Notes: A fusion of White Collar with the world of the Cthulhu Mythos as envisioned by H.P. Lovecraft and others. White Collar characters retain their same first names. No canon knowledge of either White Collar or Lovecraft is necessary. Please refer to notes at the end of the chapter for more background information.
Chapter 1: Silent Raindrops
Arkham, Massachusetts. September 12, 1975. Friday morning.
He had another dream last night.
This one was more vivid than any he'd experienced before. He awoke shaking and exhausted—catapulted out of an abyss of unspeakable horror. Unearthly shapes loathsome beyond man's ability to comprehend. . . . No, he dared not describe what he'd seen, what he'd smelled, what he'd heard. But the thin sound of insane piping echoed still in his mind and the pervasive stench lingered in his nostrils. Rubbing his eyes, he muttered, "Just a dream."
He got out of bed and wrapped himself in a robe, for the air in the loft was cold. Autumn was settling in early in Arkham. It was only mid-September, but the morning chill penetrated his bones. He retreated to his small bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror. His bloodshot eyes, the chalk-white pallor to his face, they forced him to realize he should start calling his dreams by their real name, nightmarish visions of a world man was not meant to see.
Were the long hours he'd spent in the university library, absorbed in the old tomes of ancient legends, the cause? His advisor, Thaddeus Shrewsbury, had warned him to tread carefully in his research. But his specialty was ancient languages. How could he have pursued his dissertation without immersing himself in the beliefs of early cultures?
The dreams had started last May when he moved back to Arkham from England. His year at Oxford he'd been fine. Well, until January when he couldn't sleep at all, but that wasn't because of the dreams. When he returned to Arkham, he was determined to finish his doctoral dissertation. He longed to bury himself in his research and shut everything and everyone else out. Late at night when he was too weary to work, he caught up on reruns of TV programs he'd missed when he was abroad. Back then, an occasional dream was easy to blame on the pressure of defending his dissertation.
But he'd obtained that doctorate, and still the dreams continued. Now they'd grown more frequent and terrifyingly intense.
Wearily he splashed water on his face as he lectured himself, "Get a grip. You're Neal Carter. You just survived your first week as Assistant Professor of Linguistics at Miskatonic, one of the most prestigious universities in the country. You're young, of reasonable appearance. You have your whole life ahead of you. You're not going to let a few bad dreams get the better of you, are you?"
Ablution and stern lecture completed, he felt much more like himself. He moved into the kitchenette to make coffee and caught himself humming. What was that tune? Of course, the Bob Dylan classic—"The Times They Are a-Changin'." He shrugged. An improvement over last night.
For the past few days he suspected his subconscious was refusing to revisit the dreams and wouldn't let him sleep. Finally, with a desperation born out of bone-weary exhaustion, he'd put on a Simon and Garfunkel record. What a mistake that had been. Between "I am a Rock" and "Sounds of Silence," was it any wonder that he felt depressed? He was no rock and recently he'd come to the conclusion he'd had enough silence around him to last a lifetime.
Neal took out a bag of Italian roast coffee beans from the kitchen cabinet and ground enough for his coffee press. When the coffee was ready, he lifted up the steaming mug and breathed in the aroma. Walking over to the window, he gazed out at the clapboard houses across the street. The buildings might not have the history of Oxford, but there was something reassuring about the simple wood frame houses, each painted a different color. They were sturdy and unpretentious like the New England town they were set in. He needed their solidity now.
He'd been fortunate that June had held on to his apartment during his time in Oxford. The location, only a ten-minute walk from the university, made it prime property. She could have easily let it out while he was away, but she refused, insisting it wouldn't be right to have anyone else living upstairs. When her husband passed away, she claimed she would have been lost without Neal. He suspected she only said that to make him feel less alone, but he appreciated the sentiment. Now he was the one who would be lost without her.
By the time he left for his classes, Neal felt ready to face the challenges of the day. He entered the campus of Miskatonic University through the elaborate wrought iron gate and strolled through the quad. The maple trees were already beginning to turn with a few dappled rust and umber leaves scattered on the brick walk. The leaves were slippery with the heavy mist of the early morning. Although clouds hung low in the sky, it hadn't begun to rain. The brisk cool air would bring color to his cheeks. No need to worry the students that he'd come down with the plague.
As he headed for his office in the Wingate Hall of Humanities, he debated for what he hoped was the last time the wisdom of his plan. He would have asked Mozzie for advice, but he wasn't due back for another week. After a six-month sojourn in India, Mozzie shouldn't be welcomed home by having Neal's issues dumped on him.
Two nights ago when he was unable to fall asleep, he'd carefully crafted his strategy. Realizing that his insomnia was preventing him from thinking clearly, he'd gotten out the Monopoly board Mozzie was so fond of using and even justified his moves aloud as if Mozzie were there listening. And when he imagined his friend nodding in approval, he knew he'd formulated his plan correctly. In preparation, Neal had already completed his notes for today's classes. He had no excuse not to sit in on Professor Gilman's lecture this morning.
He first stopped off at his tiny office on the fourth floor. As the newest faculty member of the Department of Linguistics he supposed he was lucky not to be relegated to the broom closet, although when he first saw it, he felt that was what it must have been in an earlier incarnation. He had barely enough space to cram his desk in among all the bookshelves. But at least he had a window. Granted, porthole might be a more accurate description, but the small leaded glass window provided a bird's eye view of the quad below.
Today's schedule was not heavy: a seminar on Anglo-Saxon language and literature at eleven and a lecture on the science of language in the afternoon. The lecture was the introductory course in the linguistics department. As the newest faculty member, he'd drawn the short straw. The seminar had been a surprise. It was all women. Neal found it hard to believe not a single male student had applied. The first day he'd been disconcerted by the intensity of all those female eyes staring at him.
Neal picked up the faculty directory from his desk and read Gilman's bio once more. Peter Gilman, full professor of archaeology. His field trips were legendary. Hell, the man was legendary. He came back with the most spectacular finds, many of which were currently displayed in the university museum. Jewelry from the Old Kingdom in ancient Egypt, Incan statues, gold figures from Mesopotamia, Shang Dynasty bronzes in China. His knowledge of ancient civilizations was without parallel.
Gilman had been away on a field trip when the introductory coffee for new faculty was held. Neal regretted the absence—he'd hoped to meet him. Today would have been so much easier if they were already acquainted, but the timing of Gilman's courses had never meshed with Neal's own demanding schedule. Gilman mainly taught small advanced seminars which were restricted to archaeology majors and grad students. Kate had often mentioned what a dynamic speaker he was. She'd been so excited to accompany him on an expedition …
Neal opened a desk drawer and pulled out her photo. A friend had taken it on her last trip. He ran his finger over her image next to the Sanjaya temple ruins on Java. He lost himself in her face for a long moment and then slipped it back in the drawer.
So what was he going to say to Gilman? That he was counting on him being able to identify the mysterious object in his dreams? Neal winced. Not the sort of subject to bother a stranger with. Most likely Gilman would laugh in his face or think he was high on LSD. Perhaps he'd report him to the provost as someone who was too unstable to teach.
His resolve crumpling like the ruin in Kate's photo, for the umpteen-thousandth time he debated approaching Gilman. Neal stood up and went over to the window. Raindrops were now trickling down the glass in tiny rivulets, obscuring his view, but the ivy-covered brick walls of the buildings around the quad were a reassuring solid presence. No more procrastinating. He'd promised himself the evening before if he had one more recurrence of his dream, he'd discuss it with Gilman. The decision had already been made for him last night as he slept.
Gilman was scheduled to give a lecture this morning on the results of his recent field work in Egypt. Neal had decided to attend to gain a better sense of the man. The lecture hall was the largest one in Wingate Hall and it was almost filled to capacity by the time Neal arrived. He finally found a seat about two-thirds of the way up the steep gallery and waited impatiently for the lecture to start.
Gilman arrived promptly at nine. The man had a commanding presence on the stage. He wasn't that old—early to mid-thirties—but he had a natural assurance in front of a large audience that Neal envied. His most recent field work had been at the Umm el-Qa'ab necropolis at Abydos, a location of predynastic tombs and one of the oldest sites ever explored in Egypt. Gilman had been in charge of an excavation of the tomb of Iry-Hor, a pharaoh from the thirty-second century BC. As Gilman flashed slides of his discoveries—potsherds, ivory artifacts—Neal scanned them all with fascination.
Toward the end of his lecture, Gilman stopped on a slide of a small green soapstone. "I found this artifact behind a loose mudbrick in the tomb. Its location indicates it may have been an object of veneration. Note the unusual incisions . . ."
"Hey, man, you okay?'' Neal felt his shoulder being shaken. He'd slumped forward in his seat. His head swimming, for a moment he couldn't remember where he was. He nodded shakily to the student next to him, not trusting his voice. He must have blacked out. The students were standing to leave. Neal sank back into his seat while they exited and tried to regain his equilibrium. A few of the students were going down to talk with Gilman. He closed his eyes till the hall stopped spinning.
When he opened them again, the hall was nearly empty. If he didn't go now, he'd miss his chance. Gilman was packing up his notes and would soon leave.
Neal descended the steps, relieved to find the dizziness had left him. His speed increased as he began to panic Gilman would leave before he arrived and he'd miss his chance. But what nonsense that was. Neal slowed down, appalled at the irrationality of his thought processes. If this didn't work, forget the cost of an international call—he was calling Mozzie.
Despite his fears, Gilman hadn't left by the time Neal approached the lectern. At the last minute, he hesitated once more. Running a hand through his hair, he took a deep breath. "Professor Gilman, would you have the time to speak with me today?"
Gilman looked up from his notes, his eyes sweeping over him. "I've set aside an hour for meeting with students at two on Thursdays. You're welcome to come then and stand in line." He paused, studying him, and added, "Don't be so stressed. The first week of classes can seem overwhelming. Apply yourself to your studies and you'll catch on."
Neal felt his face redden. "I'm not a student," and proceeded to introduce himself.
"My apologies. You look so young." Gilman shook his hand and smiled. "I'd heard you joined the faculty. Please, call me Peter." He looked at his watch. "I have an appointment shortly and then a seminar to teach, but are you free at four o'clock?"
Neal agreed eagerly. He was due to leave for his own seminar in any case. He left the lecture hall in markedly higher spirits. Finally, he might get some answers.
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Peter glanced at his watch. He still had a few minutes before Carter would show up. He rocked slowly in his leather chair as he thought about their brief encounter. No wonder he'd mistaken Carter for a student. He looked about twenty, far too young to be a member of the faculty. Just how old was he?
Peter pulled out a desk drawer and rummaged through his papers. There it was. The bulletin they'd sent around on Carter's appointment. The kid was only twenty-two. No wonder Peter had been confused. How had he managed to obtain a doctorate so quickly? Peter read through the profile. Full scholarship. Skipped two years of grade school, sailed through his courses at Miskatonic, completing them in record time. Carter must be genius-level. His grasp of languages, both ancient and modern, was remarkable.
Rather surprising their paths hadn't crossed earlier, but it was understandable. Carter had spent the past year at Oxford on the Miskatonic Oxford exchange program researching his dissertation on a comparison of Vedic Sanskrit to Archaic Chinese. His master's thesis had been on early Germanic languages. Peter had spent much of the past two years away on expeditions, and as a result his teaching load had been light.
Carter's profile was intriguing. Peter had often wished for a linguistics expert to call on. This was exactly the sort of person he'd welcome as a colleague, if only Carter weren't too unstable. What had gotten him so upset? When he'd approached the lectern, he was as white as the chalk Peter had been writing with. He looked like he wasn't sleeping well, and that slight tremor in his hands was troubling.
If the stress of the first week of classes was getting to him, it would be folly to subject him to the rigors of Peter's own research. Too bad. Peter had seen that happen before. Young faculty members not knowing how to pace themselves, becoming overwhelmed by the work load, and burning out. Maybe Carter just needed a good dose of advice to get himself back on track. If so, he'd come to the right person.
Fortunately when Carter showed up at his door, he looked fine. Perhaps that had simply been an aberration. Peter welcomed him in and offered him a chair, but he was too fascinated by the objects displayed in his bookcases to sit down.
"Did you collect all these?" he asked.
Peter nodded. "That statue you're looking at is from an Incan tomb I excavated near Machu Picchu. The Peruvian authorities allowed me to keep it because of my continuing work there." As he showed Carter artifacts from Mongolia, Egypt and the Himalayas, Carter wasn't satisfied with a superficial discussion but asked detailed questions, revealing a keen knowledge of ancient peoples. Peter warmed up to the topic and soon the two of them were calling each other by their first names, talking like colleagues who'd known each other for years.
But it was disconcerting that Neal showed no inclination to bring up why he requested the appointment. Finally Peter said, "I've enjoyed this but don't want to keep you." A subtle reminder he had work to do. "You mentioned you had something you wanted to talk to me about."
Neal nodded. An awkward hesitancy replaced his former articulateness. Peter motioned him to take a seat and prodded him to continue. "About my work?"
"Yes, that's one of the reasons I attended your lecture." He paused as if conducting an internal debate before proceeding, which only served to heighten Peter's curiosity. "It was my intention to ask you about an artifact—a green soapstone in the shape of a starfish, inscribed with a distinctive pattern of marks. You can imagine my surprise when you talked about a similar object in your lecture."
Peter grew excited. The object he'd found at Abydos was unique to his knowledge. "But mine wasn't starfish shaped."
Neal opened his briefcase and pulled out a drawing. It had been made with colored pencils and was meticulous in its detail. "What do you think of this? Although not identical, the marks are of similar appearance and the groupings bear a striking resemblance."
"Did you draw this?" Peter asked as he studied the drawing. It showed him that his artifact might have been the central part to what had been a starfish. The object he'd found possessed only one arm. Clearly other parts had been broken off, but it was impossible to know what shapes they might have been. Could this be the same object?
Neal nodded confirmation.
"Where did you see it?" Peter asked eagerly
He hesitated for a moment before responding. "I've been having dreams about this object for the past four months."
Peter's look of disbelief must have been evident from the way Neal's face reddened. "How is that possible? Did you read about the discovery?"
Neal shook his head with frustration. "No. I had no idea you had something similar. In my dream I see a land that has the same cliff escarpments as Abydos. The wadi slices through it at precisely the same position as at Abydos. I'd intended to ask you if you'd seen anything resembling the object, then when I saw your slide at the lecture . . ." His voice trailed off as he spread his hands in an embarrassed gesture.
Peter went over to the safe where he kept his most valuable artifacts and unlocked it. He reached inside for the specimen tray containing the soapstone he'd discussed in the lecture and pulled it out. When he turned to face Neal, he discovered him in considerable distress. His face had been bleached of color and sweat had broken out on his face despite the chill of his office. He was gasping for breath, his eyes glazing over.
Peter quickly set the artifact down and strode over to assist. He shook him by the shoulder. "Are you all right? What is it?"
Neal appeared incapable of answering and was breathing in short, painful gasps. Peter loosened his tie and unbuttoned his collar but his condition was growing worse.
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The wind howled. The onslaught of sand scorched his face till it was raw. He clung to the altar but the wind laughed at him, ripped his hands away, and tossed him as if he'd been a blade of grass. Buffeted by a gale against which there was no resistance, he was hurled down the staircase. He was falling, falling down the malodorous granite steps . . . down into the abyss. The loathsome gibbers grew louder, gnawing his brain as they drew ever closer. . . .
"Neal? You with me?"
The stairs vanished. Neal pried his eyes open, gasping for breath. When he opened his eyes, he wished he hadn't. Swirling iridescent colors spun dizzily in front of him. His ears were still ringing from the wind. It was almost impossible to make out any words. The voice was faint as if coming from a great distance. He struggled to focus, but everything was blurred—a chaotic sea of colors too vivid to be real. Frantic, he turned his head to find something solid to hold onto. There. In the midst of chaos, the soapstone. It glowed from within with an intensity of a blazing star.
Neal tried to speak, but no words came out. His throat ached from the effort. "Soapstone," he gasped then dropped back into blackness.
Cool and wet. Someone was wiping his forehead. The wind had ceased. No more sand in his face. He sat for a moment, his eyes closed, trying to calm his breathing. "Neal?" That voice again. Only this time he recognized it. It was Peter's voice.
Neal opened his eyes warily. The maelstrom of disorienting colors had vanished and was replaced by the warm earthiness of Peter's office. He'd pulled over a chair and was sitting in front of him, eyeing him with concern. "Feeling a little better?"
Neal nodded, not trusting his voice. His mind was still processing the turbulent sensations he'd experienced. Overriding all other impressions was his mortification at Peter having witnessed it. Neal longed to sneak away and pretend it had never happened.
Peter gave him a few moments to recover before attempting to get him to speak. "Care to explain what just happened?" he asked mildly, as if witnessing someone being assaulted by a psychedelic vision was a routine occurrence.
Neal had a sudden urge to respond with a hysterical burst of laughter, but clamped down on it. "The soapstone … you took it out of your safe?"
Peter nodded. "I turned around to find you'd passed out." He was speaking slowly, in measured tones, as if to give Neal time to process the meaning. "You were out for only a minute or two. You muttered something about the soapstone, so I put it back in the safe."
That didn't sound right. He could have sworn he'd been out for at least a half-hour.
"You aren't an epileptic, are you?"
Neal shook his head.
"Then what was it?"
Neal considered for a moment before answering that loaded question. "I wish I had an answer. When you took the soapstone out of the safe, it threw me back into the dream I was telling you about."
Peter stood up and walked over to a side cabinet where he kept a carafe of water. "Think you can manage a glass of water?" Embarrassed, Neal nodded and held with both hands the glass Peter extended to him. He was relieved to see the tremors in his hands were quickly subsiding.
Peter went over to the phone on his desk. He slanted Neal a quick glance, probably to see if he'd passed out again. "I'm just calling the medical department to send someone over."
"No," Neal said, more forcefully than he'd intended. While Peter hesitated, his hand still on the phone receiver, Neal added in a tone meant to convey confidence and robust health, "I'm feeling fine now. There's no need." He sat up straighter in his chair and tried to look relaxed and at ease.
Peter studied him dubiously and then appeared to acquiesce, at least for the moment. He returned to his chair and sat opposite him. "Then tell me what you saw," with a calmness that Neal found oddly reassuring.
"I'm at the necropolis at Abydos. It's late at night." Neal's voice was husky as he began. He took another sip of water and, clearing his throat, continued, relieved that his voice grew stronger as he spoke. "I can see the stars high overhead. A howling wind whips sand on my face. Before me there's a group of columns. I walk toward them. In the center on a massive altar of granite lies the soapstone." He paused to give Peter a chance to laugh in his face.
But Peter didn't laugh. "Is the dream always the same?"
"I believe so. When I first started getting them, all I remembered was a swirling void with the vague outline of the soapstone. Now with every dream, the details come more into focus." Neal hesitated. Should he go into every detail? The staircase beyond? No, that was too incredible and Peter would write him off as another crazed eccentric scholar. He'd explained enough. "They've become more frequent. The past couple of weeks they've been nightly occurrences." Neal set the glass down and assessed Peter's reaction to what he'd heard so far. When he looked into Peter's eyes, he didn't read ridicule or contempt or even simply disbelief but rather the curiosity of a scientist.
"When did you first start experiencing the dreams?"
"About four months ago, in May. I'd arrived back from Oxford and was preparing to defend my dissertation. The first couple of times I thought the dream was simply caused by stress."
Peter nodded. "A reasonable assumption. It may also be a coincidence that I returned from Egypt with the soapstone in April."
Was it? Or was Peter sending him a signal his mind was open to other possibilities? Emboldened, Neal asked "Would you mind if I tried it again?"
"You feel strong enough?"
"I need to know."
Peter studied him for a moment then nodded and went back to the safe. As soon as he opened the door, Neal could feel the disorientation happen again, but he forced himself to relax and try to ride it out. He pictured himself a surfer, riding an ocean wave. He kept his eyes fixed on the object as Peter slowly walked toward him. When he was about six feet away, the dizziness couldn't be denied any longer. He felt his heart pounding out of his chest as he gasped for air. His vision blurring, he flailed out with a hand.
"Hold on." Peter spun around and quickly returned the object in the safe.
Once more the effect slowly dissipated, leaving Neal as exhausted as if he'd climbed Mount Everest. This was ridiculous. He swam. He ran. Neal was no hundred-pound weakling. This shouldn't be happening to him. He wiped the sweat off his brow with a shaky hand. "What is that? Kryptonite?"
Peter chuckled and shook his head. "I gotta tell you. You're not exactly my image of Superman." He glanced at his watch and considered for a moment. Neal took a sip of water. Could he simply slip out of the office? It would be the best solution. This had been an unmitigated disaster. Peter was probably regretting he hadn't called the medics and was trying to figure out how to get rid of him. Peter broke into his musings when he asked, "Have you eaten anything today?"
Neal looked at him in surprise. "Breakfast." With everything else going on, food had been the last thing on Neal's mind. He'd been surviving on coffee for the past several hours.
"Well it's way past lunch, but not too early to grab a quick supper. My wife's working this evening and I don't like eating alone. Besides, I'd like to hear more about that soapstone you drew and it's time for you to get out of this office."
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On their way out they stopped off at Neal's office for his raincoat. Peter assessed Neal's gait as they walked up the broad staircase. Apparently he hadn't suffered any lingering dizziness from the episode. His wife Elizabeth would have insisted Neal see a doctor, but it was clear Neal would have fought the idea. Peter decided to postpone any further attempts for later.
Peter was amused to see the size of the cubbyhole Neal had been assigned. It reminded him of his own first year. At least Neal had a window. Peter hadn't been as lucky.
Their destination was the Sentinel Alehouse, a short walk away through the quad and down Trinity Avenue. The showers of the morning had stopped and blue sky was beginning to peek through the clouds. Neal walked confidently beside him. It was hard to believe he'd been in such distress a few minutes earlier.
Peter steered the conversation away from any discussion of Abydos until Neal had eaten something. Instead they discussed their respective courses. The hesitancy in Neal's voice was gone when he talked about his course subjects. Peter suspected he was an engaging speaker.
The Sentinel Alehouse was an institution in Arkham, going back over a hundred years with framed newspapers from colonial days on the old brick walls. The booths were upholstered in dark red leather. The simple fare was to Peter's taste, and it had the best selection of lagers and ales in town. Peter had been coming here a long time and all the servers knew him.
Joanie seated them at his favorite booth and took their drink orders. Neal requested a glass of wine. A clear indication the kid needed help. Who comes to an alehouse and drinks wine? Peter also ordered pretzel bites with cheese sauce as a starter.
Neal was a good listener and conversationalist, drawing Peter out on tales of his expeditions more than he'd expected. But Peter also acquired details about Neal's studies. Apparently he was also a decent artist, if that sketch were representative of his work.
"When you were at Oxford did you see anything resembling the soapstone?" Peter asked.
"No, and I scoured all the museums containing artifacts from ancient times. I would have remembered something so distinctive."
When Joanie returned to take their orders, Peter recommended the meatloaf.
"Meatloaf? Really?" Neal looked amused and more lighthearted than he'd ever seen him. His reaction reminded him of what Elizabeth's had been the first time they'd come to the alehouse. What would El's reaction be to Neal? Peter suspected he'd be calling on her expertise shortly.
"One of life's great foods. Didn't your mom make you meatloaf?"
He shook his head, giving him an odd look. "It's high time I experience the thrill."
Once their entrées had arrived, Peter returned to the subject uppermost in his mind. "So in your travels, you didn't go to Abydos?"
"Like in my dream? No. Oxford was the first time I'd been overseas, and I was on a tight budget. My travels were restricted to train trips close to Oxford."
"You said when you first experienced the dream, you thought it was stress related. Speaking for myself, I know how easy it is to overdo it when you're preparing for your dissertation—studying too late at night, not getting enough sleep …"
"And I freely admit I was guilty as charged on all counts. If I'd only had the dream a couple of times, I would have thought no more about it, but instead it continued and increased in frequency. Why is it always the same dream and the same soapstone? That doesn't make any sense. And why does simply being in the presence of your artifact have such an effect on me?"
"I don't know. I may have to revise my initial assessment. You're sure you don't have a superhero costume on under your suit?"
His plan to make Neal lighten up appeared to work as he broke into a grin. "If I were born on Krypton, I got short-changed. Why do I only suffer the bad effects and none of the good? I wouldn't mind being able to fly through the air and have x-ray vision, but alas, so far I'm not feeling it."
"Tomorrow I'll take the soapstone over to Professor Dexter in the chemistry department. Cyrus is a friend. I'm sure I can convince him to run some tests . . . Neal? You okay?" He'd dropped his fork in mid-bite and was staring with horror down at his plate. "Did you find something in your meatloaf?" When he didn't respond, Peter reached over to shake his shoulder. "Snap out of it!"
Either his voice or the shaking did the trick and Neal looked up at him, wild-eyed. "They're going to kill Seth if I don't stop them!" He rose precipitously to leave.
"Wait! Who's going to kill him? And who's Seth?" But Neal was already halfway to the door. Peter grabbed his coat to follow him, calling out to Joanie to put the bill on his tab. He ran up to Neal on the street and seized him by the arm. "Where do you think you're going?"
Neal pulled away frantically. "Whateley Rare Books. Peter, he's dying. I have to help him!"
The bookshop was only three blocks away and there was no way Peter was going to let Neal go by himself. Neal darted off down the street and Peter sprinted after him. Damn, Neal was fast. He must be a runner, but so was Peter. He'd match his strides. He knew Seth. Hiram Whateley's younger son. Seth had attended Miskatonic, probably a couple of years ahead of Neal. He'd been in one of Peter's classes, a seminar on India. Bright kid.
Whateley Rare Books was midway down the block off a side street. Dusk had already fallen and the stores were closed. When they arrived at the bookstore, Peter restrained Neal from rushing the door. "Hold on. If what you saw was real, the assailants may still be inside. We have to check it out first."
Neal paused and nodded agreement. They peered through the windows. According to the sign, the store had been closed for an hour. The interior was dark with the only light provided by frosted glass wall sconces. They cast ominous shadows on the leather bindings of the rare books that Whateley's was renowned for. No sign of activity. Neal darted to the door and tried the handle. The door was unlocked and opened with a sharp creak. When Neal moved to enter the shop, Peter held out an arm to block him and forced his way in first. If there were a killer or burglar inside, Peter was a more formidable opponent than a skinny runner who hadn't been eating enough meatloaf.
Peter was a frequent visitor to the shop, having spent long hours browsing through the old volumes filling the bookshelves and piled high on tables, chairs, and every other available surface. Neal flicked on a light switch by the door which turned on the overhead light. Peter listened for any sound, but the shop was quiet as a tomb. No, not a tomb. . . .
Neal strode over to the counter and let out a sharp cry.
With a sinking feeling that went down to his stomach, Peter joined Neal behind the counter. Seth was lying on the wood plank floor, a massive wound to the back of his neck. Neal knelt beside him. He felt for a pulse then looked up at Peter with a stricken face and shook his head.
"The killer may still be on the premises," Peter warned. He scanned the back of the counter and spotted what he was looking for—a burglar alarm button. Had Seth managed to push it when he was assaulted? Peter pushed it several times, hoping the wire hadn't been cut and the signal would go through. Neal was still kneeling, his gaze fixed on Seth. Peter put a hand on his shoulder. "Now. We have to go. It's not safe."
Neal nodded absently and started to get up when he froze. "Look!" He pointed to an object partially obscured by the counter overhang. A green soapstone, in the shape of a starfish, with a pattern of marks on the surface. Apparently it had been dropped and gotten wedged next to the cabinet. Two of the arms had been broken off and two of the remaining ones were coated with blood. Peter crouched down low to examine it, the need to leave momentarily forgotten as the archaeologist in him took over.
Neal took out a pad of paper from his pocket and started sketching the marks. "Be sure not to touch anything," Peter warned.
Neal nodded and continued sketching. Although he was only a couple of feet away he seemed to be able to control any disorientation the soapstone might be causing him.
Suddenly Peter heard noises coming from the floor above them—pounding thuds on floorboards. Peter grabbed Neal by the collar and forced him up, giving him a shove. "Run!"
Neal had heard the sounds too and needed no encouragement, but the stairs were between them and the front door. Two figures clothed in black with hoods covering their faces ran down the stairs and blocked their exit.
Peter and Neal exchanged quick nods and charged their attackers. As they wrestled with them, one of them pinned Neal down. Peter kicked the other, making him sprawl, but he snarled, leaped up, and pulled out a gun.
"Police! Freeze! Hands up!" A man and woman were standing at the door with their guns trained on them. The assailant Peter had kicked grabbed a heavy display unit and hurled it toward the police.
Books and glass flew everywhere. He took advantage of the commotion to race for the door and exit the shop. The male cop ran after him. The woman trained her gun on the other assailant who had stood up and was gripping Neal as a shield in front of him. He had a gun pressed to Neal's neck.
Ignoring her commands, the gunman made his way to the door, keeping Neal between him and the detective. Neal turned his head to look at his captor. When he saw the gunman's hood, his face became transfixed with a look of sheer terror. What had frightened him so much? He wasn't that way earlier.
Neal lashed out with his leg, striking the attacker's kneecap and making him lose his grip. As Neal dove for cover, the woman immediately shot the gunman in the leg.
Peter ran over to Neal. "Are you all right?"
Neal nodded, breathless. "You?"
"I wasn't hurt." Peter helped him to his feet.
By now more police had arrived on the scene. A couple of them took charge of the gunman. They pulled off his hood. The guy was middle-aged and heavyset, his face disfigured with old scars. He was collapsed on the floor, holding his knee in agony. Peter felt no sympathy for him. After what he did to Seth, he deserved worse.
Neal was still breathing heavily, his eyes riveted on his assailant.
"We should leave," Peter said. "Let the police do their job."
Neal looked over at him, his blue eyes grown wide. "That wasn't the man who attacked me."
"What do you mean?" Peter demanded, dumbfounded, but before Neal could reply, the policewoman walked over. Introducing herself as Detective Diana Briscoe, she led them outside and ordered them to sit down on the bench outside the bookstore to wait for medics to check them out.
Peter wasn't about to argue with her. Besides, Neal was clearly shaken from his ordeal and needed to sit down. Had he become delusional? Peter passed a weary hand over his face. What was going on with these visions of his? They were obviously freaking Neal out and they were starting to do the same to him.
Briscoe asked for their IDs, scrutinizing them under her flashlight as if she expected them to be forgeries. She held onto them, saying she'd return them later.
As she started to return to the bookstore, the cop who'd run after the other gunman returned. She looked at him with dismay. "Don't tell me, Jones—he escaped."
"Sorry, Diana. We lost him in the back alleys."
"Damn. Well, at least we have the one. I shot him in the leg so there shouldn't be anything wrong with his vocal chords."
Just then the EMT vehicle rolled up. Detective Briscoe led the medics inside the store. The cop she called Jones went over to one of the patrol cars and appeared to be calling in a report.
"No more visions?" Peter asked.
Neal flushed. "I'm all right. Forget what I said. Must have just been the strain."
"I never got the chance to ask—what was it you saw in the alehouse that alerted you to come here?"
"I saw Seth behind the counter as if I were standing in the front of the store. He had his back to me and the two men were creeping toward him. They were dressed all in black like we saw them. I never saw their faces. Seth turned around and screamed when he saw them. The next instant I had this vivid impression of standing at the counter, watching while they attacked him." He stopped, swallowing convulsively, his face turning even paler under the light of the street lamp.
Peter didn't say anything till he'd regained his composure. "Seth was a good friend of yours?"
"Yeah," he admitted in a low voice.
"Hell, I'm sorry."
"What should I do? What if the police ask why we were there?"
"You have to tell them the truth."
Neal shook his head worriedly. "But they'll think I'm crazy. I worry about that myself. Before tonight I've never had visions like this. I thought I was simply having weird dreams and now I'm seeing crimes in my head?"
Neal was right. If Peter hadn't seen the effect the soapstone had on him, he wouldn't have believed it, and he didn't know what to make of his vision. "You can be vague. Just call it a foreboding. A feeling that Seth was being menaced. That's not a lie. You don't have to explain unless you're asked a direct question. I doubt the Arkham police are going to ask if you had a vision."
Neal started to speak when Jones walked over. "You two holding up okay? The medics should be out shortly." He shook hands with them, introducing himself as Detective Briscoe's partner, Reginald Jones.
Peter heard the door to the bookstore open and turned around, expecting to see a medic, but instead it was Briscoe. She looked shaken as she walked over to their group. "The suspect just died. His wound wasn't that severe. There's no way it could have killed him." She paused, worrying her lower lip. "I don't like it. Something else is at play here."
"Did you find a . . . ?" Jones glanced over at Neal and Peter and didn't finish his sentence.
She nodded. "Just like the others. Damn. We were so close this time. But now, with this death . . . What's going on, Jones?"
She looked baffled, and Peter felt the same. He'd thought his artifact was unique. Now one remarkably similar was a likely murder weapon. Was it also from ancient Egypt? How had it gotten here? And the greatest mystery of all—this young linguistics scholar who approached Peter with a question about a dream he'd had. How were Neal's visions connected to the artifacts and why was he having them?
Notes: Thanks for reading! The mystery deepens in Chapter 2: The Menace Within which I'll post next Wednesday. This is the first story in a new series and I'd love to hear what you think about it.
Many thanks to Penna Nomen for providing outstanding beta reader, cheerleader, and sanity-checking services for Visions from Beyond.
The Arkham Files series originates from the Caffrey Conversation AU, created by Penna Nomen. FBI Agent Diana Berrigan began writing Arkham Files fics as part of a strategy to capture a cybercriminal nicknamed Azathoth. Most of her characters are drawn from the world of White Collar and retain their same given names. No knowledge of either White Collar or Lovecraft is required to read the stories. Events and characters in Arkham Files are sometimes referenced in the Caffrey Conversation stories and have an impact on plot development. The cybercriminal Azathoth made his first appearance in the story The Woman in Blue. Diana's stories are mentioned for the first time in The Dreamer. In Visions from Beyond, Diana draws inspiration from some of the scenes in The Dreamer and The Mirror, but it's not necessary to have read those stories.
You can read more about Caffrey Conversation and the Arkham Files on our blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation. We also have summaries for all the Caffrey Conversation stories on the blog. My post this week was about Arkham Files. Penna wrote about Neal's mother in a post called "Meredith Caffrey: Villain or Victim?"
The Arkham Files board on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site has visuals, music, and cast photos.
If you'd like to catch up with the AU, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation by Penna Nomen where Peter recruited Neal in 2003. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. My first story, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia University. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur.
Disclaimers: The worlds of White Collar and the Cthulhu Mythos as envisaged by H.P. Lovecraft, August Derleth and others are not mine, alas.