The Adventures of Norman Oklahoma Volume One Page 9

  I stood as Clem joined us in the drive way.

  “You found Biscuit,” he said, still smiling, still holding on to the cat like he’d never let go.

  “More like Biscuit found me,” I said. “I’m sorry, Clem. The others are gone.”

  Something passed through Clem’s eyes. Sadness. Regret. But it was gone just as quick.

  “I figured as much,” he said. “But at least I got my Biscuit back. That’s something.”

  “That’s a fine cat you got there, Clem,” I said. “She saved my life.”

  I reached out and patted Biscuit on her head. She purred in return.

  Clem thanked me a few more times before taking Biscuit back into the house. I had a feeling that Biscuit would no longer be allowed outside. Not that she’d been outside when they grabbed her in the first place.

  That reminded me. I’d need to get someone out here to seal up that door. Maybe even get Oz down there to throw some kind of charm over it so that it couldn’t be opened again. I’d have to make some calls once I was back at the office. But first…

  “Why are you here, Pat?” I asked. “Clem get worried and give you a call?”

  “No,” Pat said. “Bob told me where you were.”

  “You looking for me, then?”

  “I wanted to let you know that the Walrus is on his way to Leavenworth.”

  “Leavenworth?”

  “Just a precaution. Not knowing just how strong he is, they have the only cage around here that I feel comfortable putting him in.”

  “That’s probably a good idea, but you didn’t have to come out here to tell me that. You could have just left a message with Bob.”

  “True, but I was out this way anyway...” She trailed off.

  “What?” I said. “Something you aren’t telling me.”

  “Another girl disappeared earlier this morning,” she said.

  “Another one? That makes what, three now?”

  “Four,” she said. “Four in the last year. But this one was older. A teenager.”

  “You need me to look into it?”

  “Believe it or not, Norman Oklahoma, the Eudora Police Department has solved a case or two in their day,” she said. “Besides, nothing about any of these disappearances point to anything that involve your kinda thing.”

  “Well, you say you got it handled, I’m going to trust you. But if you need any help, you let me know. I don’t like these disappearances. Not one bit.”

  “None of us do, Norman, but we can handle it.”

  Just then her phone buzzed and she held a finger up to me as she put the phone to her ear.

  “Chief McCrea,” she said and turned her back on me.

  I waited.

  A few moments later she slid the phone into her breast pocket as she turned toward me, a glare on her face.

  “That was Francine down at the station,” she said.

  “Okay.”

  “She calls me from time to time when I’m out, just to keep me updated.”

  “Okay,” I said again. I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.

  “Apparently, not long after I left, a call came in from Abner Lemonzeo.”

  “Oh yeah?” I said, the very essence of innocence.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Claims someone shot up the Pub. John’s been down there all morning.”

  “That’s curious,” I said. “There sure is a lot going on this morning. Francine say who it was?”

  “No, she didn’t have that yet.” She stepped closer. “I swear, Norman. If I find out it was you…”

  “Me? Come on, Pat. I told you I was gonna be nice to Abner.”

  “I hope so, Norman. With all that’s going on today, I’d hate to have to run you in.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” I said. “Just find those girls.”

  With that we parted and I drove back to the office, thinking that maybe I’d look into these disappearances anyway, despite what Pat said. But first, I made a quick stop by the Happy Hamburger for another coffee.”

  Bob hadn’t moved. He still sat at the desk. The book had changed, however.

  “Solve the case,” he said from behind the book.

  “Yes, and no. Found one of Clem’s cats. Goblins had taken them.”

  “Of course,” Bob said.

  “Never found no goblins though, which has me worried. That reminds me, could you get Oz on the phone.”

  “Frank?” Bob put the book down. “What do you need Frank for?”

  “The goblins had a tunnel the opened right up into Clem’s basement. I’d like Oz to seal it shut for me.”

  “What happened to your neck?”

  “Troglodyte,” I said, feeling at the bite mark. The healing itch had been consistent since I’d woken on that stone floor earlier.

  Bob frowned and then looked at his watch.

  “Well, I was going to Frank’s later this morning, anyway. How about I just go now and I can tell him in person.”

  “What business you got with Oz?”

  “I’m buying one of his paintings. Thought it would look good in here.”

  “If you say so,” I said. “I don’t know nothing about art.”

  “Yes,” Bob said, getting up from the desk. “I know.”

  “Well, just tell Oz that I may need to go back down there, so seal it up, but not permanently.”

  “Anything else?” Bob asked as he reached the door.

  “Nope. Got my coffee, that’s all I need.” I hadn’t had a sip yet. I like my coffee hot, but not too hot.

  “Need anything for that neck?”

  “The neck is fine,” I said. “I t should be fully healed soon.”

  “Fine,” Bob said. “Nothing for you.” Then he was gone.

  I smiled and walked into my office. I hung my coat and hat on the coat tree, unstrapped my guns, and placed them on the desk along with the rifle and the bag.

  I yawned. It had been quite the morning. Maybe I’d skip the coffee all together and have a nap. I was working on just an hour or two of sleep after all. Had I been more refreshed Bob wouldn’t have even noticed my neck. I put my hand on the wound. Still tender.

  I went the window and looked out, yawning again. Yeah, I needed a nap. Still, the coffee did smell good.

  So, watching the people outside go about their business, I brought the cup to my lips. As I was about to tilt it back and take a taste, the phone rang.

  I sighed and walked to the desk. I had my hand just above the phone when my office door exploded inward. I ducked behind the desk and, dropping the coffee, threw my arms above my head as splintered wood rained down on me.

  The phone continued to ring.

  “Norman Oklahoma!” a voice roared from where my door used to be. I knew that voice.

  I stood as the phone rang for the last time and my answering machine picked up. I heard my voice say that no one was available to take the call and all that jazz. But I wasn’t paying much attention to the outgoing message. Instead I focused on the hulking figure in my doorway.

  “Ah, there you are,” the Walrus said, and in two quick strides, he was across the room.

  I looked from the oncoming walrus to the guns on the desk. I tried to go for them, but I was too slow. The Walrus had reached the desk, batted it aside with one massive hand, and before I could run screaming from the scene, he had snatched me up, holding me over his head in both hands.

  “Norman,” Pat’s voice rose from the answering machine that now lay on the floor. “It’s Pat. I’m not sure why you felt you needed to lie to me about the Pub, but we’ll talk about that later. For now, I don’t know where you’re at, but you need to know that the Walrus escaped custody and I’m afraid he’s gonna come looking for you. I’m coming down to your office. Keep safe.”

  “Thanks, Pat,” I said.

  Then the Walrus threw me out the window.

  17

  CULT OF BOVINITY

  THE KNIFE FELT RIGHT in the bald man’s hand. It was part of him now,
an extension of himself formed in twelve inches of cold steel. He found serenity as he knelt, naked and wet from the shower, caressing the blade, running his fingers over every surface, exploring each nook and cranny, stroking it in the way a parent would their newborn child.

  The power of the thing seemed to vibrate from somewhere deep within and so he clutched it tighter. He bent, brushing his lips across the steel with a gentle touch, and for one brief moment, felt freedom. A sigh escaped him and he allowed himself a small smile.

  He took out a whetstone and sharpened the knife for the third time that morning. He ran the blade along the stone’s surface, losing himself in the repetition. After a time he tested the blade on his thumb. He drew blood with the smallest touch. It was perfect.

  He ran his bloodied thumb along this freshly shaven scalp, knowing that the runes tattooed there on his head were glowing. He could feel heat from the power of the runes as they fed upon that which flowed through his veins. His life giving life to the magic.

  The runes were everywhere but the bald man’s face, the palms of his hands, the pads of his feet. The process had been agonizing, but the magic he controlled now made it all worth the pain. But it wasn’t enough. One could always gain more power. The knife would help the bald man do just that.

  He spoke aloud the arcane words of spell-work as he wrapped the blade in a clean, white, lint-free cloth, taking more care then he would with his very life. Droplets of water rolled lazily from his body as he chanted. The runes burned and shown with an inner light.

  The wrapping completed, he took up the bundle in his hands, cradling it, and fantasized about what was to come. It would be his first time killing another. Would it be like the animals he’d sacrificed on the altar of power? Would there be as much blood? How would it look to see the life fade from a fellow human’s eyes? The excitement was almost too much.

  An image formed in the bald man’s mind. The face of his sacrifice. He could imagine the look of confusion, the fear, the pain that would roll across the woman’s features as he ran the blade along her throat. The moment played over and over in his mind and his excitement grew to giddiness. The emotions were coming quickly, feelings that were like strangers to him. He found it all a bit overwhelming and for a moment, he began to cry.

  It was like an emotional reboot and he gave himself over to it, sliding from the chair to lie on the floor with his knees hugged tight to his chest. He rolled back and forth as the tears fell. Time had no substance as he wept there on the floor, but as the cries passed and the tears ceased to fall, he found that his body was no longer wet from the shower. How long had he been on the floor? A quick check of the clock showed that it was nearly time. He’d have to hurry.

  He rose and strode into the bedroom where he slid into his ceremonial robes, the color of blood. It wasn’t easy, this simple task, as he found he still clutched the cloth-wrapped knife in his hand. Another smile found its way onto his face as he placed the knife on the small table next to the bed.

  A new emotion suddenly fell over him. It was the deep sorrow that comes from loss. But he had suffered no loss. Was it the knife? It was within reach. Surely the loss of the knife from his hand was not the cause of this pain he felt. The object in question drew his eyes and he looked upon the thing with longing. Something in him wanted to snatch the knife up, to tear it from its cloth bundle, to hold it close, let the steel touch his skin, swim in the tactile sensation the blade would bring to him. But he left the knife where it was.

  The sadness quickly turned to anger as he thought about what he had been about to do. It was just an object, a tool, a means to an end. The knife was not something he could allow himself to get attached to. For an instant he wanted to fling it away, to throw it from him and show the thing that he owned it, not the other way around. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he slid it into a pocket. Out of sight but still weighing heavily on his mind as he lifted the hood over his head and left his quarters.

  He entered the arena to the sound of chanting. Hundreds of voices becoming as one, their deep intonation causing the hair on his arms to stand on end as the words drew power from the very stone around them. He stood there, just inside the entryway, pausing to bathe in the feeling, the raw electricity that crackled throughout the room. Then, head bowed, he stepped forward.

  His stride was slow, but purposeful, and soon he found himself standing before the altar. He pulled the hood back, revealing his bald, tattooed head.

  The chanting stopped. His eyes took in the assemblage of monks in their brown robes. Never before had he seen so many in attendance. These were truly great times.

  “Brothers,” he said. The runes glowed as he spoke, his voice heard by each ear as if he stood next to them. “Soon it will be our time.”

  “AHHHH!” The monks responded in monotone unison.

  “We have selected our sacrifice. Soon we shall have her, then our reign will begin.”

  “PRAISE MINOS.”

  “We have been found worthy by the Bull God and we will show our devotion in blood.”

  “AHHHH!”

  “And then, my brothers, then, we will have the power we have desired. The power we deserve. The power to rule!”

  “AHHHH!”

  “It is our time, brothers. We have waited long enough. In less than forty-eight hours we will step forth from the shadows and the world will tremble.”

  A roar erupted from below them. A bellow that shook the walls.

  The arena dropped into silence and the monks looked to each other in concern.

  “Asterion calls out his approval, brothers!” The bald man shouted, throwing his left fist into the air.

  The monks cheered. He couldn’t have asked for a better sign.

  He led the monks in prayers, speaking the words of their religion in low deep voices that resonated throughout the arena. They praised their god and sang their devotion. Less than an hour later the prayers ended with each of the monks drawing their own blades across their palms, letting the blood spill out onto the floor beneath them in sacrifice to Asterion.

  “And now, brothers, I must finalize the arrangements for tomorrow night,” said the bald man. But before he could turn to leave, a voice spoke out from the crowd.

  “What about Norman Oklahoma?”

  “Who?” said the bald man.

  One of the monks stepped forward.

  “Norman Oklahoma, Great One,” the monk said. “He is a man who has a history of interfering in the doings of those such as us.”

  “Is he a wizard?”

  “No, Great One.”

  “Is he a god?”

  “No, Great One. He is a man.”

  The bald man laughed. The assemblage laughed with him. The lone monk looked down in shame.

  “He is no wizard, you say. He is just a man, you say. Then, like all others who have stood in our way, this Norman Oklahoma, should he bend an eye upon us, will die.”

  With that the monks shouted and cheered. The cacophony followed the bald man from the arena. It was then that he realized that his right hand had been in the pocket of his robes the entire time, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of the knife.

  18

  I FEEL FINE

  HAVE YOU EVER BEEN thrown out a window? It ain’t the street fair one might imagine.

  There’s pain involved; lots of it and from almost everywhere at once. There are more sensations of pain from just this one act then there are flavors of ice cream at a rich man’s sundae bar.

  Let me try and describe it to you.

  First, you feel a crushing blow and your body impacts in upon itself, your bones bruising and grinding together as you come into contact with the window. This lasts but nary a moment as the glass gives way and shatters around you. Then comes the biting shards that tear at your clothes and slice up your skin as you soar through the window and out into the open air.

  You ever see them cartoons where the coyote is chasing the road runner and the road runner ta
kes a quick left turn, but the coyote can’t turn as fast and winds up running right off the edge of a cliff? But here’s the the thing, being that it’s a cartoon, the coyote doesn’t notice right away that there ain’t no ground beneath him. So he hangs there in midair until he finally decides to look down. Once he realizes that there’s nothing holding him up, he falls.

  You feel almost that exact sensation when you’re thrown out a window.

  You hang there for a split second that feels more like an eternity. Then you fall, leaving your stomach behind. The ground rushes up to meet you, and it ain’t as forgiving as the glass, it doesn’t yield beneath you. Sure, if you ain’t too high and if you’re dropping into a field of lush grass it may not be that bad when you and the ground reunite. But I was two stories up and had nothing beneath me but concrete.

  Once you’re down, the fun ain’t over. You have a shower of glass to look forward to. More razor sharp shards to rip at your skin and make you bleed.

  If you’re lucky, you survive, and unless you’ve fallen into a busy street, you have nothing left to worry about. Just lie still and wait for the good folks in the ambulance to come along and scoop you up.

  Me? I wasn’t so lucky.

  I hit the sidewalk face first and felt bones snap and teeth crack as glass fell on me, slicing through my clothing and biting into my skin. I heard the screech of tires as cars skidded to a stop at the sight of a man falling from a second story window. I tried to rise, but my body wouldn’t cooperate. I knew that I’d heal soon enough and would eventually be able to get up and walk away, but I couldn’t count on the Walrus waiting around and allowing that to happen.

  Sure enough, I felt the impact of three hundred and fifty pounds of mutated muscle land near me on the sidewalk. He must have forgone the stairs and decided instead to jump. How efficient of him.

  I felt an intense itch course through me, which meant that the healing had begun. I could feel the blackout coming as the rest of my body tried to shut down. I fought against it. If I passed out, it was over for me. The Walrus grabbed me by the hair on the back of my head and pulled my face from the cement. Blood ran from my nose and mouth like a faucet and I could see pieces of my teeth lying there among the dark crimson pools.