bald, squat and without anything resembling a neck. He was only about six feet in height, but seemed equally wide, and I was thankful I'd decided to rent a luxury sedan instead of a compact. His name was Adalius, and any thoughts I had about him being all brawn and no brain were dispelled on the walk to the car.
ADALIUS: So, what... you a rich white boy like to dress down in flannel and jeans and all that sh*t so you don't look rich and seem like just another dude, huh? Probably got all that liberal white guilt about black folk, am I right? Sh*t, I know I'm right, baby.
ME: That's not bad.
ADALIUS: You need me to drive?
ME: I guess not.
ADALIUS: Fire it up, then. See, I knew if I said, "You need me to drive", you'd be all like, "Uh... I better say I don't because otherwise it'll seem like a racial thing", even though you really did want me to drive, probably 'cause I know Atlanta and you don't.
Me: Actually, why don't you drive-
ADALIUS: It's too late for that sh*t, motherf*cker, you driving. (Laughs) I'll work the radio, you don't know these stations, know what I mean? You probably want to smoke some reefer, too, all that flannel. You got any weed?
Me: (Starting the car) Uh, no... not on me-
ADALIUS: I know where we can hook you up. Drive, baby, I got your back. You with Adalius now, you ain't got sh*it to worry about.
We drove for a good hour and a half in the darkness, rolling out of Atlanta and southwest toward Alabama. The expressway gave way to a two-lane highway, which then became a simple asphalt road, the streetlights becoming more and more sparse. Adalius spent his time punching buttons on the radio, trying to find the R&B stations that had the furthest range and regaling me with stories of the time he did security for rapper Jay-Z and witnessed first hand the greatest sight he had ever been blessed to see.
ADALIUS: Beyonce's booty is more than just a physical manifestation of perfection, baby- that sh*t is supernatural! That ass got its own aura, know what I mean? Goddamn, did this road just turn into dirt? It's a good thing I'm packing, know what I mean? These rednecks ain't particularly fond of black folks, especially not one as pretty as me. Tell me again how this ain't a drug deal.
ME: This is not a drug deal.ADALIUS: F*ck you, it ain't. If this is a drug deal, I'm joining their side, you know what I mean? Don't f*ck me on this, Josh.
ME: I swear to God this is not a drug deal. Honestly, I don't really know what it is. I'm just here to get some answers, that's all.
ADALIUS: This shit is dangerous, I can feel it.
ME: Maybe. If I didn't think it could get weird, I wouldn't have hired you, right?
He nodded uneasily, leaning forward in his seat to squint out into the darkness. One bend in the road later, we drove up to the address, a once-majestic three-story home with peeling paint and moss creeping up past the first floor windows. All the shades were drawn, though we could see faint light from inside around the edges. We got out of the car silently, keeping the headlights on and pointed toward the front door. The only sound was the muffled chittering of bugs and our own, nervous breathing. I started walking slowly toward the house, Adalius falling in behind me.
The porch was slanted and half-rotted, a rusty hatchet inexplicably stuck into the hand-rail. I put a hesitant foot down on the first step, listened as it creaked ominously and stepped back quickly. Then I cupped my hands to my mouth and shouted, "Hello? Is anyone there? Hello?"
There was a pause, then from inside the house came a frantic, terrified yell. "Help! Help me, I beg you! Help! Help!" The words came with a thick Japanese accent and just kept coming, the cries for help continuing on and becoming more frightened.
I looked back at Adalius to see him shaking his head. "F*ck that. Cop time." he said, and pulled out his cellphone. He grit his teeth, muttering, "No signal. You?" I checked the Blackberry and couldn't dredge up a hint of a connection.
ADALIUS: I ain't no S.W.A.T. team. This ain't my thing.
ME: You can hear him. That guy's not faking. Come on, we'll go in together. I don't like it either, but... (motions toward the direction of the voice)
ADALIUS: (Pauses as we listen to the cries for help) F*ck it, then. Alright. Take that hatchet.
ME: What?
ADALIUS: Take the blade. I can't watch your back and do this at the same time. Back me up or I'm sitting my ass in the car.
He pulled his gun, a small, black automatic pistol while I wrenched the hatchet out of the porch's soft wood. The hatchet may have been rusty and old, but a quick, painful run of my thumb across its edge told me it was razor sharp. Out of the corner of my eye I saw either a small rodent or a large insect scurry off the edge of the porch as Adalius gingerly walked up the steps. I yelled, "We're coming! Hold on!"
Immediately we heard, "Thank you! Thank you! I am here! Be careful, he's-" the voice stopped, muffled, and Adalius and I exchanged looks. He grit his teeth, took the safety off his pistol and warily proceeded over the threshold, pushing the front door aside with his free hand. The foyer was dark and smelled of mold, funneling down into a long, straight hallway lined with darkened doorways. The layout of the house was unusual, the three-story quasi-mansion at some point long ago seemingly having been converted into a now mostly-vacant boardinghouse. At the end of the corridor we saw light coming from under doors on the left and right. All was quiet except for the groaning of the floorboards underneath our feet. We glanced on either side of us through the open doorways into the first rooms, but both were pitch dark.
As Adalius passed the first set of darkened doors, I saw a figure dart out of the room on the right, and before I could react he grabbed me from behind, one arm crossed over my chest, the other locked down onto my right hand, clenching over my fingers and keeping my grip tight on the hatchet. I let out a stunned gasp and Adalius turned around, his look annoyed. "What-" I was tossed around like a doll-like one of those stuffed dance partners used to teach the tango. Whoever was behind me pulled back my hand and with sudden, startling ferocity swung the hatchet into Adalius' skull, the blade smashing down and burying itself up to the hilt in his brain.
He fell with heavy thud and clatter, and whoever held me released me suddenly, pushing me into the doorway on the left with surprising gentleness. I stood in the darkness, stunned, reeling and cradling my right wrist. It was either sprained or broken, but before I could determine which I saw my attacker bend down and drag Adalius' body effortlessly out of the front door and down the porch steps. Staggering back into the hallway shell shocked and petrified with fear, I felt my foot kick something heavy and small, and knew immediately what it was. I reached down with my left hand, picked up Adalius' pistol and weaved my way back outside.
Adalius' killer had pulled his body down to the ground, where it lay in an awkward heap, illuminated by the rental car's headlights. The killer stood over him, silhouetted by the beams, but even by his shadow I could tell that his hand was darting into his jacket. "Don't!" I yelled, the gun firing mostly by accident. I shot wide-right, a puff of dirt jetting up from the ground behind him. Gunsmoke hung in the air between us, and I could see him slowly pull out a cigarette and put it in his mouth. When I shot at him he hadn't flinched at all.
His voice came out in a thick Southern drawl, all deep honey and molasses. "I see you found the hatchet." He lit a match and took a long drag off the cigarette, the flame illuminating his face in the darkness. I was astonished to see that he was old, at least sixty, his face deeply lined and his hair pure white. He wore a rumpled suit and tie, the fresh blood spattering his cuff seeming to glow in the glare of the headlights. "I thought you might. I do want you to know that it was never my intention to injure your wrist. My apologies, son. We are not perfect, much as we wish we were." His smile was somehow mocking and sincere at the same time, and as I tend to relate every real-life experience back to movies and TV, it felt for all intents and purposes like I was being f*cked with by Matlock.
"Why..." I stammered, my voice thick. "Who are you, and why-"
"Mr. Tanaka is waiting for you, Mr. Howland. He has waited quite a while. Would you care to adjourn inside?" He waved toward the house with his cigarette, the gesture both languid and theatrical.
I thought a moment, then nodded, motioning for him to go first. He did, sauntering across the dirt in front of the porch and up the stairs past me. I kept the gun pointed at his back the entire time, careful to keep my finger off the trigger to avoid a repeat of my accidental firing earlier. We walked down the hallway and he turned to the last door on the left, opening it. The light from the room hit him, and I was astounded to see that he was only about five and a half feet tall with a slight build. He strode inside with me right behind him, and I openly gaped when what I saw reminded me of home.
A Japanese man I assumed was Tanaka laid in a bed covered by a brown, stained, thick, paisley-patterned comforter. The walls were covered in ancient, striped wallpaper and there was a cheap, country-craft fair-quality painting of whales spewing water through blow holes opposite the bed. Sitting next to the bed in a wooden chair was a young black woman with wild, frizzy hair wearing a worn, frayed, dark blue dress. On a chair at the foot of the bed sat a young black man wearing a dark blue shirt and jeans. Even at a glance it was obvious they were siblings. Both wore the same smile: equal parts amused, amazed and batsh*t crazy. The Japanese man was as terrified as anyone I had ever seen, the black woman's hand clamped over his mouth. As I entered the room, she removed it and he began sobbing and babbling, so terrified he forgot himself and spoke nothing but Japanese. I kept the gun on the old man who stepped next to the black woman, but my eyes were drawn to the beeping machines that surrounded the bed and were attached by various tubes and wires to Mr. Tanaka: they were the same medical equipment required to keep my mother alive.
The old man spoke, raising his voice to be heard. "English, Mr. Tanaka. Remember, sir? English, if you please. That's a good man." Tanaka's eyes locked on to the old man, his crazed yells dying in his throat. The old man motioned for the black woman to rise from her chair, which she did. "Do be a lamb and sit in the corner with your brother, away from Mr. Howland and Mr. Tanaka so they may be allowed to concentrate on their conversation, if you would." The woman and her brother both did as they were told, walking to the far, dusty corner of the bedroom and sitting patiently on the floor, their smiles never wavering. Their eyes stayed on the old man. He sat in the chair at the foot of the bed and leaned back, puffing on his cigarette and inviting me with a cheery wave to sit down next to Tanaka.
Warily, I made my way across the room and sat down at Tanaka's bedside, keeping my gun on the old man. "Make a move and I shoot. Understand?"
He nodded, grinning slyly. "Having experienced your marksmanship once tonight, I live in fear for the plaster on the wall behind me." Giving a wink, he added, "But your meaning is heard and understood. You have nothing to fear from me, I assure you. I have not spent all this time providing instruction to Mr. Tanaka in the English language merely to deny him the opportunity to speak it."
I turned to Tanaka, dumbfounded. "He taught you English? Here?" Tanaka nodded.
TANAKA: I have been held prisoner here for... I do not know how long. A year? Two? Please to keep pointing gun at him.
ME: Last I heard you quit working for Doctor Yoshida. What happened?
TANAKA: Crash. Yoshida-san and I drove, and big truck hit car. Doctor died right away, I have some cuts, blemishes?
OLD MAN: Bruises.
TANAKA: I am pulled from car by... them. They were not the truck driver, he drive away. They bring me back to this place, feed me, bandages. He says, "Need surgery". They bring me to kitchen, put me on table, face down. I tell them no, I am fine, but they take off clothes, hold me down. He... he takes knife, knife but flat on end...
OLD MAN: Chisel.
TANAKA: He puts it on my back, I feel how sharp. I beg him, whatever he is going to do, please no, please do not. Those two in corner and a third hold me down, I struggle, but cannot get loose. He does not use hammer. He pushes only with hand, I scream and scream and he pushes it into my flesh, into my back, deeper and deeper. I feel blood pouring down my sides, blood flowing over my neck and up my chin and he pushes. Then I feel nothing. Nothing ever again below neck. Oh, God, nothing, nothing.
ME: It's alright, I'm going to get you out of here. I'm going to get you to a hospital.
OLD MAN: Tell him about your work.
ME: Shut the f*ck up.
OLD MAN: Tell him, Mr. Tanaka.
TANAKA: I... I work for Doctor Yoshida, help on Wardang Island with rabbits. Infected. Doctor Yoshida knows, I only assistant.OLD MAN: You are too modest, sir. Tell him about your work.
TANAKA: It is... is work with rabbits. With the virus.
ME: What was it? You can tell me.
TANAKA: The rabbits were... they were test, dry run. He let rabbits loose on mainland.
ME: Yoshida let the rabbits loose on purpose? He did it? Infected all of Australia with the Calicivirus?
TANAKA: Hai. Yes. He and I. Then to America, to Atlanta for further research at CDC, the headquarters. Mutation of virus, strengthening and... what is word, clothes...
OLD MAN: Tailoring. Heh, clothes, tailoring. Pray, continue.
ME: CDC, that's, what-the Center for Disease Control? That's in Atlanta?
TANAKA: Yes. We worked... we were almost finished. We were to leave back for Japan when there was the crash.
ME: Finished with what? Tailoring what?
TANAKA: You said you would take me. To hospital. To help.
ME: I will. What were you doing?
TANAKA: Adapting Calicivirus for humans. Please do not leave me here. Please, I beg of you-
ME: People? On people? Do you know what that virus does? Are you f*cking crazy? That damn thing has a ninety-five percent death rate in rabbits!
OLD MAN: Ninety-nine plus in people, with the modifications the gentlemen made. A remarkable improvement. Pardon the interruption.
ME: What the hell? What in the hell? You and Yoshida were going to kill almost everyone on the planet? Why in God's name... what were you thinking?
Just then, an absolutely enormous, glistening centipede skittered over the other side of Tanaka's pillow and right over his face. It was as long as a flashlight. He and I screamed at the same time. Before I could even react, it ran down Tanaka's neck and under the covers. Tanaka screeched for me to kill it, his head shaking and gyrating in a useless, panicked attempt to somehow move his paralysed body. Still trying to keep the gun on the old man, I reached down with my sprained right hand and slowly lifted up the blanket in the middle of the bed. He was naked, his flesh pale where he still had skin. The bed underneath the thick comforter was writhing with centipedes, at least fifty of them scuttling over each other. Seeing my face, he asked me if I saw the centipede-begged me to please find it and kill it as he couldn't bear to think of such a thing crawling over him in the night.
At this point the old man rose and moved so swiftly that he was out of the room almost before I knew he was gone. I yelled and ran after him, charging down the hallway a few footsteps behind as Tanaka's bellows echoed off the walls. In moments I was leaping off the front porch, aiming my gun at the old man and screaming for him to stop before noticing that he already had. He stood where he had before, casting his shadow over Adalius's corpse.I was almost out of breath from sprinting from the house, but his voice was as smooth and easy as ever. "Once I had a dream. There were these old slave women down by an old, mammoth, dead tree. As I approached, one of the women held up a little baby, not more than three months old. It slept as she lifted it gently up, and I noticed that hanging down from the branch above was a noose. She placed the baby's head into the noose, tightened it and let it go. The baby's face grew red, then purple-"
"Shut up! Shut up, I am going to shoot you!"
He continued, ignoring me, "-And when I asked her what she was doing, she turned to me and said as matter-of-factly as you please, 'We're hanging the babies'. I looked around and hanging from every branch was a tiny dead body." He lit another cigarette as my pistol shook in his face. "Mr. Tanaka's kind will come around, Mr. Howland. Have no fear. Their kind will be far easier to tolerate in the next world."
I laughed. "An Evangalist and a racist. The old magical combination. Get back inside the house-I'm taking Tanaka to a hospital and I'm not letting you out of my sight, you sick bastard." The old man looked at me and shook his head slowly, smiling. He started humming a tune-some children's song-and from his right sleeve a smaller centipede about two inches in length poked its head out, waved its antennae around testing the air and darted back in. I stared for a long moment, then refocused. "I said march." Again, he shook his head. I pointed the gun at his kneecap and gave him a questioning look. He kept smiling. I fired.
Saying that I shot out his kneecap and he went down would be wrong-it was more that I shot out his kneecap and he just decided to sit down, with all due grace. I started to turn to go back inside, but stopped and asked, "Why tell me that story about the babies and the tree?"
Shrugging, he said, "Only to delay you." From inside, Tanaka's yells had turned to full-on shrieks. I cursed and sprinted up the stairs back inside, tearing down the long hallway and left into Tanaka's room. The room stunk of something, and the black woman was now laying next to a red-faced Tanaka in the bed. Her brother was gone. It took a moment to realize that Tanaka and the girl were soaking wet, and the second she struck the match I recognized the smell: gasoline.
In a split second the bed was engulfed in flames, the whoosh of the fire drowning out Tanaka's agonized wails. Driven from the room by the heat and smoke, I blundered back down the hall and fell down the front steps. Jumping up as fast as I could to keep from being overpowered by the old man in case he had crawled back toward the direction of the house, I was disappointed to find no sign of him at all.
Coughing, my wrist hurting and my mind reeling, I shuffled over to the car, sparing only a quick glance at Adelius, his eyes frozen open in the headlights. Fumbling for the car keys, I had my hand on the door handle before I realized there was someone sitting in the driver's seat with the window rolled up. It was the black girl's brother, his hands on the wheel at ten and two, staring up at me with the same smile as before; the same smile-I realize now-that was on Mrs. Walentowicz's cold, dead face when we found her. As I stared at him, dumbstruck, I jumped when the car's cigarette lighter popped from it's holder in the ashtray next to him. I remember thinking, they still make cars with those? when he pulled it out and held the glowing, red, concentric circles up to his face. "No..." I mumbled. "No, I can't take any more. Don't..." Slowly, deliberately, he pushed the car's molten-hot cigarette lighter into his open left eye, the cornea sizzling with a sound I could hear even through the glass. I felt the bile rise in my throat and began to gag when I noticed that he also was soaking wet, a large, round, red, metal can set on the passenger seat beside him.
Turning to run, my ears were deafened by a thunderous sound and I was blasted away from the car and into the woods, careening off a tree and coming to a charred, smoky rest in the brush. I crawled mindlessly, tearing my clothes and shredding my hands on the thorny undergrowth in my desperate, relentless drive to get away, anywhere, as far as possible and as fast as I could. Finally, after I don't know how long, I finally passed out, curled up into the fetal position and shivering, my teeth chattering. I was almost positive I had suffered a concussion in the explosion, and I remember reading that the one thing you couldn't do with a concussion is fall unconscious, but at that point I really could not have cared less.
I must have been out of it for almost the entire day, because when I woke up I thought it was dawn but when I checked my watch I saw it was already dusk. I scrambled through the undergrowth of the forest until I finally saw an old house with a pickup truck parked in the dirt driveway. I got in, found the keys were in the ignition and took off, heading back to Hollis Crossroads.
I can't expect any of you to believe what I've told you. Now, sitting here in this plush hotel room it all seems nightmarish, hazy and unreal, but I know what happened. I know what I saw. You might believe me, but the police never will. The security company was already suspicious of me when they assigned Adalius to the job, and my fingerprints are all over that hatchet-the old man never touched it. That's why I stole the pickup truck and ran. When they figure out that I wasn't the corpse in the rental car I'm going to be hunted down by every cop in the state.
I wish I had some conclusions or insight... some final thought to tie it all up. I don't. The only things I know is that Mary has way more of a temper and potty mouth than I thought, Yoshida won't be asked to give my eulogy when I actually do croak someday, and the second I finish this sentence I'm going to lay back on the bed, close my eyes and sleep for a month.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Yoshida: 5
The sooner I have the box the sooner I can identify the strain of Calcivirus within the rabbit's foot, Stroud. Try and remember that.
I have taken an interest in the town and surrounding area of Hollis Crossroads. Examining numbers taken from admittedly unreliable Internet sources, I have been cross-referencing them extensively and found them to be anomalous. Population density, the shifting of the local economy, mortality rates, local industry, tourism... all of these statistics when looked at and taken in as a whole are simply wrong. I have never seen its like. The town's population has stayed more or less the same ever since the town has been in existence, while jobs seemed to decline virtually to nothing over a hundred years ago. What is it that they do there? How is income generated? Their forests are rotted and useless for lumber, they have no mines, no mills, no craftsmen and nothing of any interest to any tourist. How is this town still alive? I want further raw data.
Stroud, go to the hall of public records and fetch me hard information, everything you can find about the township for the past hundred or so years. Building permits, zoning, marriage licenses and birth and death certificates.
Also, I want a sample of insects taken from around the town, preferably from within the forest.
I have taken an interest in the town and surrounding area of Hollis Crossroads. Examining numbers taken from admittedly unreliable Internet sources, I have been cross-referencing them extensively and found them to be anomalous. Population density, the shifting of the local economy, mortality rates, local industry, tourism... all of these statistics when looked at and taken in as a whole are simply wrong. I have never seen its like. The town's population has stayed more or less the same ever since the town has been in existence, while jobs seemed to decline virtually to nothing over a hundred years ago. What is it that they do there? How is income generated? Their forests are rotted and useless for lumber, they have no mines, no mills, no craftsmen and nothing of any interest to any tourist. How is this town still alive? I want further raw data.
Stroud, go to the hall of public records and fetch me hard information, everything you can find about the township for the past hundred or so years. Building permits, zoning, marriage licenses and birth and death certificates.
Also, I want a sample of insects taken from around the town, preferably from within the forest.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Josh: Dr. Ian Malcolm: "The Lack Of Humility Before Nature That's Being Displayed Here, Uh... Staggers Me."
I admit even I was a little skeptical about how I would learn about a rabbit disease in a philosophy class, but it was how the disease arrived in Australia that was the subject of that particular lecture. Rabbit hemorrhagic disease virus, or as it is more properly known, Rabbit Calicivirus Disease started in the Orient in the mid-80's and spread to Europe, wiping out huge populations of rabbits. Meanwhile, in Australia, their rabbit population was absolutely exploding. Australia is the poster boy for runaway animal populations since those filthy criminals that took over the place didn't care what they brought into the ecosystem (for example, they've got hideous cane toads the size of cinder blocks over there squatting on every golf course. Speaking as a non-golfer I find this horrible tragedy utterly hilarious. Below: cane toad. Just try sinking a fifteen-foot putt with that thing staring at you).
Long story longer, the Aussies decide that since they are being overrun by rabbits, they'll consider importing the Rabbit Calcivirus Disease. First, though, they want a rigorous testing process, so they set-up shop off-shore of Port Victoria on a spit of land called Wardang Island. To make sure that the disease is contained so there's no way it can hit the mainland, they set up a quarantine area with double, rabbit and predator-proof fences. They divided into two teams of workers, one for infected rabbits, one for the control group. Insect-suppression was a priority to keep the disease from being transmitted via mosquito. They even had rigid protocols for how to handle the scientist's clothing, disinfecting or destroying all fabric that came in contact with infected rabbits. In short, they built a laboratory that was absolutely foolproof, with no chance that the disease could possibly reach the mainland rabbit population.
What happened? As my giggling Philosopher professor gleefully pointed out, nature happened. "It was just like Jurassic Park, but with bunnies!" he tittered, food bits flying out of his beard. Philosophers just love it when those cocky scientists get it handed to them.
Somehow, the disease made its way to Port Victoria, and from there spread out over the entire continent, wiping out millions and millions of rabbits. The estimated death rate was a stunning ninety-five percent of all Australian rabbits. The reaction of the Australian government (in between holes as they used fork-lifts to move the cane toads off the greens) was a collective shrug. They wanted less rabbits, they got less rabbits. The fact that it didn't happen quite as they wanted it to happen was incidental.
Why is all this crap important? Well, they worked on that virus for three years before it got out, and for all I know they're still doing tests. Perhaps the scientists on Wardang Island can at least identify whether or not the strain of Rabbit Calcivirus Disease from the rabbit's foot found at the crime scene is from Australia, Europe or China. I know it's still an impossibly wide field, but if we can eliminate two continents from our search, I think it's time well spent.
Long story longer, the Aussies decide that since they are being overrun by rabbits, they'll consider importing the Rabbit Calcivirus Disease. First, though, they want a rigorous testing process, so they set-up shop off-shore of Port Victoria on a spit of land called Wardang Island. To make sure that the disease is contained so there's no way it can hit the mainland, they set up a quarantine area with double, rabbit and predator-proof fences. They divided into two teams of workers, one for infected rabbits, one for the control group. Insect-suppression was a priority to keep the disease from being transmitted via mosquito. They even had rigid protocols for how to handle the scientist's clothing, disinfecting or destroying all fabric that came in contact with infected rabbits. In short, they built a laboratory that was absolutely foolproof, with no chance that the disease could possibly reach the mainland rabbit population.What happened? As my giggling Philosopher professor gleefully pointed out, nature happened. "It was just like Jurassic Park, but with bunnies!" he tittered, food bits flying out of his beard. Philosophers just love it when those cocky scientists get it handed to them.
Somehow, the disease made its way to Port Victoria, and from there spread out over the entire continent, wiping out millions and millions of rabbits. The estimated death rate was a stunning ninety-five percent of all Australian rabbits. The reaction of the Australian government (in between holes as they used fork-lifts to move the cane toads off the greens) was a collective shrug. They wanted less rabbits, they got less rabbits. The fact that it didn't happen quite as they wanted it to happen was incidental.
Why is all this crap important? Well, they worked on that virus for three years before it got out, and for all I know they're still doing tests. Perhaps the scientists on Wardang Island can at least identify whether or not the strain of Rabbit Calcivirus Disease from the rabbit's foot found at the crime scene is from Australia, Europe or China. I know it's still an impossibly wide field, but if we can eliminate two continents from our search, I think it's time well spent.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Josh: I Was Going To Include A Picture, But I Did A Web Search For "Philosophy+Useless" And Just Got Depressed At How Many Entries There Were
For whatever reason, I think I've actually read about some disease wiping out millions of rabbits in Australia. Why-as a Philosophy grad-I believe I've learned something useful to us, I don't know. I'm going to pore over some of my texts and see what I can find.
My mother saying she's experiencing "difficulties" is like anyone else sending up flares and arranging their laundry by the seashore in the shape of the word, "HELP!" Mom, if you need anything, please just let me know and I'll be there.
My mother saying she's experiencing "difficulties" is like anyone else sending up flares and arranging their laundry by the seashore in the shape of the word, "HELP!" Mom, if you need anything, please just let me know and I'll be there.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
Mary: Pop Quiz
I awoke early this morning mercifully unable to remember my dreams, the steady rain of the night before replaced by a cold, gray drizzle. After putting on one of my brand-new business suits, I began creeping downstairs before seeing a light from underneath Mrs. Howland's door and hearing voices from within. I knocked and entered, nearly tripping over a hard-bound volume of the Encyclopedia Britannica. Books were strewn all over the bedroom, most of them open. Jeff was sitting next to Mrs. Howland, holding a book open for her to view. They both looked absolutely exhausted.
If I had felt that my education was inadequate after previous meetings with Mrs. Howland and Jeff before, this morning's events were so emotionally grueling that I wanted to sue the University of Wisconsin for my money back. Mrs. Howland bade me sit down and immediately proceeded to essentially give me a pop-quiz on events in world history. After years out of college, it's amazing how much general knowledge slips through your fingers. As we went along, Mrs. Howland's mood became darker, her questions more terse. Knowing that I was letting her down (whatever the reason) was agonizing, and after fifteen minutes I was sweating and on the verge of tears. After what seemed like a lifetime, Jeff returned with a fresh pot of coffee and our usual breakfast of homemade waffles, and the test was finally done.
I never challenged why I was being made to answer questions that had nothing to do with the case I was working. I didn't ask myself why I felt so terrible at my lack of retention of dates and events that never interested me. The fact is, no matter the reason, there are simply some people you meet in life that you feel you cannot disappoint. If you have spent any time with Mrs. Howland (and I don't see how it's possible that you haven't, if you're reading this at all), then I'm sure you understand.
My hand shook as I reached out for my coffee cup. I picked it up, immediately spilled some and put it back down on the china saucer without taking a drink. "Mrs. Howland, I'm just so sorry I let you down. I wish I knew more-"
Mrs. Howland's severe expression shifted, the scowl softening to a look of concern I hadn't seen before. "Oh, my dear. No, you performed admirably. This... I believe I am struggling with my medication. Jeffrey has called the doctor, and he will be along presently. Please go about your business of the day and forget that this ever occurred."
Jeff walked me out and escorted me to the kitchen, where he poured some of the fresh coffee into a thermos. Handing it to me he said softly, "In cases such as these, where a loved one is suddenly killed and you are permanently, seriously disabled, there are consequences beyond the physical. Mrs. Howland would like to believe that she is beyond such things, but..." he trailed off, giving a wan smile. "She needs time. That's all. Don't be overly concerned." As we walked together to the front door, he added with a chuckle, "And don't worry about not knowing the precise year Genghis Khan began his conquest of Asia. I doubt very much it will come up in today's investigation." (The Khan, at right)
It was meant to soothe me, but it just made me more exasperated with myself. "But she knows it. For God's sake, you know it, and you're-"
"-I clean adult diapers for a living," he finished, and my cheeks flushed. That wasn't what I meant to say, but I'm ashamed to say that it was probably what I meant, whether I knew it or not. Thankfully, he didn't take it personally, his smile never wavering. He put a gentle hand on my shoulder and said, "She went through a dozen interviews or more before she found me. She chose me because she wanted something more than just a surrogate of her own body, she needed someone who could be a companion for her mind." Jeff helped me on with my coat and added, "What you went through this morning probably wasn't fair. It isn't what you were hired for." He laughed, "It would be like asking me to dust for a print." He wished me good luck, and I shuffled out into the mist, clutching my thermos, emotionally drained before my day had even really begun.
I slipped into my luxurious rental car and ran some errands, mainly killing time before I went back into the St. Francis police department to see Detective Ward. I was hoping the coroner would have more information, but so little time had passed that I knew it wasn't likely. While shopping for sundries I called Detective Ward twice before he assured me that he would call me as soon as he knew anything else. By 4:00PM I got the call, and rushed to St. Francis.
The front desk officer was getting to know me and waved me past toward Detective Ward's cubicle with a grunt. Ward remained seated, ran a hand through his gray hair and said, "Just got some blood work back. Not sure if it's important, but it is unusual."
"Did they find drugs in her system? Was something wrong with her?"
He shook his head. "Not her. The rabbit." He opened one of the ubiquitous Manila file folders and handed me a sheet. It was filled with medical jargon and utterly incomprehensible to me, but Ward gave me the highlights. "They found evidence of rabbit hemorrhagic disease virus, or RHDV. It's a virus that's deadly to rabbits, and though there have been a few minor outbreaks in the U.S., it's since been totally eradicated."
It was more than a little odd to be essentially doing an autopsy on a bunny, but every piece of information might help, so I went with it. "So the rabbit isn't native? Where is it from?"
Ward shrugged. "I talked with a zoology professor at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee this afternoon, and he didn't exactly pinpoint it. Apparently this virus began in China back in 1984. It spread pretty fast to Europe. He said Australia had a massive outbreak of the virus in the mid-nineties and it wiped out something like 95% of their rabbit population." He shook his head and chuckled, "So we've narrowed it down to more than half the world. Wish I had more for you."
I thanked him and rose to go, then remembered Josh's questions about the blood on the floor and the order of events. Ward told me that based on the blood spatter, the rabbit's foot was cut off first, then the killer went to work on Mrs. Walentowicz. He also said that the rabbit's foot was pushed into her brain before the incision was made in her abdomen.
Also remembering Mrs. Howland's wishes to potentially include him in our little cabal, I asked if he would be open to coming by the house for a visit. He agreed and said he would be by before 11:00 tomorrow morning.
If I had felt that my education was inadequate after previous meetings with Mrs. Howland and Jeff before, this morning's events were so emotionally grueling that I wanted to sue the University of Wisconsin for my money back. Mrs. Howland bade me sit down and immediately proceeded to essentially give me a pop-quiz on events in world history. After years out of college, it's amazing how much general knowledge slips through your fingers. As we went along, Mrs. Howland's mood became darker, her questions more terse. Knowing that I was letting her down (whatever the reason) was agonizing, and after fifteen minutes I was sweating and on the verge of tears. After what seemed like a lifetime, Jeff returned with a fresh pot of coffee and our usual breakfast of homemade waffles, and the test was finally done.
I never challenged why I was being made to answer questions that had nothing to do with the case I was working. I didn't ask myself why I felt so terrible at my lack of retention of dates and events that never interested me. The fact is, no matter the reason, there are simply some people you meet in life that you feel you cannot disappoint. If you have spent any time with Mrs. Howland (and I don't see how it's possible that you haven't, if you're reading this at all), then I'm sure you understand.
My hand shook as I reached out for my coffee cup. I picked it up, immediately spilled some and put it back down on the china saucer without taking a drink. "Mrs. Howland, I'm just so sorry I let you down. I wish I knew more-"
Mrs. Howland's severe expression shifted, the scowl softening to a look of concern I hadn't seen before. "Oh, my dear. No, you performed admirably. This... I believe I am struggling with my medication. Jeffrey has called the doctor, and he will be along presently. Please go about your business of the day and forget that this ever occurred."
Jeff walked me out and escorted me to the kitchen, where he poured some of the fresh coffee into a thermos. Handing it to me he said softly, "In cases such as these, where a loved one is suddenly killed and you are permanently, seriously disabled, there are consequences beyond the physical. Mrs. Howland would like to believe that she is beyond such things, but..." he trailed off, giving a wan smile. "She needs time. That's all. Don't be overly concerned." As we walked together to the front door, he added with a chuckle, "And don't worry about not knowing the precise year Genghis Khan began his conquest of Asia. I doubt very much it will come up in today's investigation." (The Khan, at right)It was meant to soothe me, but it just made me more exasperated with myself. "But she knows it. For God's sake, you know it, and you're-"
"-I clean adult diapers for a living," he finished, and my cheeks flushed. That wasn't what I meant to say, but I'm ashamed to say that it was probably what I meant, whether I knew it or not. Thankfully, he didn't take it personally, his smile never wavering. He put a gentle hand on my shoulder and said, "She went through a dozen interviews or more before she found me. She chose me because she wanted something more than just a surrogate of her own body, she needed someone who could be a companion for her mind." Jeff helped me on with my coat and added, "What you went through this morning probably wasn't fair. It isn't what you were hired for." He laughed, "It would be like asking me to dust for a print." He wished me good luck, and I shuffled out into the mist, clutching my thermos, emotionally drained before my day had even really begun.
I slipped into my luxurious rental car and ran some errands, mainly killing time before I went back into the St. Francis police department to see Detective Ward. I was hoping the coroner would have more information, but so little time had passed that I knew it wasn't likely. While shopping for sundries I called Detective Ward twice before he assured me that he would call me as soon as he knew anything else. By 4:00PM I got the call, and rushed to St. Francis.
The front desk officer was getting to know me and waved me past toward Detective Ward's cubicle with a grunt. Ward remained seated, ran a hand through his gray hair and said, "Just got some blood work back. Not sure if it's important, but it is unusual."
"Did they find drugs in her system? Was something wrong with her?"
He shook his head. "Not her. The rabbit." He opened one of the ubiquitous Manila file folders and handed me a sheet. It was filled with medical jargon and utterly incomprehensible to me, but Ward gave me the highlights. "They found evidence of rabbit hemorrhagic disease virus, or RHDV. It's a virus that's deadly to rabbits, and though there have been a few minor outbreaks in the U.S., it's since been totally eradicated."
It was more than a little odd to be essentially doing an autopsy on a bunny, but every piece of information might help, so I went with it. "So the rabbit isn't native? Where is it from?"
Ward shrugged. "I talked with a zoology professor at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee this afternoon, and he didn't exactly pinpoint it. Apparently this virus began in China back in 1984. It spread pretty fast to Europe. He said Australia had a massive outbreak of the virus in the mid-nineties and it wiped out something like 95% of their rabbit population." He shook his head and chuckled, "So we've narrowed it down to more than half the world. Wish I had more for you."
I thanked him and rose to go, then remembered Josh's questions about the blood on the floor and the order of events. Ward told me that based on the blood spatter, the rabbit's foot was cut off first, then the killer went to work on Mrs. Walentowicz. He also said that the rabbit's foot was pushed into her brain before the incision was made in her abdomen.
Also remembering Mrs. Howland's wishes to potentially include him in our little cabal, I asked if he would be open to coming by the house for a visit. He agreed and said he would be by before 11:00 tomorrow morning.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Josh: You Might Want To Sit Down For This: Josh Says Something That Might Actually Be Helpful
In going back over my posts, I seem to be either cowering in fear or preparing to cower in fear. Oh, or saying things like, "We shouldn't hire Mary" (I've tried to delete that entry, like, fifty times. Thanks for the post-lock, Mom!). Today, however, I might actually say my first useful thing. Emphasis on "might".
So toxicology comes back negative, at least so far. How would the killer get her to smile as he's doing all this horrific sh*t to her? My theory: hypnosis. It's been used effectively in surgery in place of anesthetic on many occasions, and while what happened here is mindblowingly hideous, it does kind've qualify loosely as surgery. Not that we should necessarily put out an APB for anyone with one of those spinny, spirally things or gold pocketwatches, but it's something else to look for.
Mary, I wanted to ask you, does the coroner know yet in what order events happened during the murder? Was she cut first? Was the rabbit cut first (meaning, was the rabbit's blood on the floor first)? Was the rabbit's foot-ugh, I feel my gag reflex kicking in while I type this-inserted into her brain before or after her head was pulled through her abdomen?
I've had enough of all this violent talk. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be jacking cars and beating down pimps in Grand Theft Auto IV on the X-Box for the next few hours until dawn.
Actually, that reminds me, Mom-I thought I wouldn't have to mention what time it was in my posts, but the time-stamps on the bottom of these things are all screwed up. So just so you know, it's 3:00AM the day after Mrs. Walentowicz's murder.
So toxicology comes back negative, at least so far. How would the killer get her to smile as he's doing all this horrific sh*t to her? My theory: hypnosis. It's been used effectively in surgery in place of anesthetic on many occasions, and while what happened here is mindblowingly hideous, it does kind've qualify loosely as surgery. Not that we should necessarily put out an APB for anyone with one of those spinny, spirally things or gold pocketwatches, but it's something else to look for.
Mary, I wanted to ask you, does the coroner know yet in what order events happened during the murder? Was she cut first? Was the rabbit cut first (meaning, was the rabbit's blood on the floor first)? Was the rabbit's foot-ugh, I feel my gag reflex kicking in while I type this-inserted into her brain before or after her head was pulled through her abdomen?I've had enough of all this violent talk. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll be jacking cars and beating down pimps in Grand Theft Auto IV on the X-Box for the next few hours until dawn.
Actually, that reminds me, Mom-I thought I wouldn't have to mention what time it was in my posts, but the time-stamps on the bottom of these things are all screwed up. So just so you know, it's 3:00AM the day after Mrs. Walentowicz's murder.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Mary: Autopsy, Part II
I'm back at the Howland residence now with a thick, down comforter pulled up and a large mug of lemon tea steeping on the nightstand next to me. The rain still has not let up, and I can hear the wind whipping what's left of the leaves on the trees outside. I've been poring over photocopied notes from the autopsy, and while it hasn't made for the most comforting bedtime reading, there are a few more details I feel should be committed to the journal.
(Should I be writing these in present or past tense? Josh seems to do more present, but I lean toward the past for whatever reason. I'll just have to do what's appropriate at the time, I suppose.)
First, a few words about Mrs. Howland's home, while I think of it. The walls and staircases are dominated by dark mahogany, giving the home a stately yet warm feeling that I imagine will be even more welcome once winter fully arrives. When I asked, Jeff informed me that the artwork is dominated by early nineteenth century paintings, including a picture of a beautiful girl sitting in the mountains ("The Spanish Girl In Reverie", again, obviously according to Jeff), a huge war scene ("Battle of Grochow") and "Caligula's Palace And Bridge", which wasn't nearly as shocking or perverse as you might think, based on the title. I was going to ask whether they were the originals or reproductions, but I had already exceeded my allotment of educational inadequacy for the day.
Interspersed with the more classical artwork are framed prints of what appears to be comic-book art. Jeff tells me that they are originally from French and Spanish graphic novels, and that they belonged to the late Mr. Howland. You would think that they would look horribly out of place, given the rest of the decor, but they actually help to give the house a more modern, lived-in look.
As you may imagine, everything is absolutely spotless and impeccably well-kept, and even with my newly purchased suit, every time I walk around the house I feel like a member of a museum tour who has hurdled the velvet ropes and invaded places not meant to be disturbed.
Now, the autopsy report. I'm not sure if my previous description of the murder scene adequately depicted the state of poor Mrs. Walentowicz's corpse. Again, she was lying on her back on the kitchen table, her abdomen cut open vertically and her head sticking out of her belly (as Josh later delicately remarked, "It was like a 'Whack-A-Mole' game from Hell.").
The question was, how did the killer manipulate the head into this position? Even in something as clinical and professional as medical notes, the coroner's bafflement is evident. As far as he could tell, the killer first made the incision in the belly, reached down and through the internal organs, shoving them aside, and literally pulled her head straight down into the neck and through the chest cavity from the inside. The skin by the shoulders is torn; there are no signs of incisions other than the one in her midriff.
The good news is, because the killer physically manipulated the muscles, there are finger indentations embedded in the soft tissue that would seem to indicate that the perpetrator is a male. We were leaning that direction anyway, but it's good to know.
The bad news is that the murder is impossible. The coroner is in frank disbelief that anyone could reach down and manipulate the body in this fashion by hand. Also, early toxicology screens are negative, so how he got her to smile during this process is yet another disturbing mystery.
The other noteworthy item from the report is (obviously) the rabbit's foot lodged in Mrs. Walentowicz's brain. Again, the coroner could find no evidence of the use of tools; it simply appears that the foot was pushed claw-first up through the back of the throat and then straight up into the hippocampus. The tissue is soft in that area, so the coroner at least does find it conceivable that this was performed by hand.
The rabbit's foot itself isn't the kind we typically associate with the term, i.e., some cheap little charm (at right) won from some coin-operated game, but instead it was freshly-cut from a rabbit, the incision probably made with the same sharp-edged blade that was used on Mrs. Walentowicz. Furthermore, in addition to the human blood found at the scene, they also found rabbit's blood, leading them to believe that the killer entered the house with a live rabbit and amputated its foot right there in the kitchen.
It just gets odder and odder. I'm going to pray for good dreams tonight, but I'm doubtful they'll come.
(Should I be writing these in present or past tense? Josh seems to do more present, but I lean toward the past for whatever reason. I'll just have to do what's appropriate at the time, I suppose.)
First, a few words about Mrs. Howland's home, while I think of it. The walls and staircases are dominated by dark mahogany, giving the home a stately yet warm feeling that I imagine will be even more welcome once winter fully arrives. When I asked, Jeff informed me that the artwork is dominated by early nineteenth century paintings, including a picture of a beautiful girl sitting in the mountains ("The Spanish Girl In Reverie", again, obviously according to Jeff), a huge war scene ("Battle of Grochow") and "Caligula's Palace And Bridge", which wasn't nearly as shocking or perverse as you might think, based on the title. I was going to ask whether they were the originals or reproductions, but I had already exceeded my allotment of educational inadequacy for the day.
Interspersed with the more classical artwork are framed prints of what appears to be comic-book art. Jeff tells me that they are originally from French and Spanish graphic novels, and that they belonged to the late Mr. Howland. You would think that they would look horribly out of place, given the rest of the decor, but they actually help to give the house a more modern, lived-in look.
As you may imagine, everything is absolutely spotless and impeccably well-kept, and even with my newly purchased suit, every time I walk around the house I feel like a member of a museum tour who has hurdled the velvet ropes and invaded places not meant to be disturbed.Now, the autopsy report. I'm not sure if my previous description of the murder scene adequately depicted the state of poor Mrs. Walentowicz's corpse. Again, she was lying on her back on the kitchen table, her abdomen cut open vertically and her head sticking out of her belly (as Josh later delicately remarked, "It was like a 'Whack-A-Mole' game from Hell.").
The question was, how did the killer manipulate the head into this position? Even in something as clinical and professional as medical notes, the coroner's bafflement is evident. As far as he could tell, the killer first made the incision in the belly, reached down and through the internal organs, shoving them aside, and literally pulled her head straight down into the neck and through the chest cavity from the inside. The skin by the shoulders is torn; there are no signs of incisions other than the one in her midriff.
The good news is, because the killer physically manipulated the muscles, there are finger indentations embedded in the soft tissue that would seem to indicate that the perpetrator is a male. We were leaning that direction anyway, but it's good to know.
The bad news is that the murder is impossible. The coroner is in frank disbelief that anyone could reach down and manipulate the body in this fashion by hand. Also, early toxicology screens are negative, so how he got her to smile during this process is yet another disturbing mystery.
The other noteworthy item from the report is (obviously) the rabbit's foot lodged in Mrs. Walentowicz's brain. Again, the coroner could find no evidence of the use of tools; it simply appears that the foot was pushed claw-first up through the back of the throat and then straight up into the hippocampus. The tissue is soft in that area, so the coroner at least does find it conceivable that this was performed by hand.
The rabbit's foot itself isn't the kind we typically associate with the term, i.e., some cheap little charm (at right) won from some coin-operated game, but instead it was freshly-cut from a rabbit, the incision probably made with the same sharp-edged blade that was used on Mrs. Walentowicz. Furthermore, in addition to the human blood found at the scene, they also found rabbit's blood, leading them to believe that the killer entered the house with a live rabbit and amputated its foot right there in the kitchen.It just gets odder and odder. I'm going to pray for good dreams tonight, but I'm doubtful they'll come.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Mary: Autopsy
The rain intensified as I drove down I-94 West to Mayfair Mall, my rental car's wiper blades whipping back and forth at high speed, clearing the droplets out of my sight almost before I registered they were there. I'm sure it's never a good sign in your life when your rental car is far, far superior to the car you own. Living in a gorgeous mansion by the lake, driving a Lexus, eating waffles every morning with Jeff and Cynthia and trying (and failing) to keep up with them as they discuss philosophy, psychology and history has been an incredible experience, but it isn't truly real to me. While living this life-at least for a short time-is making me feel totally out of my depth, it is still growing more comfortable by the hour. I have to steel myself for the inevitable return to my home in Madison, and the dirty dishes, unpaid bills and piles of laundry that are my reality. 
Mrs. Howland insisted that I purchase some new business suits and charge them to her as expenses. The clear statement here is that she found all of the clothes I wear to be lacking, and I have never been so simultaneously humiliated and thrilled at the same time. Once at the mall I took my time to make sure that the money would be spent wisely, and that I was purchasing ensembles that not only would meet Mrs. Howland's approval but that also expressed what I enjoy. Four hours later (a bit longer than I had anticipated) I left the mall with my new suits, a Cinnabon and an embarrassingly bloated expense ledger.
Upon exiting the Mayfair Mall parking lot it was well after seven in the evening, and though it was a long shot that I would receive any information of value from Detective Ward about the case at this time of night, my sense of duty (or, more to the point, guilt about the bill for the clothes) impelled me to drive down to the St. Francis police department and at least try. I am pleased to say that my journey was certainly not in vain.
After shaking off my umbrella in the foyer, I entered the station and almost literally bumped into Detective Ward, who was on his way out. He looked even more gaunt and haggard than he had that morning, but he worked up enough energy to give me a polite smile. "Miss Stroud. I was just knocking off, but come back to my office, I've got something you are absolutely going to want to see."
Once ensconced in his small cubicle, Ward opened his lower desk drawer and pulled a Manila file folder out, laying it gently on his desk. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at me. "Off the record and unofficially, Randazzo is an utter f*ck-up. I never believed for a moment that what happened to your client was a simple hit-and-run. The traffic pattern, the rate of speed, the fact that he had to make a pretty tricky swerve past some parked cars to hit her car at all... everything added up to intent, at least as far as I was concerned, but it wasn't my case." He spared a glance back down at the folder sitting on his desk, his fingers tapping gently on the cover. "Your client made a phone call today, and apparently she can be damn persuasive. Randazzo is off, I'm on. I'm treating today's murder and the attack on your client as a single investigation." Ward smiled disarmingly then, his grin hinting at the handsome man he would have been twenty years before. "There are a lot of cops that wouldn't be too thrilled about a private investigator running alongside their case, but I'm fine with it. We've got plenty to do as it is, and if there's a victim out there who's willing to funnel resources into a case, I'm going to use them, not fight them. Just keep what I tell you out of the press and tell me what you know when you know it, that's all I ask."
This was about the best news we could have received. With Ward now running the investigation, we had a competent, sympathetic police liaison. As his fingers absently rapped on the folder, he continued, his voice softening to a whisper. At this time of the night there was only one other officer in the station working the front desk, but I instinctively leaned closer conspiratorially.
Mrs. Howland insisted that I purchase some new business suits and charge them to her as expenses. The clear statement here is that she found all of the clothes I wear to be lacking, and I have never been so simultaneously humiliated and thrilled at the same time. Once at the mall I took my time to make sure that the money would be spent wisely, and that I was purchasing ensembles that not only would meet Mrs. Howland's approval but that also expressed what I enjoy. Four hours later (a bit longer than I had anticipated) I left the mall with my new suits, a Cinnabon and an embarrassingly bloated expense ledger.Upon exiting the Mayfair Mall parking lot it was well after seven in the evening, and though it was a long shot that I would receive any information of value from Detective Ward about the case at this time of night, my sense of duty (or, more to the point, guilt about the bill for the clothes) impelled me to drive down to the St. Francis police department and at least try. I am pleased to say that my journey was certainly not in vain.
After shaking off my umbrella in the foyer, I entered the station and almost literally bumped into Detective Ward, who was on his way out. He looked even more gaunt and haggard than he had that morning, but he worked up enough energy to give me a polite smile. "Miss Stroud. I was just knocking off, but come back to my office, I've got something you are absolutely going to want to see."
Once ensconced in his small cubicle, Ward opened his lower desk drawer and pulled a Manila file folder out, laying it gently on his desk. He stared at it for a long moment, then looked up at me. "Off the record and unofficially, Randazzo is an utter f*ck-up. I never believed for a moment that what happened to your client was a simple hit-and-run. The traffic pattern, the rate of speed, the fact that he had to make a pretty tricky swerve past some parked cars to hit her car at all... everything added up to intent, at least as far as I was concerned, but it wasn't my case." He spared a glance back down at the folder sitting on his desk, his fingers tapping gently on the cover. "Your client made a phone call today, and apparently she can be damn persuasive. Randazzo is off, I'm on. I'm treating today's murder and the attack on your client as a single investigation." Ward smiled disarmingly then, his grin hinting at the handsome man he would have been twenty years before. "There are a lot of cops that wouldn't be too thrilled about a private investigator running alongside their case, but I'm fine with it. We've got plenty to do as it is, and if there's a victim out there who's willing to funnel resources into a case, I'm going to use them, not fight them. Just keep what I tell you out of the press and tell me what you know when you know it, that's all I ask."
This was about the best news we could have received. With Ward now running the investigation, we had a competent, sympathetic police liaison. As his fingers absently rapped on the folder, he continued, his voice softening to a whisper. At this time of the night there was only one other officer in the station working the front desk, but I instinctively leaned closer conspiratorially.
"I thought the scene of the murder was the weirdest and worst-I mean... they're still working out how the hell the murderer got a goddamn smile on her face. They're thinking he drugged her with something that would produce the effect, but we're waiting on toxicology." Detective Ward shrugged helplessly, then sighed and deliberately flipped open the file folder, sliding it over the desk to me.
Without waiting for me to read it, he said, "They didn't find it at the scene, but as soon as they began the autopsy proper they couldn't miss it. Something had been... they're not sure, probably pushed in somehow-into her brain. Coroner says he thinks the killer went up through the back of the throat and into the skull, though he doesn't know how it was done without major drilling, and they can't find any sign of that."
I looked up from the file. "There are so many questions I have regarding how the body was manipulated, actually. How did he pull the head down through the body cavity-"
He put up a hand. "You've got the same questions the experts do, and there's no answer in sight, at least not yet. I like to think we're a pretty capable bunch, but as of now I'd be shocked if the F.B.I. didn't step in on this one. There's just so much unanswered, and this last find... in her brain... it's just so far over the top." Ward slumped back in his chair, gesturing for me to read the coroner's preliminary report. As he had said, a foreign object had been found lodged next to Mrs. Walentowicz's hippocampus. The coroner was waiting for further tests to be conducted, but he was almost entirely certain as to the object's nature: it was a rabbit's foot.
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