"I hated having to be forced to retreat at Rausch's orders, but with him herding me out, there was nothing left to do but figure out a new way of getting back to the lake to look around. However, it wasn't going to happen anytime for the rest of the day. But that didn't keep my mind off of it, even after I was back at good old INS, reading the play to satisfy Tony. And I think it was pretty obvious—even to him."
"Carl, what is that you're singing?" Tony asked at last. "Are you trying to drive me batty or something because I assigned you this review?"
"Singing?" Carl asked, looking up from the play. "I was singing?"
"Yeah, the same broken lyrics over and over under your breath—something about Neptune? It's bad enough that you've got an earworm you don't remember all the words to, but do you have to insert that earworm into the rest of our heads?"
Carl trailed off, looking at the far wall, but not actually seeing it.
"That must be the song I heard…" he said, quietly.
"Come again…?"
"The song, Tony!" the reporter exclaimed. "I told you I heard singing up at the lake, but that I couldn't remember it! …But, clearly, it's still there in my subconscious! It's like I told you—that music does something to your head. …I'll admit it; I haven't been able to get my mind off it—more than usual, I mean. And it's not even to find out what it is, but to just hear it again…"
Tony stared long and hard at his employee as he trailed off and got lost in his own thoughts again.
"Carl," he said, proceeding to shake him on the shoulder to bring him back to the present. "Carl, I think maybe you should call it a day."
"How's that? Oh, I'm almost halfway through rereading the play; I can finish it up, and then—"
"Forget the play, Carl; I'll take your word for it that you know it well enough," Tony insisted. "Look, I'm about to step outside to grab some dinner, anyway; why don't you come with me? I'll buy."
Carl could only stare at Tony now. One minute, he was screaming at him to read the play, and now he was trying to convince him not to. And yet, with Tony, it all seemed par for the course. It always seemed to be that way: come to work, argue with Tony, go out and investigate, come back, argue with Tony, go out again, come back, get invited to dinner…
Carl usually turned down Tony's meal offers, but, perhaps, he could make an exception this time…
"Sure, Tony," he said, putting the book back on his desk. "Where to?"
"There's a new bistro a few blocks from here," Tony said. "I was going to take a look at it."
"You still have your ear to the ground in regards to new eateries, I see," Carl mused, grabbing the jacket of his seersucker suit as he got up.
"Well, someone has to review all the new places, isn't that so?" Tony countered.
"Sure, Tony, sure…" the reported mused. "Interesting how you keep those stories for yourself."
"Very funny, Carl."
The banter continued as they exited the building. The evening was still dimly lit, but the light was quickly fading. Deciding to walk to this new bistro proved to be a fateful choice indeed, for Carl saw something unexpected as they passed an antique shop next to the restaurant.
It wasn't the antique shop itself that grabbed Carl's attention, but the display in front of the window; eight odd-looking instruments were on display on cloth-covered pedestals, with a marquee spread over the pedestals reading, "The Eight Instruments of the Sirens."
And, suddenly, everything clicked.
The music…
A Siren Song, Carl realized. Or something like that. No wonder it messed with my head…
"Carl?" Tony asked, looking back to see why Carl had stopped in his tracks.
"Huh? Oh, I'll be right with you in a minute, Tony. In fact, why don't you go in and order for the both of us? I just need to take a quick look in here."
"In there?" Tony asked, looking at the antique shop with some derision. "That overpriced junk shop?"
"Yeah; I'll meet you in the bistro in about five minutes. Just order something cheap but filling for me, okay? You know I've never been one for fine dining… Not that I could afford it," he said, adding the last part in an undertone.
Tony just shrugged, but headed inside the bistro anyway. Carl immediately made a beeline for the inside of the antique shop.
He supposed he had been expecting an elderly shop owner with deep knowledge about antiques waiting inside—at the very least, someone middle-aged; Carl was a bit surprised to see a relatively young lady in a t-shirt and jeans, absently blowing a bubble of bubble gum as she glanced in Carl's direction with an almost lazy look on her face. It was enough for Carl to do a double-take, making sure he was in the right place.
"Uh…" he said. "I was wondering if—"
"All prices are as marked," she said, with a wave of her hand, as though she wasn't really interested. "We're an antique shop, not Sotheby's."
"Oh, I'm not here to buy anything," Carl said.
"We're not a museum, either."
"No, no; it was just that I noticed those instruments you have on display—"
"Oh, those?" she asked, with a roll of her shadow-applied eyes. "I haven't had a chance to verify their authenticity yet; I've been trying to get ahold of the appraiser for a few weeks now—that's when I got them in here…"
"A few weeks…" Carl repeated. Exactly when those lake disappearances started. Coincidence? Maybe… but, on the other hand…
"Yeah," she said, crossing over to them to straighten out the marquee. "Even if they're fakes, I didn't lose anything; the guy practically begged me to take them off his hands. I think he would've paid me if I hadn't said anything. It made me think that they were stolen, at first, but I filed a report when I got them, and no one has come forth to claim them. So now I'm just thinking they're fakes."
"Uh-huh," Carl said, taking a closer look at them. "And just what are they supposed to be, anyway?"
They looked old enough, slightly faded by time, but they also looked functional—a small string instrument, a conch shell, a bell, a small harp, a small marimba, a triangle, a small, portable harmonium, and a small snare drum.
"I'm not sure," she said, picking up the harp in her hands and strumming it. It let out a sharp sound, despite being so old and little. "The guy who donated them said that they were called 'The Instruments of the Sirens,' and that he had acquired them on a trip to Europe."
"You don't say," Carl said.
"Yeah. He didn't tell me much—mentioned that they were supposed to belong to a group of hybrid siren-mermaids. Of course, who'd believe a story like that?"
"You'd be surprised. And you just received these a few weeks ago?"
"Yeah. I wasn't so sure I'd accept them, but after they seemed to be clean and he didn't offer me a thing for them, I decided to go ahead," she said, putting the harp back. "But the appraisers I've called say they've never heard about such instruments, which makes me think they're fakes. I'm having trouble finding one who'll come over here and bother with taking a look at them."
Carl now picked up the small marimba, and the voice from the lake returned to the back of his mind as he held it in his hands.
"You seem awfully interested in them, aren't you?" the shop owner asked, her eyebrows arched. "You want them that badly? Make me an offer."
"…Didn't you just say that the prices were as marked?"
"Yeah, but I haven't marked those down—can't, until I get them appraised. And it's looking as though I won't be able to without paying out of my own pocket. I don't think it's worth it, seeing as though I might be paying to hear that it's just a bunch of junk that someone passed off as antique."
"Yeah, that's a risk…" Carl said. "Well, I am interested in these instruments, so if you can put them on hold or something, I'd appreciate it."
The young lady absently blew another bubble gum bubble.
"To be honest, you're the first person who's even given them a second glance," she said. "Think it over, and if you decide that you really do want to buy, make me an offer. Here…"
She took one of the business cards from the counter and handed it to him.
"Oh, wait a second; I think I have a business card from the guy who donated the instrument," she said, going through a rolodex full of more cards. "Here it is!"
She handed him the card.
"'S. Giovanni, antiquities collector,'" Kolchak read. "And he's just across town, according to this address."
"This is one of his addresses," she said. "He has others, but he seems to have been spending time in Chicago since delivering the instruments. You'd better be quick about trying to get ahold of him, though; he might be heading back to one of his other residences now that he hasn't heard me having any receiver's remorse."
"Yeah… Yeah, thanks…" Carl said, pocketing the card. He took one more look at the Instruments. "I don't suppose Mr. Giovanni gave any reason as to why he so readily handed these over to you?"
"Don't you think I thought of that when he first showed up here with the offer?" she asked, rolling her eyes. "Look, who knows? All I know is that they are clean and not stolen. What I don't know is whether or not they're genuine. Business hasn't been too good, so as long as they're clean, that's all I care about. Maybe Mr. Giovanni is testing me to see how I handle this so he can employ me or something. He seems like a good guy; he'd be a great boss. You know he invited me to discuss the deal over dinner?"
"Yeah, he sounds like he'd be a good boss if he's inviting you to dinner…" Carl trailed off, his eyes widening as he recalled the original reason why he had been on this block in the first place. "Boss… dinner…"
He facepalmed and placed the marimba back on its pedestal.
"Excuse me, Miss, but I really need to be next door right now. But you will hear from me again in regards to these instruments. Thanks for all of this," he said, hastily heading for the door.
"Whatever," she said. "You won't have much competition, believe me…" She trailed off as he left, leaning against the counter and resumed her bubble gum blowing, staring at the clock and waiting for closing time.
For her, this was the most activity the antique shop had seen in months.
"Well," Tony said, acknowledging Carl as he approached. "It's about time. You mean you actually found something in that junkshop worth looking at?"
"Yeah, I actually did," Carl said. The food on the plates was still warm, but he noticed that Tony hadn't started eating yet—he had been waiting for him. Carl bit his lip, but continued. "I was looking at some instruments they had for sale. They had a very interesting snare drum; you said you used to play the drums, didn't you?"
"Yeah," Tony said, now starting on his food. "I probably still could, if I picked it up again."
"That'd be something to see," Carl mused, still not able to picture his employer playing an instrument of any kind. He started on his food, but then decided to continue talking. "You know, Tony… Remember when were asking me earlier about what I thought was in the lake, and I said I was still working on it?"
Tony winced.
"Carl, just forget about the lake, huh?" he asked. "I know you don't take anything I say seriously, but for your own sake, just stay away from there. It's not worth it. If Rausch isn't going to bring you in for going back up there, that man-eating shark or whatever it is will take you out."
"I told you before that it's not a shark, Tony," Carl said, his voice serious. "I know it's not; and I think I now have a theory as to what it is."
Tony gave him a glance.
"Well…?"
"…You probably don't want to hear it."
"Tell me anyway," Tony said, with a roll of his eyes. "You usually end up telling me at some point or another; let's just get this over with."
"Well…" Carl said, taking a sip from his water glass before starting. "It's about that music I was talking about."
"That song you were singing bits and pieces of back at work?"
"It must be. I thought it was strange that I couldn't remember it, yet I could sing it. And I'll be honest with you, Tony; if you told me to try singing it now, consciously, I couldn't recite a word of it." He hesitated, but then continued. "I told you it was messing with my head, and now I think I know why. …I think it was a Siren Song."
He could feel Tony's eyes on him as he took another sip of water; he was undoubtedly trying to absorb what he had just heard.
"Siren Song," Tony repeated after some time. "You mean like that story of Odysseus where he had himself tied to the mast of his boat so that he wouldn't be taken by the Sirens when he passed by them?"
"Yeah, that," Carl said. "Only there's a chance that they might be mermaid hybrids, too; I'm not sure how that works, but I guess anything's possible."
"And you think you heard one of them singing?"
"It's a theory… but it's the best one I have. Well, aside from your theory on the radio waves, that is…"
"And you never liked that theory," Tony said.
"I'm betting you don't think too much of mine, either."
"You'd win that bet. But I still think you should stay away from that lake, regardless of what it is."
"I figured you'd say that, too," Carl said. "Well… I guess I'll have to leave it alone for a little bit. I'll probably head to the library tomorrow morning and get ready for that review."
"You aren't going to be looking up mermaids at the library, are you?" Tony asked, wincing again.
"I plead the Fifth."
"Carl…"
"Look, Tony, this is an important story!" Carl protested. "If we can find out for certain what's in the lake, we might be able to save more people—especially if we find out how to stop those lethal ladies!"
"But why you?" Tony asked. "Of the millions of people in Chicago, why Carl Kolchak?"
"If I knew the answer to that, Sir, I would see to it that I could somehow lose this magnet of bizarre! These stories find me."
Tony massaged the bridge of his nose. That was true, at any rate—first Las Vegas, then Seattle, and now here…
"You know, I could give you an ultimatum and say that you'll be fired if you go anywhere near that lake again."
"That'd make my life a whole lot simpler," Carl said, without thinking. "I've got another…" He trailed off, catching himself. Tony still didn't know about Wainwright and the job offer, and this wasn't the time or the place to tell him about them.
"You've got another what?"
"I've got another idea that'll let me look into things from a different angle at the library," Carl bluffed. "Don't you worry, Tony; I'll get all that done, and I'll be there right on time for Julius Caesar."
Tony could only sigh.
Sensing that his boss desperately wanted to change the subject, Carl did so, all the while thinking about his plans for the next day in the back of his mind.
He could very well continue his investigation without going to the lake; there were the Sirens' Instruments to read up on, and, if possible, a phone call to this Mr. Giovanni, whoever he was.
Tony seemed to sense that Carl's mind was elsewhere, but he didn't say anything about it. No, he just decided that there was more to his employee's tale that he probably did not want to know.
At any rate, he knew that there was something that Carl was deliberately leaving out—which usually wasn't like him. Carl usually spared no details in the harrowing stories he all too often relayed.
Perhaps it was time for Tony to do a little investigating of his own.
