The Missing Professor— Episode Four

Arkham, Massachussets 1938

“Ain’t nobody else I trust to patch me up ’cept you, Doc.”

“Majors, some nights I wish there was.”

Doc’s examining room was just big enough for one man and his bad decisions, the table barely broad enough for a German shepherd. Jackson knew the table too well. Doc Unger had patched him up more than once over the years. This wasn’t the worst shape he’d ever arrived in, but it felt like it.

Age had a way of making every beating stick around longer than the one before.

The place reeked of stale cigarette smoke and carbolic, sharp enough to make your nose run and eyes water, but it was clean.

It was two in the morning.

He’d woken on Darla’s couch with his entire torso screaming bloody murder. He knew he needed more than ice and sympathy. The drive across town had been bad. Every pothole a screwdriver twisting into his back.

Doc Unger had served with him. Not the whole time, but long enough for the two of them to come back with a bond and a few things they never talked about.

He was one of the few men Jackson trusted.

“Doc,” Jackson growled, face-down on the table, “what the hell you doing back there?”

“Trying to get you back on your feet and outta my hair. Hold still.”

Unger’s fingers were sliding over bare skin. Light touches felt like ice and fire combined. He could have sworn the Doc was tracing the same runes as Cody.

On his back.

His shoulder spasmed so hard he almost jumped off the table.

“I am holding still.”

“No. You’re squirming. Shut it down soldier.”

Jackson gripped the edge of the table as tight as his bruised hands would allow.

Doc gripped his shoulder and braced his upper back.

“Now relax.”

“Not a chance in—”

POP.

The initial sound cracked through the room like a pistol shot.

“Oh pardner, bet you wish you had some liquid pain killer now.” The voice came from the shadows. He could smell the man’s reeking breath from ten feet. His whiskers and drawn eye sockets were burned into Jackson’s mind.

You’re not real.

“Sure ‘bout that?”

Pain exploded through Jackson’s upper back and shoulder. He sucked in air, but after the first white-hot second, the knife in his spine eased. He tried a deeper breath.

Still pain.

But manageable. He rested his forehead against the cool tile of the table.

Doc’s fingers worked carefully along Jackson’s ribs. Every touch found a fresh reason to swear.

“Nothing feels displaced. No bubbling in the chest. That’s the good news.”

“Bad news?”

“At least one’s cracked. Rest of you’s bruised from throat to belt buckle. You keep charging around town and somebody’ll be picking pieces of you out of a gutter. You’re gonna need to lay low for a few days. Heal up.”

“Can’t.”

“That’s right. You stop movin’ ‘an yer a dead man.” The voice said with a chuckle, and faded.

Jackson pushed himself upright carefully, every muscle in his torso arguing the point.

“Then die busy.” Unger threw his hands up.

He wrapped the plastered bandage around Jackson’s chest several times, each one seemed tighter than the last., til finally, he thought he was going to pass out from the pressure.

“Gonna take a bit for this to set up. Hopefully it’ll keep you from puncturing a lung.”

The cabinet door squawked open.  Doc worked on something Jackson couldn’t see while he struggled to pull his reeking, bloodied shirt back on.

“You ain’t Superman, Majors.”

“Who?”

Doc snorted. “Some fella in a funnybook my boy likes. Never mind.”

Doc returned with a small bottle of tablets.

“I ought to give you morphine and strap you to a bed till morning, but you’d only chew through the restraints. Codeine,” he said, shaking the little bottle of tablets.

“Two when you get somewhere you can sleep. Not before you drive.”

“Good ‘nuff. Hope it’s as good as whiskey.”

“You know, it’d be nice to see you during daylight once in a while. To catch up, Majors.”

Jackson managed a busted half a smile.

“Alright, Doc.”

After he pulled his shirt back on, he laid two five-dollar bills on the steel tray.

“Put that away. I never charged you before. Ain’t starting tonight. Other people pay. Plenty.”

Jackson slid the money back into his pocket.

“Fine. Then I owe you one.”

“God help me if I ever need to collect.” He pointed to the bottle and reiterated.

“Two of those tonight. Then some sleep whether you like it or not. After that, two at a time. Twice a day. No heroics.”

Jackson took the bottle and stuffed it in his coat.

The DeSoto started on the second try.

His office was close.

He swallowed two of the pills dry.

He drove through Arkham with fog curling around the streetlamps, reaching for the jaundiced light.

The codeine had already taken the claws out of the pain, but the ache was still there, big and mean and settled deep.

He drove with the window open. The cold air felt good.

The couch in his office was better than Darla’s. Not by much, but enough to matter at four in the morning.

He got the coffee going when he came in, more out of habit than judgment, swallowed a couple more pills, then dropped onto the couch with his coat still on.

Just before sleep claimed him, he watched helplessly as deep shadows crept up the walls. They hovered over him. He could feel the weight of their stares.

The next thing he knew, cold drool had glued his cheek to the leather armrest.

The shadows were fresh in his memory.

Jackson jerked upright and immediately regretted it.

Sunlight slashed through the blinds.

His mouth tasted like bad medicine and old pennies.

He checked the clock and swore.

His body screamed at him as he pulled himself off the cushions.

He’d slept half the morning away.

Too much codeine. Or not enough food. Maybe both.

Used to be, a couple shots of whiskey took the edge off and helped him get by.

Careful, Jackson. Trading one bottle for another won’t end well. He shrugged his own advice off and told himself pain was pain and medicine was medicine.

His stomach gnawed at him. He ignored it, swallowed exactly two more pills with a mouthful of cold coffee, and stood there until the room stopped tilting.

He set the white coffee cup down and for a moment, he swore the reflection in the remaining liquid shifted wrong.

Hyde’s boys really did a number on him.

Time to work.

The hunger would keep him sharp.

First things first.

Professor Reed.

He picked up the phone and spun the number from memory.

“Grant.”

“Lucy. Jackson.”

A pause.

“You sound like hell.”

“Feel worse. Ever hear of Professor Malcolm Reed out at Miskatonic?”

“Sure. Been in the paper more than once. Big name among people who like dead languages and deader civilizations.”

“Good. I need everything you’ve got on him.”

“That a favor or a story?”

“Both, maybe. Woman came to me thinks he’s missing. Looks bad, Luce.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough I’m calling you before breakfast.”

“It’s noon.”

Lucy had always been that way — quick, sharp, no wasted movement. Lucy had dark olive skin, dark hair, and the kind of pretty face that might have opened doors if she had not preferred picking the locks instead. She had a reporter’s nose and enough nerve to walk into places smarter people walked around. They went back years.

“Give me an hour,” she said. “Usual spot.”

Jackson hung up, grabbed a pencil and his notebook, then looked down at himself.

Wouldn’t do to meet Lucy looking like roadkill after the third day. He washed up as best he could in the office sink, which wasn’t much, the bandages would keep him from showering for a few days. He put on a clean shirt and a fresh pair of pants.

There were no shadows, but he could feel their stares boring into him.

Lucy was waiting near the corner in a dark coat, hat pinned low against the wind, a folder tucked under one arm.

She took one look at him and whistled.

“Good Lord. You look like something shoulda stayed in the ditch.”

“Morning to you too.”

She handed over the folder. He passed her a cup of hot joe.

“Malcolm Reed. Well-known. Published. Called in now and then when somebody dug up a stone idol and wanted a smart opinion on whether it should stay buried. A lot of time outside the country. Egypt, Turkey, you get it. Travels less than he used to. Hasn’t really been the same since his wife died last year.”

“That so?”

“Nearly broke him, from what I hear. Been quieter. Smaller. Still respected, though. Miskatonic likes having a man like that around.”

Jackson thumbed through clippings.

“So, either he got the itch to travel again, or somebody made the decision for him.”

Lucy watched him for a beat.

“You gonna tell me what happened to your face, or am I supposed to act like this is how you always look?”

“Hyde.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I thought you was clear of him.”

“So did I.”

“And?”

“And now I owe him. Calls it a favor.” He tried to give a wicked smile, but his face was so tight he doubted she saw any difference.

She let it hang for a moment. Her brow sunk, mouth tightened.

“Ain’t no favor. That’s a leash, Jackson.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed.”

She folded her arms.

“One of these days you gotta stop solving every problem with your fists.”

Jackson looked up from the clippings.

“One of these days I’m gonna run outta problems.”

She exhaled through her nose, hard.

“You oughtta crawl in a hole and get some rest. But I know you, Majors. Keep digging. I’ll go shake Miskatonic a little. Faculty, staff, whoever saw Reed last. You, on the other hand, probably shouldn’t be trying to charm university people looking like something drug up from the Miskatonic.”

“Not my usual pretty face, huh?”

Lucy snorted her laugh then looked back over her shoulder.

“Try not to get dead before supper. It’d ruin my night.”

Jackson watched her disappear into the street traffic, her boots clopping across the pavement, then looked down at the folder in his hands.

Professor Malcolm Reed.

Missing.

And somewhere above, a dark boot hung over his neck.

Hyde. Waiting to collect.

The fried oysters he’d gotten from the cart earlier threatened a second appearance.

Jackson tucked the papers under his arm and started shuffling back to the DeSoto.

The day had turned cold in the way only Massachusetts could manage — mean, damp, and personal.

Jackson was halfway back to the DeSoto when a clipping slid loose from the folder and fluttered to the pavement.

He bent carefully and picked it up.

A dinner party photograph. Professor Reed, looking uncomfortable among a group of men in matching white dinner jackets.

The caption should have named them. But the ink had smudged.

Unreadable. Dammit.

One thing struck him. He knew the building.

Ebonwood.