The Missing Professor— Episode Eight

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴

Jackson kept the revolver pressed just behind Clifton’s ear.

His left hand gripped the fellow’s shoulder hard enough to feel bone.

“Slow,” he whispered.

They moved down the narrow stone steps together.

The air changed first.

Damp. A dirt cellar.

Not the cultivated chill of marble upstairs; this was earth cold.

The kind that seeps into your marrow.

At the bottom waited a low cellar room. The walls were unfinished stone, but clean. This was older than the upper floor.

A bare table sat beneath a hanging bulb that buzzed like an angry insect. Ashtrays overflowed with crushed cigarette butts. Stale smoke hung in the stagnant air.

A small radio whispered static and half a dance tune before losing the signal again. Two wooden chairs faced each other, casting hunched shadows like conspirators.

Beyond the table, a corridor stretched into shadow.

Jackson pushed the gun forward until the barrel touched the man’s lips.

“Shh,” he whispered.

They walked across the packed dirt floor.

The smell reached him halfway down the passage.

Perfume.

Faint… but stronger than upstairs. There was no doubt this time.

Hope and dread tightened on his chest.

Cells lined the corridor.

Iron doors stood open.

Stripped mattresses, folded blankets, pillows placed with unnatural precision. No dust. No footprints. Like whoever had been there had been erased rather than removed.

The man stopped and began to tremble.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered. “You don’t know Mr. Hollingsworth. He won’t let this go. He’ll kill us both. Unless his dog Carlisle gets us first. You already killed us. The minute you walked in here...”

“Stop talkin’,” Jackson muttered. He pushed the man forward. He didn’t need to hold on to him any longer, the man’s legs had been wet towels since Jackson interrupted his meal. He did anyway.

They turned the corner and stopped.

At the far end of the corridor, in the dark, something shuffled.

***

The dining room smelled of expensive meat and fear.

Four men sat at a long oak table.

Each had been served a perfectly cooked steak.

None of them touched their plates.

Sir Maxwell Hollingsworth stood near the sideboard, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. Firelight reflected in the facets.

He wore a white suit. His tan was amplified by the contrast. His brown hair and beard looked like he’d just stepped out of the barber’s shop.

Beside him stood Carlisle, sharp and rigid. A soldier, or predator whose flinty gaze missed nothing. He was in his fifties, the years had honed him into something sharp.

“Well,” he said pleasantly, “if you gentlemen do not wish to avail yourselves of my hospitality, we may begin.”

He gestured. The waitress left.

A door opened.

Three attendants padded into the dining room, barefoot, pushing heavy metal carts like old mining carts. Stone slabs rested atop them; dark, ancient, veined with mineral scars that seemed to shift when the eye focused on them.

They aligned the tablets with precision, then left without a sound.

Hollingsworth smiled.

“These,” he said, “are written in a language only a handful of people in this world can decipher. For your sakes, I hope you are among them.” His voice softened when he spoke about them.

He sipped his drink.

“I already know what the first tablet says. Sadly, the scholar who translated it for me has… relocated.”

No one spoke.

“Why four of you?” Hollingsworth continued. “Trust is a rare commodity. You will each produce a translation. I shall compare the results.”

He paused for effect.

“Consider it a contest. Success will be rewarded. Failure will result in early retirement.”

He began pacing behind their chairs.

And stopped cold. The small black stain on the old scientist’s shirt pocket may have been mistaken for ink by some, but it wasn’t ink.

Hollingsworth stepped away from the man, lip curling, disgust radiating from him.

“Get him out of here.” He said through clenched teeth.

Carlisle elbowed open the door and snapped his fingers; the sound was sharper than a gunshot.

Two heavily muscled men entered the room, their bare feet slapping gently across the floor.

Carlisle whispered into the first man’s distorted ear, cauliflowered from years of hard hits in the ring. The disfigurement only added to his menace.

The two brutes hauled the scientist to his feet and dragged him out. As he opened his mouth to protest, the truth was laid bare. His teeth were pitted and stained. The condemned man’s rancid breath rolled over the table as his terrified pleas fell on deaf ears.

“There is no room for the weak here. Devil chaw. Black spit. Whatever the gutter calls it, it is weakness. It is a corruption, the stupid boy should have known better...” His voice trailed off, clearly, he’d been speaking about someone else. Hollingsworth handed his empty glass to Carlisle, and refocused.

“I apologize for the interruption. Back to the matter at hand. Deciphering the stones.”

The three remaining men sat alternating their gazes between the two men and the trio of ancient stones.

“And gentlemen, if you are contemplating dignified refusal, well,” he walked behind the men and placed his well-manicured hands on their shoulders.

“Professor Reed—I am sorry to hear of your late wife. Her sister Francine is counting on you.”

Reed’s brow furrowed for a moment, then his jaw rippled.

“Professor Dunhaven—your granddaughter Elsie would appreciate your cooperation.”

The old man closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped.

“Doctor Smythe—your wife would find widowhood inconvenient.”

Silence stretched, he fidgeted with his hands.

The three men glanced toward each other.

He lifted his freshly filled glass in a casual toast.

“Now, I suggest you eat. You will require your strength.”

A toothy smile.

“I can assure you, the steak is perfect.”

Thanks for tuning in to this week's installation. I do hope you're enjoying the story so far. Please consider liking the post and leaving a comment. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Mike