CHAPTER THREE: BOSTON

by Josh Reynolds

Roland Banks sat quietly in the interrogation room of the Boston field office of the Bureau of Investigation and arranged a selection of photos across the tabletop. The photos had been taken over the course of the ongoing investigation into recent events and showed a variety of curious objects, among them a soapstone idol, a ritual knife, and a bronze medallion.

Each of these items had been recovered from various sites of interest. All belonged to the members of a certain esoteric sect known as the Pilgrims of the Drowned City. Said members were dead, or at least presumed so; some in the recent disaster that had rippled up and down the eastern seaboard of the United States; others had resisted arrest and been put down. A few had taken their own lives, rather than face interrogation.

Banks studied the array of photos, noting little details: blood spots on the knife-blade; the verdigris on the medallion. Little clues, adding up to a big mystery. The biggest, perhaps, of his career to date. Once, the thought might have excited him. These days, he just felt tired. He’d gone too many days without a good night’s sleep; too many days prowling ruined warehouses and backroom temples to abominable deities, looking for answers that stubbornly refused to be had. He adjusted the order of the photos one more time and then sat back to wait for the prisoner to arrive.

As he waited, he mentally reviewed what he knew about Max Walton, a truck driver from Kingsport. Walton had been arrested numerous times over the course of his adult life, most recently for public nudity, with half a dozen others, on St Martin’s Beach. When questioned, they claimed religious freedom. The government, being the government, had kept an eye on Walton and his fellow adherents. Which was why, when they’d all of a sudden decided to skip town, people had taken notice.

Walton had been picked up just before he’d made his escape. He’d clammed up immediately and had only started talking when news of the flood in Arkham had reached him. Even then, he’d refused to say much more than he wanted to talk to Roland.

Roland wasn’t certain how Walton had gotten his name. That was just one of many questions he intended to ask the man. Things had gotten strange, in the wake of the disaster. Not just the sleeping sickness; cults and weirdo sects were popping up everywhere, like cockroaches startled by a light going on.

Most of these were harmless enough, but some were downright murderous. A group in Charleston had taken to the Battery to self-immolate with the dawn. Another bunch, in Ithaca, had staged a raid on a maternity ward – thankfully they’d been stopped by a few good Samaritans, before they managed to get away.

Then, there was Boston. Someone had gunned down several former members of the Silver Twilight Lodge just before the water had hit Arkham. Roland, who’d tangled with the Lodge before, had figured it for an internecine conflict. Only, from what he’d recently learned, the Lodge was defunct. So why kill a restaurant full of former members?

Roland had investigated enough mob killings to know when someone was cleaning up after themselves. There was a thread running through all of it, and his name was Randall Tillinghast. Tillinghast, an antiques dealer from Arkham, had been named in several ongoing investigations, including Boston. The man was somehow connected to each and every unusual occurrence – even if Roland wasn’t sure how. Not yet, at least.

Regardless, the sooner they found him, the better. That was where Walton came in. They could draw a definite line of connection between Tillinghast and Walton’s bunch – the Pilgrims of the Drowned City.

The door opened and two of his fellow agents escorted in a short, dumpy, middle-aged man. As the latter was seated across from him, Roland said, “Good afternoon, Mr. Walton. I’m told you wished to speak with me?”

Walton swallowed nervously. “You Banks?”

Wordlessly, Roland retrieved his badge and ID and showed it to Walton. The man sighed and sagged in his chair. Roland motioned for the other two agents to leave. “What did you wish to speak with me about, Mr. Walton?” he asked again.

“I- I have information for you.”

“And in return?”

“You have to protect me.” Walton’s eyes darted side-to-side with almost comical nervousness. “They’ll kill me, if they find out I’m talking to the Feds.”

“I see. And who might they be?”

Walton knotted his fingers anxiously. “You- you’re looking for Tillinghast?” he asked, avoiding the question. Roland noted it, but let it pass. There would be time for that later. Besides, the mention of Tillinghast told him there might be something pertinent to whatever Walton wanted to tell him.

“We are, yes. Have you seen him?”

“I might have.”

Roland nodded, then drew Walton’s attention to the photos. “Do you recognize any of these objects, Mr. Walton?” As he asked the question, he heard a muffled thump from the other side of the two-way mirror that occupied the wall behind him. They had an audience.

Walton glanced at the photos, and then away. “No.” A lie, and a palpably obvious one. Roland tapped the photo of the idol.

“Look again, please.”

“I told you I don’t know what those are.”

“But you know who Randall Tillinghast is.”

“So?” Walton’s expression was pugnacious. Roland could feel the other man closing off. Had whatever compulsion led him here ended? Or had it been the mention of Tillinghast that had done it? Was Walton that frightened of an antiques dealer from Arkham?

“These items were procured by Tillinghast – an antiques dealer – over the course of the last year and sold on to a number of individuals, all belonging to the same esoteric society that you do, Mr. Walton. Or do you deny that you are a lay member of the so-called Pilgrims of the Drowned City?”

Walton stared at him, his eyes wide and almost starting from their sockets. His face gleamed with sweat, and there was an odd, briny smell seeping from his pores. Roland, who’d smelt that particular odor before, kept his gaze fixed on the other man. “You were arrested attempting to board a tramp steamer bound for South America. May I ask why? Is Tillinghast there? Is he waiting for you and the others?”

Walton frowned. “You don’t know anything, do you?” he asked, after a moment.

Roland, who didn’t care for Walton’s tone in the least, held up three fingers. “I know three things. One, Randall Tillinghast is somehow involved with the Pilgrims of the Drowned City. Two, your bunch seem to believe that you somehow caused the recent devastation that struck the eastern seaboard, and Massachusetts in particular. And three, Tillinghast got out of Arkham just before it was flooded – as did many of your fellow pilgrims. You included, Mr. Walton. Once upon a time, I might have attributed that to coincidence. But these days, we can’t afford to overlook anything, even something so innocuous as your travel plans.”

“You don’t know anything,” Walton repeated.

“Where is Randall Tillinghast, Mr. Walton? Are you still in contact with him?”

“Nothing at all,” Walton murmured, as an ugly smile slid across his wide face. His lips peeled back from yellow teeth and something about the expression reminded Roland of a barracuda. It occurred to him suddenly that interrogations could go both ways. And even as the thought crossed his mind, Walton lunged across the table for him.

Walton was on his feet and over the table more quickly than Roland believed possible. The man moved with the boneless speed of an eel, and his fat hands were on Roland’s throat before he could even think of going for his service weapon. “You know nothing,” Walton hissed, triumphantly. “Nothing!”

They fell backwards, Walton landing on top of Roland, driving the air out of his lungs. His grip tightened relentlessly; black spots danced at the edges of Roland’s vision as he fumbled for his weapon. His free hand clawed at Walton’s face. The man’s skin felt oily; rubbery. The door to the interrogation room slammed open and someone stepped inside. A pistol barked… once – twice – three times. Walton jerked and shuddered with every crash of the weapon, and as the echoes of the last shot faded, he gave a gurgling groan, released his grip on Roland’s throat, and toppled sideways.

Roland scrambled to his feet and rubbed his throat. A woman stood in the doorway, a smoking pistol in her hand. She’d plugged Walton in the back three times, with a tight grouping that spoke to professional firearms training.

“Roland,” she said, softly, as she lowered her weapon. “Are you okay?” Roland stared at the newcomer. The last time he’d seen Trish Scarborough she’d been boarding a ship bound for parts unknown. Or maybe parts redacted was a better way of describing it. Need to know, and he hadn’t needed to know, as she’d put it. He’d understood, but that didn’t mean it hadn’t stung.

“Trish – you…?” he began.

She holstered her weapon. “Saved you? Yeah. Just like old times, huh?”

Roland grunted noncommittally and rose to his feet, straightening his necktie as he did so. Gratitude warred with annoyance; a familiar tussle, when it came to Trish. “What are you doing here?”

“I should have thought that was obvious.”

“If it was, I wouldn’t have asked,” he said. Trish crouched beside the dead man as shouts echoed from the corridor outside. Roland stepped out to intercept the oncoming agents, and assured them everything was under control – though, manifestly, it was not.

It wasn’t the first time a suspect had died in his custody, but even once was one time too many as far as he was concerned. Worse, his superiors, already unhappy, were going to have questions for him – questions he couldn’t answer. He went back in and closed the door. Trish was rooting around in the dead man’s pockets. “We already searched him,” he said, pointedly.

“I’m not looking for a weapon,” Trish said, without looking at him.

“We took everything off him,” Roland insisted. “Every scrap of paper, every piece of lint. Why are you here?”

Trish sat back on her heels and glanced at him. “Randall Tillinghast.”

Roland frowned. “What do you know about Tillinghast?”

“You first,” she said, as she rose to her feet. Roland studied her. Trish looked as tired as he felt. He wondered what she’d been through to get here. He sighed.

“He’s a person of interest in an ongoing investigation.”

“Arkham,” she said.

Roland nodded, not surprised in the least. Trish was good at knowing things, especially things she shouldn’t. “My turn. What do you know about Arkham?”

“Only what I read in the papers.” Trish looked down at the dead man. “Why did he want to kill you? He must have known he wouldn’t have gotten out of here alive.”

Roland grimaced unhappily. “I could have asked him, if you hadn’t killed him.”

Trish fixed him with a steady look. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“What do you mean, next time?”

“I’m dealing myself in, Roland. There’s a puzzle here. You know what I’m like when it comes to puzzles.”

Roland pinched the bridge of his nose. He felt a headache coming on. Lack of sleep, obviously. Then again, Trish and headaches were a matched pair. “Needlessly competitive?”

Trish’s gaze took on a steely glint. “Look who’s talking. I came here out of courtesy, Roland. I don’t need your help. Frankly, you’ll probably just slow me down.”

There was the Trish that Roland remembered. He looked down at the dead man, and then at Trish. It was obvious that she wouldn’t have been allowed in the building – armed at that – without some sort of official sanction. The Cipher Bureau and the Bureau of Investigation weren’t exactly on speaking terms, but they’d run co-operative investigations before. In fact, they’d – well. That was then, and this was now.

“You say slow, I say thorough,” he said. “Where do we begin?”

Trish smiled. “Where it always begins… Arkham.”