Pit Black - Chapter 1

Chapter 1

T here are stretches of Hollywood Boulevard in which, aside from the glittering stars of the Walk of Fame, it could be any street in any American city. The truth is that other than those stars, it is just the same as the others. The same businesses, the same people, with the same hopes, dreams; the same problems. The film industry’s presence is more apparent here than it is elsewhere, but Hollywood’s tendrils can be felt throughout America, reaching, pulling; a vast Lovecraftian beast existing only to consume.

Like such a beast, Manifest Destiny acquired land for its con-querors much more quickly than that land could be filled, with bricks and tar and cement and smog; the process of laying down lifeless utilitarian clutter had become streamlined, the product gray and dull. Culture was stunted by the filling of too much space in too short a time. Los Angeles had much character, but other than a few land-marks, there wasn’t much in the way of style, architecturally speak-ing.

And so, stars. Stars made of brass and terrazzo: that mutt of materials; that melting pot of precast. It was the America of sidewalks. A sidewalk on which some people are idolized, and others walk upon those idols. An upside to this material was that it did not tend to lose its structure in heat. The asphalt was not so lucky. Rather, the peo-ple around the asphalt were not so lucky. It was enough that this day was sufficiently hot to have Californians sweating lakes, but the city streets had become tarry. The smell of dirty, melting road mixed with the deathly blanket of smog, confederates in the attempt to gently—but forcefully—smother the city. On this, a record-breaking year for smog, that blanket was as effective a murder weapon as any other. Just slower than some. But the suited man now entering the Pantages Theatre tended to think of everything in terms of murder weapons.

Homicide Detective Matthew Kipling was a broad-shouldered, sixty-seven-year-old, not-yet-ready-to-retire cop with a large gray mustache that matched his suit, and a complexion of liverwurst that did not. His badge shone brightly under the lights of the lobby as he entered. Even if the interior of the L.A. landmark had not been a cool, sweeping relief from the stifling death-haze outside, Kipling would have had to stop and gape in awe of the sight. The grandeur of the lobby was such as Kipling had not witnessed before, having managed to stay away from the ‘fake’ west side of town in most of his years here. Though the entryway, with its fine carpet, high arches, grand staircase, and gilded statues reminded Kipling of everything he hated about L.A. culture, he couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill—he was standing right in the Hollywood glitz he had idolized as a child. On the wall nearest him hung a poster featuring cartoonish silhouettes of a trombonist and dancer; an advertisement for Bubbling Brown Sugar, the musical that had marked the reopening of the Pantages the previ-ous year.

“Heya,” came an irritable voice. Kipling saw what at first looked like an enormous baby. The belt, worn too high, did not hide the man’s stumpy legs threatening to buckle beneath the large, potato-shaped torso. His neck and overlarge head shared a similar relation-ship, the beady eyes adjusting as the head precariously bobbled above a tiny bow tie, ready to topple off and out onto Hollywood Boulevard. The thin wrists protruding from enormous jacket sleeves gave his arms the appearance of hanging car mufflers. Overall, he looked like a hastily built golem, or an inbred mafia thug. One of these had some truth to it.

“Hello, mister—”

“Jim.”

“Hello, Jim—”

“Ricky Jim.” There was a pause. Kipling and the theatre em-ployee stared at each other for an awkward moment.

“Well, mister Jim,” Kipling said, “I’m here to meet fellow of-ficers.”

“Ohhh,” said Ricky Jim. There was a sluggishness to his speech, as though he were forming the words from clay. “Didn’t see your badge. Main doors. Lemme know f’you need anything; I’ll hap-pily assist.” His face and tone did not match those words. He gestured toward an open ground-level door.

“Thanks,” said Kipling, who proceeded through the door and into the theatre. If the entrance to the Pantages was a shock for Kip-ling, it was nothing compared to the house and stage themselves. The contrast between the deep cerulean ceiling and the brilliant crimson carpeting, all framed in gold, gave one the impression of standing out-side reality. This was enhanced by the elegant designs covering every metallic surface. Then there was the room’s centerpiece: a chandelier unlike any Kipling had ever seen; a monument to futurism, a science fiction cityscape protruding from the heavens, bathing patrons in ethe-real light. So spectacular was the sight that it was several seconds be-fore Kipling noticed the stage, and what was on it.

The stage was cluttered with set pieces and police officers. In a clearing, front and center, illuminated—distastefully, in Kipling’s opinion—by a spotlight, lied the body. Her golden curls alone would have given her away even at this distance, but as Kipling approached, the unmistakable bone structure of the victim’s face—both sharp and smooth; both earthly and otherworldly—left no doubt as to who she was, though they had never met. Curled on her side, she could have been sleeping.

“Oh God,” he said to himself. “It’s Lydia Garland.” The po-lice officers, whose lethargic movements made Kipling wonder if they had been working at all, spun around to look. The only one he knew, a thin, tall man, spoke.

“Kipling!” greeted Detective Paul Tyler. “Thank God.” Seeing that Kipling’s eyes were still wandering toward the body, he added, “Terrible. Tragic.” Kipling noticed that there were chalk markings around the body, but he was not close enough to observe any pat-terns.

“We’ve seen this before, Tyler,” Kipling replied. “There’s nothing more tragic about one body over another.” His mind believed what he said, yet his heart felt heavy, as though challenging his own convictions from within. “Who found her?” He was supposed to say, ‘who found the body,’ but something kept him from dehumanizing her, making her just another cadaver, quite yet.

“Manager,” said Tyler. “You meet him? Weird guy.” Kipling nodded.

“No men at the door, Paul? I walked right in. Could have been anyone.”

“In this heat? Nah. Besides, these guys never saw a murder scene.” Kipling could have guessed as much: not a single officer here had any stripes save Tyler, and they seemed to be dragging them-selves around by their inexperience without gloves or clear investiga-tive method. Tyler seemed to read this on Kipling’s face, because he said “we’re running low on resources, Matt. Lots happening these days. That’s why I asked Sarge to call you into the west side.”

“Sergeant Williams?”

“Well, Captain Williams, nowadays. Us old timers just call him Captain Sarge, though. I asked him to bring you over.”

“Thanks for that.” Kipling hoped his former partner would catch the sarcasm. Alright. Down to business. “Sweetheart,” he called to the sole female officer, “could I get some gloves? I’m going to take a look.” The officer nodded and hopped down to where a single duf-fel bag sat in one of the front row seats.

“Thanks, Matt.” Tyler said as Kipling walked toward the fe-male officer.

“No problem, Paul.” As if he had a choice. “So, what’ve we got?” He nodded his thanks to the officer who had just handed him latex gloves — B. Finnegan, her name tag said.

“We don’t know much,” Tyler said, a little sheepishly. “She must have come in to practice last night, somebody was waiting for her here where they’d already drawn this shit”—he gestured toward the markings,—“and sacrificed her.” Now near the markings around the body, Kipling observed geometrical patterns and, perhaps, some kind of writing. What he had assumed to be chalk was a courser, looser material. Salt. Huh. The markings resembled pentagrams and other strange figures which unsettled Kipling. He was caught off-guard by the sudden appearance of the occult in this investigation, but when he spoke it was with the calm he had always been known for, first in the NYPD, and then for nearly thirty years here among L.A.’s finest.

“You believe these markings are legitimate, then?” Kipling asked sincerely. “Not a ruse to throw us off the scent?”

“Uh,” said Tyler, who had clearly not considered this, though Kipling thought he saw a knowing look in officer Finnegan’s eyes as she watched their conversation. “Well, that’s definitely a possibility.” Poor Paul.

“Do we know who’s been here?” Kipling asked, squatting by the victim’s head. Close up, even in death, Lydia Garland was more beautiful than Kipling imagined. No poster or screen could do this face justice.

“Manager says any cast or crew for the show could have got-ten in.”

“By extension,” Kipling said thoughtfully, “that could widen our suspect list significantly.” He leaned over the body. Fully clothed, L.A. City College sweatshirt, jeans, and boots. Lying on her side. Something was wrong with this picture. What?

“Maybe,” said Tyler. “But it was probably a musician.” Kip-ling stood up to look Tyler in the face.

“What makes you say that?” he asked.

“For one,” blurted one of the junior officers, “one in particular was hot for Lydia.” The young officer was tall and handsome and knew it. He was clearly used to being listened to. Kipling did not ap-preciate the interjection, but he believed any information was im-portant information, so he addressed the young officer.

“Which musician was this,” Kipling said, “and how do you know about his…fondness? Officer…?”

“Hoffman, sir,” said the officer eagerly. “Jerry Hoffman. Eve-rybody knows really; Lydia couldn’t get a moment alone. He’s al-ways harassing her. Now he’s gone, no dice finding him yet.”

“Interesting,” said Kipling, though, absurdly, it felt wrong for this man to speak her name so casually, like he knew her. “It was more likely somebody she knew than not.” Encouraged by the ap-proval of the veteran detective, Hoffman continued.

“Yeah, always following her around, trying to catch her eye on breaks and stuff.” How Hoffman knew this, Kipling did not ask.

“Does he have a name?”

“Shithole,” grinned the last officer, older and less handsome than Hoffman, but almost as pompous from the sound of it.

“Campbell,” growled Tyler in warning. Perhaps this was not his first incident. Kipling’s sympathy for his old partner increased.

“Come on, boss,” smiled Hoffman. “The guy’s name practi-cally is ‘Shithole.’ They don’t really know how to name humans, those nigg—“

“Sithole,” said a voice from behind them. Everyone turned to see a silhouette against the spotlight.

“Excuse me—” started Kipling.

“See-toh-leh,” said the voice again, emphasizing each syllable. “It’s South African.” As the silhouette approached, leaving the direct beam of the spotlight, the figure of a man came into view. His pink Hawaiian shirt seemed at odds both with the uniformed police officers and the majesty of the Pantages theatre; his unshaven face and red Converse were a greater affront. If at any point Kipling nearly lost his composure, it was now.

“Claymore,” he croaked. “What the hell are you doing here?” The newcomer smiled, though his smile looked tired, that of a man perhaps older than Kipling; in reality, he was half Kipling’s age.

“Claymore!?” Hoffman shouted. “Foxy foxy Claymore?” He howled like a wolf. Campbell laughed appreciatively; Tyler and Fin-negan looked embarrassed. Kipling stood rigid, expressionless.

“Wrong on two counts, Bud,” the newcomer said, sounding annoyed but not unkind. On the two counts about which Hoffman was wrong, Claymore did not elaborate. “I was hired to come, Detec-tive Kipling,” he said to the elder detective.

“I don’t think,” Kipling said slowly, “that anyone who loses their badge should ever—”

“I get it, Detective Kipling,” Claymore said, his hands up pla-catingly. “But I’m here. We can help one another.” Kipling continued to stand, unmoving, his words apparently spent. The others stood, just as frozen, fearful of Kipling’s famous temper. Claymore waited patiently, but it was Hoffman who broke the silence.

“Foxy, I think you’re unwelcome!” he said, half laughing.

“Look,” said Claymore, not looking at Hoffman, but at Kip-ling. “You’re a good cop. I was a good cop.” Kipling scoffed. “We don’t have to investigate together,” Claymore continued as though no noise had been made. “I’ve got lines my client wants me on that I don’t think you fine officers will be following. But we couldhelp one another.” For all his rage, Kipling respected the private detective’s ability. Claymore could see it in his eyes. What was more: Kipling had nothing. He was going to let Claymore in.

“Private ‘detectives’ don’t belong messing around in cases like these,” Kipling said, speaking a little more steadily than before. “But if you want a look, take it. Only this once.” Claymore, now standing feet from Kipling, began the slightest movement of his arm, intending to shake Kipling’s hand, but immediately thought better of it.

Out of the corner of his eye, something seemed to dart behind a brick wall set piece. Nobody reacted.

“So,” said Claymore, pulling his eyes away from the point where the figure had apparently vanished, “what about Sebastian Sit-hole makes him our prime suspect?”

“Where did you get the first name?” asked Kipling. The oth-ers’ expressions seemed to ask the same question.

“Interviewed the manager,” replied Claymore. “I’m surprised none of you did the same.”

“You know—” started Campbell heatedly, who was immedi-ately cut off by a look from Tyler.

“Again,” said Claymore, “why Sebastian Sithole? Ricky Jim seems to think he’s a good guy.”

“Everybody is a ‘good guy’ until they’re not,” said Kipling. “As you well know.” Perhaps looking to avert a fight between Kip-ling and Claymore, Tyler spoke.

“There are,” he said, “several things.” All eyes in the room were now on Detective Tyler. He gulped cartoonishly. “Sithole,” he continued, taking care to pronounce the name as Claymore had, “was constantly showering miss Garland with unwanted attention.”

“We’re sure it was unwanted?” asked Claymore.

“How could it not be?” Hoffman said, now sounding irritated with Claymore, the novelty of his mild celebrity gone. “No decent woman wants attention from a—from his type.”

“His type being, what,” Claymore asked sharply, “musician? Poor? Black?” For the first time, there was a note of hostility in his voice. The figure had not emerged from behind the set piece.

“Well, all of the above,” said Hoffman defiantly. “She could have had anyone.”

“Like you, Hoffman?” teased Campbell. Before Hoffman could react, Claymore cut in.

“Okay, so basically nothing against Sebastian Sithole has yet been established that places him suspect above anybody else,” he said as though Hoffman had not spoken. “Who’s here besides us?” Eve-ryone made shrugging gestures.

“Just us and the manager,” said Tyler.

“Great,” said Claymore, glancing again at the spot where the figure had vanished. As he approached the body, he was offered a pair of latex gloves by Finnegan. “Thank you,” he said, taking the gloves and putting them on. Standing over the body, Claymore let his mind take hm elsewhere. How did she get here? Where was she be-fore this? Who was with her?

“The body was found this morning?” he asked. There were sounds of confirmation. “Has anyone taken photos?”

“I have,” said Finnegan. Claymore nodded.

“When was she last seen before this?”

“Three days ago,” responded Tyler, “after rehearsing a play here.”

“Three days ago?? Hasn’t anybody been looking for her?” Claymore knew somebody was, but that information was not neces-sarily within the knowledge of the Los Angeles Police Department.

“As far as anybody knew, she wasn’t missing. Busy girl, big city; everybody assumed she was with somebody else.” Claymore sighed as he lowered himself beside the body. Kipling did the same on the other side. A shadow seemed to fall upon the body’s lips, sink to the corner of the mouth, and disappear underneath the head. Keep it together, Fawkes, Claymore thought to himself.

“What do we know about the body itself, besides the frostbite on the right side of her face?” he asked the room at large.

“Frostbite?” said Tyler, taken aback. Since the body was lying on its right side, Claymore had to gently raise the head so that the oth-ers could see the full black and red blemish.

“I only caught the edge of it around her mouth here,” Clay-more continued, “but I recognized it right away."

“Shit,” said Hoffman.

“But wait,” Campbell practically shouted, “it’s been over a hundred degrees out every day this week. How the hell does some-body get frostbite when there’s no goddamn frost?”

“Good question,” replied Claymore, as though he were a pro-fessor, the rookies his students. He gestured toward Finnegan. “Of-ficer—”

“Finnegan,” she replied. “Bonnie Finnegan.”

“Any ideas, Officer Finnegan?” Finnegan looked around at the men in the room, as if silently asking for permission to speak. When nobody seemed to object, she spoke.

“I think she might have been kept in a freezer,” she said. “She might not have even died last night.” Claymore nodded approvingly.

“Exactly. A freezer, or something in a freezer, over a long pe-riod, could cause this." His expression then hardened. “Unfortunate-ly,” Claymore continued, “I think we’ll find she was in there beforeshe was killed.” Nobody contradicted him, but he thought he felt their skepticism at his claim.

“This frostbite,” he said, “is the kind of cell damage that oc-curs in a living body. Your cells don’t necessarily immediately die when you do, so you can still damage them after death, but they’re damaged differently; they don’t behave as part of an organism. These,” he gestured again toward Lydia Garland’s face, “died as part of an organism.” Everyone, even Kipling, seemed lost in thought. “What else is there?”

“There’s wounds on her wrists,” Tyler said. “They go straight through.” Claymore crouched again, pulling back the sleeves of the sweatshirt. There, just as Tyler had said, were puncture wounds, one on each wrist, circular. That might mean—

“Has anybody checked her torso?” asked Claymore. The of-ficers shook their heads. He could not blame them; they’d never seen a dead body before; it was worse as a body they all knew, or thought they knew. To lift her shirt without her permission would feel like an invasion of privacy. Impractical for crime scene investigators, per-haps, but understandable. This had been a human being after all, and Claymore took comfort in the fact that, whatever their faults, these rookies had some empathy in them. Or maybe they were just squeam-ish.

As Claymore was expecting, a wisp of darkness seemed to gather itself on the torso’s lower right side, toward the stage floor, then dissipate. You sure it’s not on her left side? He thought. The darkness appeared again, swirling agitatedly underneath the body, then vanished. Okay, okay.

“Officer Finnegan, could you help me out here?” Claymore said. “Detective Kipling, you might want to get a good look at this. We’re going to move her just enough to see her right side.” Nobody argued. Finnegan approached. “Finnegan, I’m going to need you to help me roll the body off her right side, but not enough so that she falls onto her back.” Finnegan nodded and lowered herself to begin her task.

“Put me in the game, Coach!” yelled Hoffman. “I’m wasting away!” Claymore looked up at him.

“This is a one-person job. Officer Finnegan can lift the body just fine. We don’t want too many people crowding.” Hoffman looked to his superiors for support, but neither Tyler nor Kipling con-tradicted Claymore. “Okay, Officer Finnegan, now.”

As the body raised, Claymore moved the sweatshirt just enough to expose a long wound along the right side. “What does it look like, Detective Kipling?” asked Claymore, who thought he knew what he saw, but wanted confirmation.

“Looks surgical,” said Kipling slowly, forgetting his irritation with Claymore, and even his discomfort with examining the beautiful actress, as this strange puzzle revealed more of itself. “Yes,” he con-tinued, looking sick. “There are stitches. Sloppy, and few, maybe just enough to hold it closed temporarily, but they’re there. We need fo-rensic specialists on this. We can’t—”

“I agree,” said Claymore. “Just one more thing. Please lower the body back down, Officer Finnegan.” She did so, and Claymore began running his hands along the body, over the clothing. To Tyler, Hoffman and Campbell, the movements seemed too gentle, too inti-mate; indecent. Kipling knew better. So, Claymore suspected, did Finnegan. The body would be fully examined by a forensics team, but anything that could be gleaned from the scene now should be. He started at the scalp, moving down the face and neck, over the shoul-ders, along the back, sides, and front, down the legs to the boots. He did not remove the boots but squeezed and pinched at different spots on them. He sighed, then stood.

“Officers,” Claymore said, removing his gloves, “let’s review what we know.” Everyone, even Hoffman, was silent. “Lydia Gar-land was kept in a freezer during the last hours, maybe days, of her life. Possibly drugged, which would explain why she kept her face against a frozen surface long enough for frostbite to kick in; a proper-ly conscious person would at least have used the sweatshirt as a buff-er, unless she didn’t have it at the time. But I think she probably did.

“She was not killed here. She was movedhere, either ritualisti-cally or to make it seem like a ritual. If we’re following a Satanic line of thinking, the wounds on her wrists and side might represent stig-mata.” This time it was Finnegan who looked confused.

“Stigmata?” she asked. Everything from her voice to her pos-ture indicated a more confident person than she had seemed earlier; someone unafraid to ask questions. Something thumped in the wings, off left. Claymore looked up, knowing what he would see. It was grinning at him. It couldn’t help itself. To Claymore’s surprise, Fin-negan looked too. Maybe it was coincidence. When she looked back, he met her eyes. Nothing. She could not have seen it.

“Christ’s stigmata,” Claymore finally answered, with every-one’s full attention. “The places where Jesus Christ was wounded at the crucifixion: wrists, feet, and side. So, we might expect to find a similar wound on her right foot.”

“Why not her left?” asked Tyler and Finnegan at once. Clay-more sighed again.

“Because,” he said, “the left foot isn’t there.” For a long mo-ment, the statement seemed to sink into the brains of the police offic-ers, into their bodies, their souls. Somehow, just killing somebody did not seem as bad on its own as stealing body parts. “I’m willing to bet forensics will find that the foot isn’t the only thing missing.”

“Sheesh,” said Tyler, simultaneously impressed and disgust-ed. “Just, sheesh.”

“Regarding suspects,” Claymore continued, “The manager says he saw somebody in pit black leaving the theatre around ten last night.” Seeing more blank looks, he added, “all black. ‘Pit black’ is how theatre pit musicians refer to their dress code.”

“So, ‘pit’ is not a reference to Hell,” said Tyler.

“Might as well be,” grumbled Hoffman. “These so-called ‘musicians’ are coked-out scum. Pit black? Most of these chimps don’t even need the black clothing to—”

“Hoffman, enough,” said Tyler. Hoffman looked mutinous but said nothing. There was snickering backstage.

“So,” continued Claymore as though neither man nor beast had interrupted, “our prime suspects will be the pit musicians, regard-less of race or social status, though somebody who knows their reli-gious stuff might be worth noting, as well as somebody who has training with a knife, particularly of the butcher or surgical variety. Sebastian Sithole, if he really is missing, should be the highest priori-ty.” Lowering his voice, he said, “We also can’t rule out Ricky Jim, the manager. That should be a good start for all of us.” Finnegan was taking notes. Hoffman yawned.

“I think I should go,” he said with a meaningful look, walking toward the exit. Kipling took the hint and followed. Before they left the theatre, Claymore turned back toward the stage. “Keep up the good work, officers,” he said, possibly too kindly.

“Stay outta trouble, Foxy!” Hoffman called. Claymore, facing away, gritted his teeth, and Kipling smiled at his annoyance.

“Please hit him,” he growled merrily. “I’d love to put you away for assaulting a police officer.” Claymore chuckled despite him-self.

As the two detectives walked into the lobby, they each nodded to Ricky Jim, who seemed to be wandering aimlessly through the room. His head wobbled, which might have been a return nod. They stopped just inside the front door. Claymore opened his mouth to speak, but Kipling started first.

“Before you say anything,” he said, a note of icy warning in his voice, “I gotta tell you not to get comfortable with this case. None of this ‘we’ and ‘our’ shit. It’s notyours. Not yours at all. You stay out of this case, Fawkes Claymore. You’re not a detective. You never were a detective. You’ve got a good eye, but you couldn’t hack it as a cop and it’s an insult to the job that you’re still pretending.” Clay-more’s brow furrowed as he looked at Kipling for a long moment.

“Detective Kipling,” he finally said, “I don’t intend to inter-fere, only to assist. I can do things cops can’t do, precisely because I was kicked out. Besides, my client is not the kind of person you say no to.”

“What kind of person is that?”

“Her father.” Reluctantly, Kipling threw up his hands.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. I can’t really go up against a member of city council. But the moment you start interfering, the moment you mess something up for this case, you’re going down. And you won’t be getting up any time soon.”

“Fair enough. I don’t envy your work conditions though.” At this, Kipling sighed.

“Paul Tyler is a good cop. It just may be a while before he’s a great cop.”

“Keep Finnegan in the loop too. She was the only one paying attention.”

“To what?”

“To anything.”

“I’ll consider your advice. Anything else?” Claymore shifted his weight thoughtfully, considering how best to phrase what he was about to say.

“Did you notice anything about the markings around the body?” he asked. Kipling considered him for a moment, then an-swered.

“They’re not like any I’ve seen before,” he said. “And, what I first thought to be chalk is actually salt.”

“Pure salt, I’m guessing,” said Claymore. “An occultist sacri-ficing a human being to some demon isn’t going to use salt. Salt is supposed to block and weaken demonic forces. Conjuring one right into a pile of it would be counterproductive.”

“So you’re saying—"

“I’m saying that, between the missing body parts and the use of salt, we’re not dealing with an occultist. It’s either a very well-planned red herring, or…” he hesitated. Kipling did not break the si-lence. “Or,” Claymore continued, “we’re dealing with an alchemist.” Kipling clearly understood the implication because his complexion went straight from his usual liverwurst to the white of cold cut turkey, skipping all the lunch meats between.

“It can’t be.”

“I’m just saying it might be. If it isn’t, we may find them to be a very capable copycat.”

“Shit,” said Kipling.

“Yeah. Just…be careful.” Kipling looked long and hard into Claymore’s eyes, as if he were trying to understand how he felt about the man.

“Thanks,” Kipling said, his hand held out in sincere gratitude. Then, as if making sure to maintain his boundaries, he added, “I’ll still arrest you if you give me any reason.” Claymore smiled and saluted, immediately regretting the gesture for fear that it would be taken as mockery. Kipling scoffed in amusement, tipped his head slightly in semi-respectful farewell, and returned, through the house door, to his new investigtive team. Claymore stood by the front door, lost in thought. Why did Officer Bonnie Finnegan look to where the creature had been thumping around? Was it just coincidence? Or had she heard and seen the creature?

Of course, Claymore reminded himself, she could not have seen it. Nobody ever did.