CHAPTER EIGHT: NEW YORK

by Josh Reynolds

Commissioner Qiana Taylor put the phone down with a sigh of long-awaited relief. “Our girl did it,” she said, looking across her desk at Archibald Hudson and Valeria Antonova. “Ari managed to talk to the Claret Knight. The Coterie have heard our proposal.”

“And?” Hudson asked, leaning forward in his chair.

Taylor sat back. She’d been worried she’d made a mistake, sending Ari. Quinn was a good agent, but had trouble separating her feelings from her duties. Of course, they were going to need to talk about her relationship with the Zorzi woman, if that was what it was – but that was for later. “And they’re considering it. Or so she says. That’s all we can hope for, frankly. There’s a lot of water rushing under that particular bridge.” She looked at Antonova. “Where are we at on Tillinghast – any sign of him?”

“Rumor is, he was in Boston a week ago,” Antonova said.

“Boston – why?”

“Not a clue,” Hudson said, apologetically. “We managed to scoop up some of his lackeys the Bureau of Investigation missed, before we left Arkham, but they didn’t have much to say. They seem to be as in the dark as the rest of us.”

Antonova spoke up. “That might be why they went after Banks in Boston. If they’ve been keeping tabs on the investigation same as us, they might have thought that Banks could lead them to Tillinghast.”

“Not likely,” Taylor said. She leaned back and steepled her fingers, studying the arrangement of pencils stuck in the ceiling tiles above her head. “No, I think they’re following standing orders. Tillinghast probably set them to covering his tracks, so that’s what they’re doing. It would explain the recent coastal anomalies as well.”

In the weeks since the Arkham incident, more disturbances – not as severe, thankfully – had been reported up and down the eastern seaboard of the United States. Unnatural fog banks, strange sounds heard emanating from out at sea, rains of fish, and worse besides. In Pawtuxet, something had crawled aboard a docked fishing vessel and torn the crew apart as they made ready to go home for the night. Strange footprints belonging to no known animal had been found along the Piscataqua River after a heavy rain.

A list of missing boats was tacked up on the wall behind her; many had disappeared during the storm that preceded the Arkham incident, but some had vanished in the days since. Beside it was a list of hospitals where the victims of the so-called sleeping sickness were being cared for. Some had woken up, finally – but not all. Not nearly all.

Taylor studied the pencils and felt, not for the first time, like it was all coming apart at the seams. The Foundation was doing what it could, but she needed more money, more manpower – the right manpower. People who wouldn’t wind up in an asylum the first time they saw something with more teeth than an alligator come crawling out of some nameless netherhell. She looked at Hudson and Antonova. “What’s the status on our intrepid investigators? How’d they do in England?”

“They’re headed home,” Hudson said. “Seems they got a lead on Tillinghast. Or they think that they do, at least.” He glanced at Antonova, who picked up the thread.

“Mabati,” she said. “In Oxford. He got in contact a few hours ago.”

Taylor’s eyes widened slightly. “Did he now? How timely.” She’d unsuccessfully tried to recruit Nkosi Mabati in the early days of the Foundation. He knew more about paradimensional matters than most, and had done his bit to keep the public safe in several notable incidents, but he wasn’t a joiner. Nonetheless, he still consulted for the Foundation on a regular basis. “What did he want?”

Antonova looked unhappy. “He said someone tried to whack Banks and Scarborough in the Bodleian. A full-on paradimensional incursion. If he hadn’t been there…”

“But thankfully, he was,” Hudson supplied. “More, he traced the origin point of the incursion to Kingsport. When Banks and Scarborough decided to head home, he got hold of the Foundation office in London and let us know that they might well be walking into a trap.”

Taylor rubbed the bridge of her nose in growing frustration. “And of course, knowing that, he sent them anyway. How helpful of him.”

“Maybe he figures we can use them to flush out Tillinghast,” Hudson said.

“Or maybe he didn’t realize it until too late,” Antonova added.

Taylor grunted. “It doesn’t matter either way. We have to get to them first, if possible, and bring them in – with a minimum of fuss. I don’t like what I’m hearing from Washington with regards to those two.”

Hudson frowned. “I’m guessing their superiors aren’t happy with them.”

“That’s an understatement if I ever heard one, Archie. In point of fact, someone has issued a warrant for their arrest. Apparently, they’ve been leaking sensitive information to the wrong people.” She rolled her eyes, showing what she thought of that. “I’m still trying to find out who decided that was a smart idea, but until I do, they’re safer here with us than out in the wild.” She selected a pencil from the jar on her desk and pointed it at them. “I need you two to get to Kingsport and intercept our daring duo. I don’t care how you get them here, but do it.”

“What about Tillinghast?” Antonova asked.

Taylor shook her head. “I’d bet my eyeteeth he’s not there.”

“But something is,” Antonova insisted. “Maybe just a guy with a gun in a warehouse on Water Street, but maybe something worse. Tillinghast doesn’t strike me as the type to worry about collateral damage. If he’s conjured up something, like whatever attacked them in Mexico City…”

She trailed off, but Taylor understood. They still weren’t exactly certain what had happened in Mexico; someone had done a good job of covering that particular incident up. But they knew something had happened. And she didn’t want something similar happening in Kingsport – or worse, an incursion like Mabati had apparently seen off.

Taylor sighed. “Fine. Here’s what we’ll do: let them spring the trap and then save their hides, if possible. A bit of gratitude might go a long way, even if we have to nudge it along.” She tossed her pencil up, but didn’t watch it hit the ceiling tile. For better or worse, the pattern was set. No changing it now.

Whatever happened, they just had to hope for the best.

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