The Missing Professor— Episode Six

𝗔𝗿𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗺, 𝗠𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗵𝘂𝘀𝘀𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝟭𝟵𝟯𝟴

Rain hammered the windshield hard enough to make conversation pointless.

Darla leaned forward over the wheel, squinting through the wavering blur of the downpour and wet branches. Pickman Road twisted ahead like it didn’t want them there.

Beside her, Cody used the fog from his breath to cloud the window.

His gloved finger moved with precision. Familiar symbols bloomed in the condensation.

Darla glanced at the window and saw the drawing he was working on. Runes covered the glass, and in the middle, a triangle with an ornate circle inside it. She didn’t have the time or energy to try to decipher it. Staring at the runes always made her head hurt.

He was content.

Right up until he ran out of glass. A heavy sigh left his lungs. Darla glanced over and caught him eyeing the back windows.

“Don’t even think about it,” she said. Tears had come and gone, leaving her voice thick.

The sanitarium appeared through the rain like a bad memory come back to haunt her.

“It’s always three against one,” Cody mumbled.

Stone walls.

Iron fencing.

Tall, narrow windows, black against the clouded morning sky.

Darla’s sweat-dampened hands gripped the wheel like it might come loose.

You thought about Arkham Sanitarium?

The conversation felt like it had been years ago. She was so angry he’d brought it up because she knew he was right.

The anger lanced through her again, white-hot.

She pulled the car to the side of the road. Tears blurred the dashboard into the world beyond the windshield. A branch clawed against the roof.

Cody didn’t seem to notice they’d stopped. His face was barely three inches from the glass as he was studying and making tiny corrections to the symbols.

Come on Darla. This is the only way. Someone there might be able to help him.

She wiped her eyes, drew a long breath, and jammed the shifter into gear.

They climbed the slick stone steps together. Warm breath wisped out from their mouths and faded into the cold. She tugged her coat closer. It seemed like just another adventure for Cody. If he knew what was happening, he didn’t show it. Cody paused in the doorway and placed his hand on the wall.

“The stones can hear me,” he said quietly.

Darla searched his face.

Nothing.

Just that distant, unnerving calm. His milky white eyes stared back at her until she opened the door. A rush of warmth welcomed them in.

Three sets of eyes looked toward them as they stepped into the massive foyer.

A bright stab of lightning lit the world on fire for an instant. Shadows leapt from their hosts, writhed across the walls and as quickly were pulled back to their mundanity.

The large oak door closed behind them with a heavy finality.

White linoleum tiles stretched ahead. Coffee, then the under-scent of cleaning products and the sour tang of fear. Or was that her?

Inside, she could hear the murmurs of patients in the community room, but beneath it, she could hear darker sounds from behind locked, sterile-white doors ahead.

The laughter was muted, but she could sense the wrongness of it. A sudden, cold draft made her shiver. A receptionist was talking, but it sounded miles away. She strained to hear beyond the doors.

Screams.

“Cody...” she began, but two white-clad orderlies were already ushering him into an examination room.

She waited for him to turn and look at her.

He didn’t.

It felt like the mill all over again.

***

The drive back into town felt longer.

Lonelier.

For the first time in weeks, she was alone.

It should have felt like relief.

Her guilt-ridden thoughts wouldn’t let it.

A panel truck roared past, spraying dirty water across her windshield. She slammed the brake pedal and jerked the wheel, heart racing until the road steadied again.

By the time she reached the apartment the sickening guilt had changed to anger.

Her stomach growled for food, but she doubted she’d have been able to keep anything down at the moment.

***

The red dress still fit.

That surprised her.

It had been weeks since she’d worn anything but practical skirts and coats. Since Danvers Pointe, life had narrowed to survival.

The fabric clung in ways that made her uncomfortable. It always had.

It made her more than just visible. It made her a target. She’d have to slip back into the role. Pretty, accessible, but, just out of reach. A cigarette girl.

She buttoned her overcoat tight. It was early afternoon, but the rain had kept it from warming up. Her hands shook so hard, she didn’t feel safe driving. The cab would be here any minute.

***

Ebonwood Lodge cut through the afternoon fog. Dark-cut granite blocks wet from the rain were made more imposing by the exclusion of windows. More crypt-like the longer you stared at it.

“Drop me here, and wait for half an hour, will ya?” She handed the cabbie her fare and when he nodded, she dropped a few extra coins in his palm.

This shouldn’t take long.

“That ain’t no place for dames.” He called out as she opened the door. She ignored him.

Rain slicked the dark stone. Lanterns burned low beside the entrance. A converted Masonic Hall, if the symbols carved into the archway of the vestibule meant what she thought they did.

A place no respectable woman entered. Much less, uninvited.

Good thing she had never been particularly respectable.

Her prey had to be inside. Everett Carlisle.

And hopefully the truth about Professor Reed.

Darla adjusted the slender, bone-handled, switchblade tucked into her waistband. Jackson had shown her how to hold it. Where to strike if there was no other choice.

Her heart hammered.

She tried hard to stifle the fear as she started up the steps.

***

Jackson woke with the unpleasant certainty that he’d been put through a meat grinder. The pills had worn off.

His ribs ached. His jaw throbbed. His mouth tasted like stale cardboard.

The office couch had not improved with familiarity. His apartment was too far to drive.

He sat up slowly and waited for the room to stop trying to slide off itself.

Fog pressed against the window. He blinked away the vision of tendrils prying at the locked sash.

Good morning, Arkham. Or was it afternoon?

He splashed cold water on his face in the sink, swallowed a pair of Doc Unger’s pills with the last of yesterday’s coffee, then reached for the phone.

Lucy picked up on the third ring.

“You sound worse,” she said.

“You should see me.”

“I’d rather not. But I’ve got more on your missing professor.”

Jackson leaned against the desk.

“Talk.” His voice grated.

“Carlisle isn’t working alone. He’s been seen with two others lately. Important. The kind people lower their voices about.”

“Names.”

“One calls himself the Robin. Don’t ask me why. The other you’ll recognize. Sir Maxwell Hollingsworth.”

Shit.

He knew the name.

Everyone did.

Hollingsworth had been in the papers more than once, smiling beside the Governor, shaking hands with men who built railroads and ruined towns. Big development plans. Energy proposals. New drilling rights. Coal, maybe oil. Nobody ever seemed quite sure.

But everyone agreed on one thing.

He always got what he wanted.

The Robin was an unknown. He hated unknowns. They tended to show up when you least expected with a gun pointed at your gut. He had to work with the concrete leads in front of him, not chasing after a ghost. At least not yet.

“And Reed?” Jackson asked.

“They’ve been looking for experts. Scholars. Antiquities men. Linguists. The pattern’s ugly, Jackson. They don’t take no for an answer.”

Jackson closed his eyes for a moment.

“Untouchable,” he said.

“That’s the word. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Join the club.”

He hung up before she could say anything else. Darla wasn’t going to take it well.

***

The bills didn’t care about your troubles.

A cheating husband case paid the rent. Jackson spent the afternoon following a mug who thought he could hide his dirty dealings behind cheap cologne. Still, the job took hours. Hours he couldn’t spare.

By the time he finished, the rain had let up, but night had already crept into the streets.

He drove to Darla’s building.

No lights.

No answer at the door.

He knocked again anyway. The hollow thumps didn’t tell him anything new. They were gone. Out? Unlikely. Groceries maybe.

Jackson stood in front of the flaked beige paint for a long moment, weighing pride against exhaustion. He checked his watch. 7:40. If they weren’t back by 9:00 he’d take a look inside.

He decided to wait in the hallway. At least it was warm. He dry-swallowed a pair of Unger’s pills and sat beside the door.

***

Morning didn’t bring clarity. At least the hard floor in front of Darla’s apartment was somehow better than the couch had been.

He checked his watch. Few minutes before eight. Damn he slept through the whole night.

He listened at the door.

Silence.

Something was wrong.

He slipped his picks from his jacket pocket.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Should have done this last night.

Thirty seconds later the lock surrendered.

The apartment felt wrong the moment he stepped inside.

Too still.

Crypt-like. No. Stop that.

The sagging brown tweed couch sat where it always had. Sand still clung stubbornly in the grooves of the linoleum.

But Darla wasn’t there.

Neither was Cody.

Jackson looked through the rooms anyway.

A single sheet of paper sat on the table.

He read it once.

Then again.

Jackson,

We both have our own talents. Maybe this time we need mine.

I’m going to Ebonwood. Hopefully, I’ll be back before you find this.

I did it. Cody is at the Sanitarium. I hate myself for it, but there was no other way.

You need me on this. I’ll tell you what I find when I see you again.

—Darla

Jackson lowered the paper slowly.

A pan still sat on the stove and Cody’s plate with eggs sat in the sink.

“Goddammit!”

For the first time since Danvers Pointe, real anger stirred.

Not at Darla.

At himself.

He had known she wouldn’t sit still. Known she would do something reckless.

He’d hoped Cody would be the anchor to hold her in place. He was wrong.

He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his pocket.

Jackson popped two more codeine and locked the apartment behind him.

“Into the lion’s den, then.”