The Missing Professor— Episode Seven

Arkham, Massachusetts 1938

Darla became aware of the cold first.

It crept up through her bare feet and settled somewhere behind her ribs. The marble floor beneath the chair was polished so perfectly she could see the blurred reflection of her own legs trembling.

A fire burned in a vast stone hearth across the room. Not for warmth. For atmosphere. The flames moved slow, deliberate, almost hypnotizing.

The study did not match the exterior of Ebonwood Lodge. Outside it had loomed like an ancient temple. Inside it was something else entirely.

A thick Persian rug spread across most of the floor, its intricate reds and golds muted beneath low lamplight. Heavy velvet drapes hung closed over a non-existent window and bookshelves climbed toward a coffered ceiling darkened by age and cigar smoke. On an ornate sideboard, crystal decanters and cut-glass tumblers caught the firelight in fractured prisms.

Two men stood near the mantle.

Both wore immaculate white suits, and both were barefoot.

There the similarities ended.

Neither had given their names.

The taller man looked as if he were freshly chiseled from stone. Handsome, in his fifties. Clean shaven, with light gray eyes that you couldn’t help staring at. His silver hair was trimmed like he had just left the military barber. His posture was ramrod straight, but something about him reminded her of a viper. Carlisle, she guessed.

The other man was a few inches shorter, but no less imposing. A well-kept beard just beginning to show a few silver hairs masked his face, deep wrinkles around dark brown eyes, like a hunter who has stared down prey of all shapes and sizes.

Her shoulders trembled. She left the note for Jackson but suppose he didn’t break into her apartment. Noone else knew she was here.

The way the two men stared at her, she couldn’t help but feel like a steak in a butcher’s window.

Carlisle filled the other man’s glass with amber liquid. Whiskey, she guessed. Or bourbon. Something expensive enough that the burn probably felt earned.

A stallion was embroidered in silver thread above each breast pocket—rearing, proud, its mane stitched in sharp, angular lines that reminded her of the symbols Cody was obsessed with.

“I’m sorry for the bump, miss,” the brown-haired man said conversationally. “I did warn you what would happen if you continued shouting.”

The gag in her mouth tasted like linen starch.

Her shoes had been taken the moment she had been ushered inside.

No. Ushered wasn’t the right word.

Herded.

No shoes in here. They dislike sand on their feet.

The guard who’d said it had worn the same white suit, but without the stallion.

Hierarchy.

The stone man, the one she assumed to be Carlisle, studied her with cold curiosity, like he was deciding whether she was worth owning.

“I understand you are acquainted with Professor Reed,” said the shorter man. “He is… unavailable at present. Enjoying a sabbatical, I believe.”

‘Carlisle’ smiled faintly.

“So why are you here, Miss D’Angelo?” The question was rhetorical. She stared needles at her captors.

The pulse in her wrists slammed against the ropes.

They knew her name.

“Oh yes,” the man in charge said, smoothly. “We make it our business to know people. You were a cigarette girl at the Monk Club, were you not?”

Her eyes conveyed her response as well as her words would have.

He took a slow sip from his glass.

“I must confess I’ve never visited. Although, if all the girls are as lovely as you, I fear I’ve deprived myself of a cultural experience.”

He traced a finger down her cheek until she flinched away.

Darla tried to shout.

The gag did its job.

The men exchanged an amused glance.

Outside the study door, something padded softly across the marble.

Bare feet. Someone was watching.

***

Rain slicked the long drive into black glass.

Ebonwood Lodge sat low and wide, like a busted nose on a stone-faced thug.

Jackson killed the DeSoto’s engine and sat for a moment, letting the tick of cooling metal fill the silence. Pain pulsed in his ribs. Breathing was harder when he was sitting. The bandages cut in. He was still recovering from the night on the hard floor. The codeine had dulled the edge but left everything else sharp.

The front doors opened before he reached them.

A man stepped out.

White coat. White tie. White patent shoes polished like bone.

“Private property,” the man said calmly. “Members only.”

“I’m looking for a woman,” Jackson replied as he ascended the steps. “Red dress. Black purse. Bad luck.”

“Then you’re looking in the wrong place. This is a men’s only—”

Jackson hit him.

No warning. Just a clean right hand meant to end the conversation.

The guard’s head snapped sideways.

He turned back to Jackson with a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

A bead of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it away and his smile grew.

Jackson felt his stomach drop.

The man moved fast. Faster than anyone in a tailored coat had a right to. A fist slammed into Jackson’s cracked ribs. White light burst behind his eyes. He staggered back, boots sliding on wet stone.

Another blow came. Then another. His breath exploded out with each brutal punch.

Kidneys, liver, ribs—body shots meant to incapacitate.

Boxer.

Another couple seconds of this and Jackson knew he’d be leaving on a stretcher—or not leaving at all.

He swung wild and missed miserably. He swore he heard the man laugh. He squared up and as the boxer stepped in, he threw a haymaker.

His knuckles caught the guard square on the temple. Just enough. The man reeled.

Jackson drove him forward with everything he had left.

They hit the wall together.

The guard slid down unconscious leaving a streak of dark crimson on the wall.

Jackson stood over him breathing like a broken engine. If his ribs weren’t broken before, he was absolutely sure they were now. Each breath shot through him like a bolt of lightning.

Blood dripped from Jackson’s nose, spattering the guard’s white pantleg. He hadn’t even realized the man hit him in the face.

“Well, shit,” he muttered. He may not have earned the win, but he was happy to have it. Even the best fighters get caught.

He didn’t have the pain tolerance to move the man’s body. He just stepped over it.

He tilted his head back and pinched his nose tight.

Inside, the lodge was silent.

Too silent.

Money had smothered every sound. Thick rugs. Polished marble. Dark wood swallowing light. The air tasted like wood polish… and copper. Though, that was probably because of the blood dripping back into his throat.

He moved room to room.

Library. Empty.

Dining hall. Set for ghosts.

Study. Fire dying low.

Then he stopped.

Perfume.

Faint.

Hard to tell with a busted nose, but...

Darla.

He followed it down a long corridor that narrowed the farther he walked.

A door stood half open.

Inside, a man sat alone at a table eating from a tin plate. Judging by his appearance, he was likely a janitor or some other type of servant. He was dressed exactly like the thug out front, except he was barefoot.

He looked up.

His eyes went wide.

His jaw stopped.

Jackson closed the door behind him.

He looked down at Jackson’s shoes and blanched.

“We’re gonna talk.” Jackson grabbed the man’s napkin and wiped the fresh blood from his nose and lip.

The man shook his head before Jackson even spoke again.

“I don’t know nuthin. They... they make sure of that,” he said around the half-chewed food.

“Then it’s gonna be a very painful conversation for you.”

He spit his food out and dropped his fork. Hands raised in surrender.

“No, no, I swear I don’t know nuthin... C’mon man.”

Jackson’s eyes bored into him. Sweat beaded on his lip.

Fear.

Real fear.

Good.

“A girl, blonde. Came here some time yesterday. Where is she?”

“No, no, no.” The man kept looking past Jackson, expecting something.

“He ain’t coming.”

The man swallowed hard enough Jackson could hear it.

Jackson’s gaze drifted past him. The room was small. A breakroom for staff, he guessed. A refrigerator, hotplate and the table and chairs were the main attractions.

A waste bin.

Something black inside.

He reached in and pulled it free.

A small black purse. It was the only one she had.

Jackson sat down opposite the man and placed the purse on the table between them, almost reverently. He tossed the bloodied napkin onto the man’s plate.

“Nice coat,” he said, his voice deadpan, “shame to get blood all over it.”

Thanks or reading. I hope you've been enjoying the series thus far. If you missed the first story, Danver's Pointe, you can catch up on Jackson and Darla's first adventure through that story.

If you've found enjoyment, please consider liking and sharing the stories with friends or family.