Ch. 26: Tiffany Garcia

The first thought that ran through Wyland's head was that he was face to face with a real Jedi master. A practitioner of the old arts. A warlock. He saw now that the Cunninghill boys had been mere apprentices. And it was sounding like they had flunked out. 

The old man with the friendly face smiled at Wyland with gleaming eyes, but they held a deep sadness, too. Wyland thought it was just his own reflection at first, but no, he saw failure in this man's eyes. A familiar sight.

The old man who was still somehow young spoke like Santa Claus might. "I am known officially as 'The Professor.' You are Wyland Blake, of Sacramento county, California. Your parents are Trisha and William Blake. Your father has a fantastic name, named after a great poet. An Englishman, no less." A small, friendly chuckle. The radiance in his eyes now increased, reaching an almost godlike gleam.

"You have come here seeking an answer. I will give you that answer. You are here, at the end of your own little heroic journey. Bound and gagged, dragged through hell, yet here you are. A brave little soul, aren't you? And you have queried the Gods, but are you prepared for the answer? I assure you, it is not what you hope for." 

The Professor swept his hand around in grand fashion. Wyland now understood the official name. He looked as though he were at university, before a apt class of pupils, expounding on theory. He didn't look like he was in a livestock trailer with three condemned men in god-knows-where Scotland.

"Before you are the gates, and the question is on your tongue. But I must warn you. You may turn around now, never speak again of this incident, or these people before you, nor of this trek you have made here, and go on living your cursed little life. If you ask, you will receive the answer, and face the consequences. Is that clear?"

Wyland cleared his throat. His phlegm tasted a bit like blood. He considered the question for only a moment.

"I have no use for my cursed little life. I must fix this or die trying. I ask you: How does one remove a curse?" Wyland looked solemnly at the Professor as he said this. His eyes were wet with pain and tears. A hint of compassion rested in The Professor's bright eyes.

The Professor's smile faded. He answered through a sigh. "There is no way that we know. You are a prisoner of the entity to which you are bound. I have spent my life asking that very question, Wyland, and I assure you, we know of no way to remove a curse. We know of no blessings that will help. Indeed, there are no blessings in The True Tongue. Only curses. This forsaken world can only magnify hatred and anger, death and failure, it cannot magnify life, or love, or caring. These things we must build, slowly, gently, but us, the world, The Gods, (all are one, so to speak) will destroy them. And they will do so quickly, effortlessly, with a word." 

He spoke with his hands as he said all this, gesturing and shaking his head, and at the last statement, he clenched his fist, pantomiming the Gods crushing us all, quickly and effortlessly. 

The light left the Professor's eyes, and Wyland now saw only this failure in his eyes. A long program to help mankind had yielded only poison. Like he was looking at J. Robert Oppenheimer, the creator of the atomic bomb after the first test. The terrible power he created now held in the hands of greedy, hungry men. He birthed into the world a great evil. He was seeking only the truth of God, but in digging into the deep secrets of the world, he found only the Devil. And oh, what a Devil he had unleashed.

Wyland, his eyes still wet, spoke Oppenheimer's famous words: "Now I have become death, the destroyer of worlds."

The professor gave a sad little smile as he looked at the ground."Indeed, truer words in the common tongue, I've not heard." Then he sat motionless, wearing a deep frown. 

At length, he stood up and straightened his back, getting back to business. "But enough dithering. I'm sorry. But you do present an interesting research case, never-the-less. There is a name you carry. A name we do not yet know. A True Word that you've heard, and so I ask you to look at this."

He pulled out a small tablet. Racing across the screen were images stretched around a tube. Wyland's eyes were immediately transfixed. He felt like he was flying down a long hallway, like he was flying through a fractal drawing. He became immediately drowsy, and soon his mouth gaped open, with a dull cow look on his face. He was aware of this all happening, but it felt far away somehow.

The Professor spoke. "You will not remember the past two weeks upon your awakening from this trance. You will tell me the date and time that you heard the Fallah that binds your Wyrd."

Wyland answered, slowly and deliberately. "August 17th, 1990." The disconnect was strange, like he was watching himself talk, and he was amazed to hear these words come from his mouth.

"And who was it that uttered this curse, and what was their relationship to you?"

Wyland, again from far away, answered "Tiffany Garcia. She was my fiance."

"And the circumstance of your binding?"

"She had caught me in the bed of another woman at a large frat party. I was passed out drunk, and the girl had come in later, also drunk. I don't think we did anything besides sleep. She came in, and I could smell her perfume. I could hear angry muttering, and I think she was pacing around the room. Then she spoke at me, and left."

"And she had no training in the old arts?"

Wyland laughed through the trance. "No, she was a psychology major from the valley. As innocent as they come." The Professor smiled back. The Professor leaned in close now, and gave Wyland a small notebook and a pen. He said, almost whispering "Please write down the words you heard her speak to you. Do not speak them."

Wyland dutifully wrote:

Kentu Hebrix. Kentu Ba'al-alenda. Rerok Deka Morthenda. Rerok Despa. Deka Pelluda. Kentu Hebrix. Prex Hebrix.

Wyland's conscious mind tried desperately to weld those words to long term memory as the notebook was ripped from his hands. "Huh. Ba'al and Hebrix. Fascinating. Hebrix is a new entity. I'm sure he's no match for Lord Alva, although we now have a new avenue of inquiry." 

The Professor nodded to Blue. Blue dragged Oliver into the trailer to join his brother, both of them bound and gagged. Blue then gagged Wyland as well. Wyland didn't fight this at all. As they left, Wyland, still calm and entranced, watched as Ol' Blue dropped a small, strange looking device into the trailer before shutting the rusty old doors.

Ch. 25: Mostly painless

Wyland awoke with a painful snort, and had to open his mouth to gasp in a breath of air. The air tasted like a barn, all hay dust and horse shit. His nose, indeed the center of his face, was thick and painful. He opened his eyes, but found it useless, there was a gauzy grey something wrapped around his head. He tried to move, but also found that useless, as his legs and hands were bound with a scratchy jute rope that dug into his flesh as he wriggled around.

He felt his heart beat rising as the events of the day came back to him. Beads of sweat formed where the head covering was bound tight against his neck and around his forehead. He had no idea how long he had been out, but it was still light enough for light to trickle through the head covering. A strange rebounded, echoing noise when he flopped around told him he was on a aluminum floor. He could hear something else nearby, breathing slowly. No, there were several other breaths nearby. Other victims. He thought of the Aushwitz gas chambers. He would be dead soon, he was sure of it. He had seen Alva.

Unsuccessful again. Another failed try for the All-Time Loser. Jethro Tull's maddening song "Locomotive Breath" crept through his head.

"In the shuffling madness,
Of the locomotive breath,
Runs the All-Time Loser,
Headlong to his death."

There were more lyrics, but this small stanza now repeated endlessly in his increasingly incoherent brain, along with the deep bass line, a wavy, pulsing menace to Wyland's sanity.

Convinced now that he was completely fucked, he stopped and lay still. His breath was shallow and ragged. His eyes darted back and forth, seeing only a fuzzy light and a woven geometric pattern. 

Nearby, the others' breathing was calm and deep, like they were sleeping. He was crying; from exhaustion, from desperation, from the painful thickness that was the center of his face, from the deepening sense of failure that weighed on his chest. 

Occasionally, there was a strange clicking sound coming from somewhere nearby.

Suddenly, he heard shouting. Angry shouting, also nearby. Outside the thin, aluminum walls that held him, he could hear Oliver Cunninghill's nasally brogue and expertly foul tongue cursing someone. There was a stormy wind obscuring some of the words, but Wyland could hear some of it.

"...wee problem...feckin' Crommie...tried to stop him...didn'a actually voice...Alvanic curse...Red...Whoopa."

Then, a calm, low spoken voice in return. Wyland didn't recognize it, and it spoke low enough that Wyland couldn't hear anything except a murmuring. Then, Ollie again, closer now. 

"Hors-shite! He's a feckin' muppet, 'e is! 'Tis you bawbags what taught 'im!" Then, a deep, unsettling "THUNK", followed shortly by the loud bang of something hitting the aluminum sheeting nearby. 

Now the other voice again. Still low and calm, but near enough that Wyland could hear this time. The voice was civilized, friendly, elderly.

"You're welcome to join him, Oliver. I made very clear our needs last we met. Your brother is dangerous. The American will hear it as well. We have perfected the timing rhythm, and it will be quick, mostly painless.

"No, ya feckin' chump, Imma do ya!" and a violent rustling, then another "THUNK", this time followed by heavy, wet wheezing and a ragged cough from Oliver. The civilized, elderly voice now spoke again.

"Very well. Your family is now more a liability than an asset, although you yourself showed such promise. I'm terribly sorry for this."

More rustling. Wyland could now tell there was thick, wet grass on the other side of the aluminum wall. Several pairs of boots now worked through it. Oliver was whimpering something.

"C'mon, Blue, t'was at yur weddin'. C'mon now." More whimpering and crying, then it was muffled by something. Wyland smiled at the thought of Oliver being muzzled by old, grizzly Blue, perhaps with an old sock. Wyland smiled deeply at this thought, but then the weight of what was happening hit him. Hit him hard, brought the panic and hysteria back.

He though about what he had just heard. "The American will hear it as well... Quick, mostly painless." 

Wyland began wildly shifting and wiggling, trying desperately to get through tightly bound ropes. His shoes hit the aluminum floor, hard, and a loud bang ensued. 

"Ahhh, the Yank is awake!" Rusty doors opened, and Wyland could hear something brey near him.

A goat? What the fuck?

Then he realized where he was. He was inside a livestock trailer. The goat breyed curiously, obviously used to the sound of the rusty old gate opening. Wyland could hear the sound of it's hooves clicking against the metal.

Like a lamb to slaughter, he thought.

Then noise. Men walking on the trailer floor.

"Mister Blake, I assume? I would shake your hand were it not tied behind you. An impressive show, I assure you. I would applaud your journalistic instincts, were you an actual journalist." A soft laugh here. "A successful outing, all in all, for us. Not for you, mind you, but I do believe you've saved us a spot of trouble. You've likely ruined months of work for Scotland Yard."

The head covering came off, violently ripped off Wyland's head. Ol' Blue, standing over him, held what Wyland recognized as a jute potato sack. 

Beside him, an old man hunkered down next to him. Old bones cracked as the man sat down aboriginal style before him. He reminded Wyland of old Ben Kanobi, even down to the fuzzy brown robe he wore, although Wyland could see a striped brown button down underneath. He wore black Converse All-stars. It gave him the look of a child, long since grown old, but never grown up. On his arm, tattooed in fine detail, was a very elaborate version of the protection rune from the Star of Solomon and the cover of Tawelu Marwolaeth. 

Here was the Professor.

Ch. 24: Negotiations fell apart.

The Two men shook hands for what was surely longer than comfortable. As they broke, Crom wasted no time, and got right to the point. "A'rite, candy-arse. What'cha got?"

Wyland ignored the angry face of Crom Cunninghill, and steeled his gaze at Ollie. He said "they know. They know all about you. You've been implicated in the deaths of McAlerod, Steins and Petrovik. They're coming for you, and soon."

Ollie's eyes darted back and forth, surveying Wyland's eyes. Ollie's face remained as steeled as Wyland's. It was like a duel at high noon in some hokey old western, each man waiting for the draw, a soft, dusty wind blowing between them, both men's lips a narrow thin line, both eyes narrowed to slits, and both hearts thundering in their chests. 

The look on Crom's face, however, clearly showed what was going through Ollie's mind, as Crom's face fell from anger, to recognition, and then to fear. 

Ollie asked "How do ya know all this?" His accent was suddenly lessened, as he spoke in a more formal business tone. "Who are ya? How did you know about us? And why do ya not tell The Council directly?"

The sudden surprise in Wyland's face told Ollie he had just fucked up. He didn't know about the council. Shit! But he knew about curses, and their father... Shit! Ollie had played a hand too early, and he could only hope Wyland didn't capitalize on it. He didn't.

Wyland smiled thinly, looked at the ground, and softly said "I've been cursed. I'm sure of it. I'm a lawyer. I've been researching a death curse back in The States. Everything fits. I've been cursed to fail. I always fail, at damn near everything I do. I don't know anything about The Council." 

Ollie and Crom both breathed visible sighs of relief at Wyland's admittance of ignorance regarding The Council. His curse was still working then, he could of gotten them both murdered in no time at all, and instead said that, that beautiful admission of ignorance! Whew! Another bullet dodged for the Cunninghill boys! 

Ollie knew he was back on top of the negotiations. Red and Blue, and probably Pinky and Greenie would all have to report this back to The Council. Pinky had probably already contacted his man in Edinburgh. The Professor was in Lanark this week, and might already be on his way to the quarry. Ollie figured now that Wyland didn't know about the Professor, since he hadn't shown any knowledge about the Council.

Oliver Cunninghill now engaged the politician side that he had learnt well from his father. He smiled big, and moved closer to Wyland, then, with a look of genuine concern on his face. "Aye" he started, "a curse, by the sounds of it. Nasty business, 'tis. So, who cursed ya?"

Another look of blank and innocent recognition on Wyland's face. This boy was miles out of his league here, and hadn't a clue. Wyland stammered "I... I don't know. I just know I'm cursed."

Ollie smiled even bigger now. "So, who's after us 'n all? The Brits? Scotland Yard? Is that it?"

Wyland nodded sheepishly. Ollie, serious now, followed with "How do ya know?" Wyland, the wind now completely out of his sails, thought of Connie. He was betraying her. The thought made him a little sick. Ollie watched the color drain from Wyland's face. Ollie quickly manuevered to keep Wyland here with him. "Never ya mind, then, boyo! Come on then, what's their plan?"

Wyland regained his composure, and suddenly felt like he was being railroaded. He returned with "So can you cure a curse?"

Ollie sighed, and looked at Wyland side-wise, like he would look at the sun. "I dunno, 'tis a toughie, that." He was back to a thick, northern accent. "There's quite a bit'a work we could do there. We 'ould need to know teh curse used, teh origin of teh curse, the dialect of Truespeech used, and on 'n on. Could'n take awhile."

Truespeech? Wyland had never heard of this, and filed it away in his mind.

Wyland looked back at him, also a bit sidewise, and casually asked "What about the Professor?" Ollie's face fell immediately. Blue's eyes got as large as dinnerplates. Red slapped a hand over his eyes and said "Oh, Jesus titty-fucking Christ, ya idiot." Crom who had been staring at the ground, kicking dust, now looked up, furious, and trundled towards Wyland.

"You feckin' liar!" Crom screamed. "Yeh dirty, fud fizzoged cunt sneffer!" Wyland felt that negotiations had fallen apart.

Ollie tried to calm Crom, hands outstretched, saying "No, no, no, no, no...don't go radge..." Crom shoved his elder brother, knocking him off balance, and forcing him to the ground on his ass. Crom barely even looked at his brother as he did it, his eyes were set on Wyland, covered in a blood lust that turned Wyland as cold and immobile as mountain granite in winter. 

Apparently, he shouldn't have mentioned the Professor.

"Ya dirty wizened hakkit!" "Ya feckin' tube!" Crom screamed. The words, while mostly gibberish to Wyland, still scored home as to their meaning. Crom was pissed. Then, just as quickly, Crom had a sudden change in his attitude; He shut up, calmed down, and just looked at Wyland with a smile that Stephen McAlerod would have recognized all too well. 

He stood only a few feet from Wyland now. He opened his mouth from that hideous smile and spoke.

"Kentu Alva"

Wyland's knew immediately what he was hearing. Before he could even think, he felt his left hand flying out of it's pocket, tightly squeezing the Taser. Time felt like it had slowed down. He could feel his finger slip the interlock back, exposing the On switch. He could see Oliver Cunninghill getting up as fast as he could, running towards his brother, a look of fear and anger on his face, and his mouth pursed in a silent "NO!"

"Rerok Morthen"

Wyland did not feel the curse sound as he thought he should, as he had read about and as he had heard Jonathan report it. He felt a tightening around his neck, ankles and wrists, like there was rope binding him in those spots. He could feel a presence to his left, like feeling the sun when your eyes are closed, except this presence felt cold, colder than anything he had ever felt. Like he was standing next to a glacier. He pictured the strange picture of Alva in the "Star of Solomon" book, a raven with cloven hooves and a skeleton for a face. But it was different than the picture. It was LARGE. Even from a distance, it felt as large as the moon. It had gravity to it. He saw it in his mind's eye, like a fever dream. Blacker than the depths of space and as cold as nothingness could be. And it had a strange head. It was still a skull, like the picture, but it looked more like an alligator skull, only meaner. He couldn't place the name (Therapsid?), but he remembered seeing the skull in the natural history museum somewhere. He thought that that giant mouth could swallow the whole earth with room to spare. But it wasn't looking at Wyland, it was looking at Crom. Wyland knew this to be true.

"Prex..."

The taser connected with Crom's right shoulder just as the first potent "Click" rushed through Wyland's arm as the On switch depressed. The electricity bound Wyland's arm to Crom's shoulder, as he watched the pulse surge through Crom's body, first bringing his arm up at a weird angle, then driving his eyes back in his skull. "Click, Click, Click" went the taser, as Crom's body responded in kind, dancing awkwardly to each "Click" demand from the Taser. Wyland felt himself smiling, watching this lunatic piece of shit get electrocuted. The sensation of the god of death sitting to his left was gone, although he wasn't sure he would ever forget that feeling.

Suddenly, there was an arm in front of Wyland's face. Bunched into a fist, swinging towards him roundhouse style, was Red's bulky, calloused fist, covered in a forest of ginger-red hair. Wyland felt like he had an eternity to move out of the way, but as he attempted to move, he suddenly felt the tightness around his wrists, ankles and neck bind up, freezing him in place. They felt odd, like they were moving, clenching and loosening as a Boa Constrictor might, advancing it's slowly tightening grip on it's prey. It was almost as though there were snakes binding him in place.

He felt a frown grow on his face as the back of Red's meaty fist closed in. He felt the Taser, still clicking its maddening clicks. He could smell that Crom has pissed and shit himself.

He felt his nose crumple and then finally, a deep and oddly satisfying Crunch as his nose gave way, then a flash of white, then nothing.

Ch. 23: Deal

Red clapped a big, meaty hand around Wyland's shoulders, and led him off to a corner so they could talk more privately.

"Listen, Yank," Red started, drawing close to Wyland's face and lowering his voice, "it's, uh, unusual fer some'un to come callin' fer teh boys without advanced warnin'. What's this all 'bout? An' what's yur name?" Red had less of an accent than everyone else here, and Wyland could make out what Red wanted without thinking about it. 

"Wyland. My name's Wyland. I've been investigating some things, and have stumbled across some very important info that the , um, 'Boys' need to hear right away. They also have some information which I need."

Red puffed up suddenly. "You're the Journalist, then? Askin' stupid questions 'bout Daddy Cunninghill?"

"Not exactly." Wyland blushed and shrunk, then remembered the taser, and got his confidence back. "I lied to that cabbie to get some info, I'm not a journalist, I..." He considered playing his hand, starting the plea, but thought better of it again, "I really just need to talk to them, I have no interest in Eustis' business dealings."

Red snorted, and grinned that big, dangerous grin. "A'right, then. If'n you'r talkin' 'bout who I think you'r talkin' 'bout, that lil' rat cabbie's stupider than a box a' rocks, anyway, I don't blame ya fer lyin' to 'im! Let's all go outside." And Red, still grinning, strengthened his grip on Wyland's shoulders and led him back outside.

The air had a thin hint of ocean salt in it, and the cool, grey clouds hung lower and a bit greyer than they had this morning. Blue was sitting by the old truck on the other side of the dirt expanse, spitting brown tobacco spit onto the dirt. Wyland and Red walked down the few dusty steps in front of Central Point, as dirt rose from a distant truck coming up the road. 

"I'll tell ya," Red started saying, "no sudden moves, no stupid stuff, no funny words, and you'll be a'right." 

Funny words? Wyland thought about this for a moment, and this confirmed that he was on the right track. Wyland felt a sudden rise in temperature, and a light shiver ran down his spine. Finally, he would get some answers! After all this time, and so many dead ends, here, coming up the road, were cursers! Wyland's face scrunched. No, that's not right, not cursers? No, wizards? Maybe? Necromancers? Shaman? Magicians? No, no, none of those were right. There were so many terms in fantasy and lore, but none of them really matched what these men were. Warlocks, maybe that was what they were.

He stood in silence, with Red standing nearby, behind and to his right, looming over him, as the two warlocks drove up to Central Point. The truck's tires locked up as it slid through the dirt to a full stop. A bit of dry dirt filled the air, though the tire tracks showed that the soil was still wet only a bit under the surface. The cool wind hinted that it would all be wet again soon. 

A thin faced man with blondish hair sat in the driver seat, and a slightly plumper man with dirty brown hair sat next to him. They were obviously brothers, they both had high cheek bones, and thin necks, and sharply defined temples. The blond one flung the door open and hopped out. He smiled a big grin to Red, which showed off a missing tooth. The other sauntered around the truck slowly, searching and scanning his environs, his eyes piercing through Wyland, checking for weakness, zeroing in on his neck, boring through his forehead to his skull, killing him multiple times with thought bullets. Good thing looks couldn't kill, although Wyland wasn't so sure with these two.

Crom walked strongly and briskly up to Wyland, who up 'til now had kept a quiet composure, with his hands clasped before him, and his head high, as if waiting for a business associate. Crom, without saying a word, walked right into Wyland, and pushed him over into the dirt. 

"You teh fecker been askin' 'round fer us? Well, heah we are, fecker! What 'bout it, now, huh?" He screamed at Wyland, kicking dry dirt at him as though he were a miffed baseball coach talking to the umpire. Wyland put up his hands in front of him and softly shushed Crom, as though to calm a spooked and braying horse.

Red now stepped in between Crom and Wyland. "Oi, Crommie, calm it!" Crom stepped back, and walked off in a huff. Oliver now stepped before him. "Greenie said the Yank was heah, and lo, heah 'e is!" He swept his hand over the scenery, as though acting (poorly) in a play. Then, in a really bad Texas accent, "I'mma big dembfeck American in Scotland, stickin' meh nose in someone else's arse, not expectin' to smell shit!" Red and Blue both laughed. 

Oliver then leaned in close to Wyland, his hand crawling through Wyland's protesting hands slapping him away, grabbed his shirt collar, and, much to Wyland's surprise, helped pull him up from the ground. "Get up, yeh sorry feck!" He was surprisingly strong, and Wyland found himself lifted up as though he were still a little kid.

Wyland stumbled as he got up, and dusted himself off. Oliver now stepped uncomfortably close to Wyland. "Well, yeah said we needed to heah somethin', so 'ave at it, now!" 

Wyland cleared his throat and began, sounding as professional as he could muster. "We must first reach an agreement. I have information you really need to hear, I promise you, and you have information I need, desperately." No one said a word, they were all just staring at Wyland. "The agreement is as follows: I will tell you this vital information, that will save your life, or at least your freedom, and you will teach me about curses and blessings. Specifically, how to remove a curse."

Silence. The die had been cast, the arrow was in the air, the guillotine blade was falling. The physics of the mind could be seen on everyone's face. First, acceptance of what was just said, then, a sudden realization: Wait, what? Curses? How could he know? Then, shit, who else knows? Then, double-shit, he knows who else knows. That's what he's selling, and fuck if we don't need to buy it. 

Then, the reactions shifted according to character. Crom's face showed a flash of anger. Oliver's showed concern. Red was already scanning the horizon for signs of danger. Blue, slower than the rest, showed confusion. 

Crom was already advancing on Wyland again, muttering something like "I'll feckin' kill ya, ya sumbitch" but Oliver put his hand out and stopped him. Crom immediately obeyed. Oliver was obviously the elder, and obviously the power and mind of the duo.  

A full minute passed now, in silence. Oliver was obviously weighing his options. 

Oliver let out a long sigh through puffed out cheeks. "A'right. Yeh got us by the short n' curlies, don'tcha? Deal." He reached out his hand, and Wyland shook it generously. 

Ch. 22: Ol' Blue

The only sounds made during the drive were the sounds of the old truck's failing suspension. Rolling greenish brown landscape went zooming past them. The welder didn't say a word, but occasionally looked at Wyland with a deeply disturbing look, a look from bloodshot eyes that said "murder is always an option, so shut the fuck up." It was, needless to say, an uncomfortable drive.

They arrived at the quarry around midday. The entrance was a large chain link electric fence gate, with a small guard outpost. The whole area was fenced off with high chain link fencing. The guard gestured to stop, and sauntered slowly up to the old truck. He held his right hand at his hip, just above where a gun should be. There was no gun, however. He looked at the welder and smiled. 

"Ol' Blue! De hell yeh doin' heah?" the guard asked, all friendly-like. Ol' Blue, which was apparently his name, didn't say a word, but cocked his head at Wyland and darted his eyes in Wyland's general direction. The guard squinted and looked through the open window at Wyland. Another uncomfortable silence. Wyland was getting sick of these uncomfortable silences. 

Finally, Ol' Blue said "Yankee feckin' dandee heah needs teh talk teh Ollie n' Crommy. It's impehtant."

The guard continued squinting at Wyland, then looked at Ol' Blue. "You gonna escort 'im, then, Blue? "s'all above board, yeah?" Wyland didn't notice, but Ol' Blue winked at the guard before he nodded, and looked at Wyland. . "Yeah, don' worry, any feckin' trouble, I'll break 'is feckin' neck." Wyland could feel himself sweating, and was instinctively pawing the taser in his pocket, but he managed to smile at the guard and nod sheepishly. The guard laughed, obviously at the thought of Blue breaking Wyland's neck. In response, Ol' Blue gave a booming laugh that wiped the weak smile right off Wyland's face. Another uncomfortable silence as they looked at Wyland. The guard then said "they're prolly at central point 'ight now."

The guard pulled a clicker out of his pocket and the gate opened. Ol' Blue dropped it in gear and nodded to the guard as the old truck rumbled and squeaked through the entrance. The guard stared back with a concerned look, and in the rear view, Wyland saw him pull out his radio and talk into it.

They drove past massive piles of stone, and equally massive earth movers, all painted yellow and green. After about a mile of dirt road and dirt piles, the scene opened up to reveal a large open pit with dirt road spiraling down the sides. The rock walls of the quarry were a mottled greenish black with grey and white stripes. It was beautiful rock, and Wyland saw at once why there was a quarry here. 

As this was running through his mind, the truck slowed down, and finally stopped. Ahead of them, a small town of mobile homes sat on a hill overlooking the quarry pit. Ol' Blue sighed, and looked at Wyland. "Well, I bettah search ya, now, hadn't I? Get teh feck outta teh truck." 

Wyland stepped out, but his hands were in his pockets. The taser was warm against his skin, because he had been squeezing it and fondling it the whole trip here. It was his only protection, but it felt so weak, so light, and so cheap in his hand. It felt like a useless piece of plastic, and it would now be found and taken from him. He thumbed the on/off switch, contemplating shocking the shit out of Ol' Blue, but decided against it. 

Blue stepped up behind him, after walking the long way around the truck. He said "get ya feckin' hands up." So Wyland did so, without releasing the taser. It was small enough that it could have been his wallet that he now held aloft in his left hand. The thug searched him, feeling for a hidden firearm at his sides, chest and ankles. His hands moved down and back up, quickly patted his wallet, worked around his belt line, and moved up his chest. He finally gave Wyland a sharp clip on the chin with his fist (a Scottish reach-around?), and said, "Good 'nuff. S'go."

Wyland quickly shoved the taser back in his pocket, incredulous that the idiot didn't look at his hands during that whole little uncomfortable episode. 

They walked up across the rutted dirt road to a long double wide trailer. Several signs hung from the sides of the building. A large one over the door said "Central Point" and another said 
"Offices------>". 

They walked into Central point. 

The place smelled of whiskey sweat and cheap coffee. There was a trail of muddy footprints that went from the door, to the bathroom in the back, and another that went right to a small bank of coffee makers sitting on a table. Cheap couches littered the area, and an old formica table sat by a window slatted with cheap plastic blinds. A vending machine held cheap, nutrition-less food in colorful bags. 

A group of miners were standing around in a loose circle by the table and window, laughing hard at what was surely some tasteless joke. As the door clunked shut, the laughter died, and heads turned towards the new additions to Central Point. 

"Blue, yeh ol' fecker!" yelled a man as large as Blue, but redheaded as a viking, as he walked over and clapped Blue on the back. "Hey, Red. How'rya doin'?" was Blue's relatively muted response.

Red looked at Wyland with a big, dangerous grin. "Gotta new bitch, have'ya, Blue? Aren'tcha gonna introduce us?" The boys all laughed at this, but then they noticed Blue wasn't laughing, and the laughter quieted down. "This pansy gotta date wit' Crommy n' Ollie. Where dey at?"

Red's expression changed from grin to scowl, and he turned to one of the men "Greenie, get teh boys!" The men shuffled out of their circle, and it felt like the air in the room got just a bit cooler. 

Ch. 21: Motor oil, sweat, and burnt metal

The next day, Wyland set about walking around Lanark, asking a few people what they knew about the quarry, and Edinburgh. People were mostly friendly, and proud of their little town, at least from what Wyland could gather through the thick accents and strange slang they all seemed to throw at him. He was careful not to ask too much about the Cunninghills, but found a small welding company owned by Eustis Cunninghill on one of the side streets. He strolled past it, glancing sideways at it. It seemed like a normal enough place, with a greasy, burly man in old denim slowly welding some metal structure together in one of the open garage bays. 

He got his courage up, sniffed a big breath of air, walked up to the man, and said "Excuse me? I'm looking for Crom or Ollie Cunninghill?"

The man stopped his welding. A bright spot remained in Wyland's vision where the flux bar had been touching the metal and arcing at thousands of degrees. The metal was glowing red. He threw up his protective visor, and a man with a dark, dirty beard and tired, angry eyes looked Wyland over. "They ain't here. They'll be at the quarry. Who're you, any'who?"

Wyland shook his head. "Nobody important. I'd just like to talk to them, is all." 

The man slowly got up and stepped closer to Wyland. He smelled like motor oil, sweat, and burnt metal. He was a very large man. An angry look was in his eyes, and they darted back and forth, trying to scan each of Wyland's eyes, perhaps looking for weakness, perhaps looking for the lies they held. 

In perhaps the most cliched response Wyland had ever seen, the welder took a big sniff of snot, scrunching half his face to get it out, looked down and to his right, and then spat a giant loogie onto the ground. It was green with black flecks. Wyland instinctively grimaced. The man gruffly said "Nobody important, eh? If'n your'e asking fer the Cunninghills, it best be important. What're ya heah ta talk to 'em 'bout?"

Wyland was suddenly regretting talking to this man. His mind raced as he tried to maintain a calm demeanor. He was talking to the right man, but now had to convince him that the Cunninghills needed him. There was only one way, now, but it meant selling out the cops. But he could stall it, at least for a while.

Wyland opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Then, all in a burst: "I have important information they need to hear. They have information I need. It is extremely important I talk to them immediately."

The welder regarded Wyland with a skeptical look. But the gears in his mind were visibly cranking. He would find himself in deep shit if this Yank was telling the truth. He would take shit for calling them at the quarry, and their father, his employer, would certainly hear about it. The boss would need to hear it first, yes, that was the answer his brain had been looking for.

Finally, he said to Wyland "Eustis clears all info 'tween you'n deh boys. That's teh way 'tis."

Wyland steeled up and tried to puff out his chest, though his balls had shriveled into his belly. "No. This information could save their lives, and they need to hear it, today, from me, from my mouth." He gestured at his mouth as he said the last part, to ensure that this northland hick fully understood. "I came all the way from America to talk to them. It's important, and I think Eustis would want you to help me." He spoke the truth, but it was only truth under the assumption that Eustis actually gave a crap about his sons. 

Silence ensued, and Wyland could tell the welder, thuggish though he was, was carefully weighing his options. He wanted to crack the neck of this pitiful looking Yank. Nobody had told him "No" for a long time. He didn't accept it from his women, or his friends, or his enemies. But from up on high, he did, and if Eustis' boys were in trouble, as they often were, he had a responsibility to help. This responsibility was just to his own well being, to his fully intact skull, and the continued existence of himself and his friends and family. 

He grunted illegibly, but pointed towards the old work truck in the drive. 

Ch. 20: Bunk shiny's n' weegies

Wyland arrived at the Edinburgh train station as night was closing in. The book hadn't finished downloading yet, but he had no choice but to disembark. He'd get it later.  

He hated sleeping while traveling, because he never woke up feeling like he was rested. But this time, he felt good. He could still taste Connie's kiss on his lips. 

He left the station and hailed a cab. He had a hotel in Lanark, and would go to the quarry tomorrow morning. The cabby laughed at him when he asked to go to Lanark, and in a thick Scot accent told him to "get deh feck outta deh cab", and that he wasn't about to drive 50 kilometers for some "Yankee cunt". Wyland offered him a 50 pound tip, and after inspecting it to ensure that it was, in fact, real pound sterling, he called Wyland "seh" and opened the door for him, smiling the whole time.

As they were driving, Wyland asked some sideways questions about Lanark, about Edinburgh and about the quarry, and got some sideways answers, mostly history and bad jokes and things any fool could look up online. Finally, Wyland just asked the cabby about the Cunninghill brothers, directly.

The driver got real quiet at the mention of the Cunninghill name, so Wyland pulled out another 50 and waved in the rear view mirror. He responded "your'e a coco?"

Wyland, confused, asked "What's a coco?" 

"Christ, mun! Cocos! Polis! Teh cops!" He barked back at Wyland.

"No, no, nothing like that." Wyland thought for a moment. "A journalist. Researching Eustis Cunninghill's investment group."

The cabbie pondered this for a moment. "'n ya gotta protect your'e sources, right? I can stay anonymu'rs?"

"Anonymous? Yes, of course. No names or references to you. Promise. I won't even ask your name." Wyland smiled. The cabbie slowly smiled back.

"Alrite, den, boyo, it's your'e funeral" the cabby responded as he shook his head. "They'ra bad bunch'a blokes, the Cunninghills. Eustis, 'es a heavy up her'e, owns a couple'a biznesses, ya cross 'im, ya lose tings. Like'n your'e hoose goes up'n flames 'n such. His boyos, Crom 'n Ollie, 'dey run 'round like chickens what took o'ver deh farmhoose. Dey as close to a mob fam'ly as Scotland's got deese days. Ya best stay far away from 'em. I dunno nothin' 'bout any 'vestments."

Wyland pondered this for a moment. Then he said "your concern has been noted. But I need to talk to them. Why, if their father's so powerful, do they work for the quarry?"

The cabby laughed and rubbed his fingers together. "I'mma need mor'e, uh... incentives." So Wyland pulled out a hundred pound note and shook it for the cabby, saying "you'll get this at the end of the trip, if I'm satisfied with your answers, I promise."

The cabby smiled and continued "Well, y'see, Crommy got 'is poppy into some trouble wit dees feckin' Israeli weegies over some bunk shiny's a bit back, almost got deh lot a' 'em killed 'r locked up but good, so poppy put 'em where dey can't cause no more trouble."

"Bunk Shiny's? Weegies?" Wyland asked, confused.

"Bunk Shiny's! Yeh know, fake diamonds an' such. Weegies is just some cunts from Glasgow. Diamonds been der fam'ly bizness fer years now, 'long wit deh oil and mining stuff. Not always on deh up 'n up, yeh know? Lately deh been up teh sumthin' new, don' know what, but den, I don' ask, neither." He smiled again, looking Wyland in the eye through the rear view mirror. "Ya shouldn'ta either."

Wyland squinted at him, shaking the hundred pound note. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"I suppose, since your'e payin' me rent n' all. deh boys'es been goin' ta Edinburgh a lot lately. Seen 'em wit an ol' bloke, 'e wears robes like'n a fuggin' monk. Nice ol' fecker, though. Dunno 'is name, but dey call 'im Professa'. I hadn't seen Eustis up'n here in ages, saw 'im wit deh professa' 'bout a month ago, in Edinburgh. S'all I know."

"Thanks." He threw the rat cabbie the money through the little window separating them, and sunk into thought. The cabbie said nothing more, but eagerly scooped up the money and stuffed it in his pocket.