The Black Ibis Case - Chapter 5

The poorly lit streets felt comforting and familiar. The dimness illuminated the streets enough to help ease my mind from what I had witnessed, but the events of this night just kept streaming through my mind like a movie reel looping repeatedly, recalling something so vivid and real yet, fuzzy, like a dream.

Despite the feeling of relative safety, I knew I was just deluding myself. These people, these cultists, certainly had roots in this city, plus I hadn’t forgotten the guy who jumped me after leaving the Coopers’ apartment.

I quickly made my way back to my office thanks to the scarce traffic at this late hour and bolted up the stairs faster than I thought I could. I unlocked, opened, and then locked my door in a single motion and crouched by the window to watch the street below, stubbing my toe on my desk in the darkness. I stayed there as motionless as the street itself and waited. I waited for almost an hour, kneeling in front of the window, and only shifted when my knees started to hurt. I felt reassured at last, and maybe I had gotten away with it.

I pulled myself from the floor into my chair and rubbed my legs vigorously for a moment. I turned on my desk lamp and poured myself a glass of whiskey, sparing a moment to look at the piece of wood still sitting there. Doctor Kent, although no longer a helpful or useful witness, was the best lead I had in finding out what exactly happened to Leonard. She may not know for sure that it was me in those woods, but I certainly did not want to kick the hornet’s nest any longer, at least not for now.

The ritual performed at Dr. Kent’s mansion was clearly strange, and Leonard’s name was mentioned at some point, so I knew without doubt that this group was involved. But my gut was telling me to change gears and investigate the subject of the initiation, Olivia Sherman, my newest lead. I pulled out my phone book and searched for the name. There was only one listed and with any luck, this would be the one I was searching for. She lived at seventy-eight Parkway drive, on the north end of the city.

My eyes were blurring as I read the names, and I decided to lay down for the night. Once again, I didn’t get much rest. I kept dreaming of being chased in the dark by those … dogs? Hounds? Beasts. I kept seeing the silhouette of the one I shot in the quick flashes from my gun. The fear must have exaggerated details and made the thing bigger and more monstrous than it truly was. As the dream kept playing and returning, I felt as though I could see it more clearly with each iteration, even in the dark. Its legs were thick with muscles and fur, ending in razor-like claws, but its tail was scaley and long with spikes along the ridge up to its back. In the last moments as I whirled around and took the shot, I could see a massive open maw filled with large conical teeth or tusks on either side, more like daggers than teeth despite being ivory white. It was a hideous amalgamation of fur and skin and scales and tusks, none of which made sense for a dog to have.

I had the same overwhelming feeling of dread as I had felt the night before but now it emanated from every tree, every branch and dead leaf as I escaped the creature. Whatever it was, it felt as though it was watching me, mocking me, not unlike a cat toying with a mouse and becoming bored of the game, readying itself for the final deathly blow.

I got up as soon as the sun’s first rays peeked through my window. Two days of piss-poor sleep still couldn’t convince me to stay in bed thanks to that nightmare I couldn’t seem to escape from. I decided to have a look at myself and assess the wounds I received last night. I got to my mirror and examined my face – there were five new cuts from branches spread across my cheeks, chin, and forehead, thankfully none as deep as the ones I got from that mugger. I pulled out my bottle of whiskey and poured some on my fingers to disinfect the wounds. They hadn’t bled much and were already scabbed, but I didn’t want to take chances at this point. Once finished, I looked at the bottle in my hand and sighed as it was nearly empty. I took a small swig from it and tried to conserve what remained for the next time I would need it. I was in no hurry to have to replace it, as I had precious little money to go around.

I then went to the bathroom in the hallway to clean myself up and have a shave. Splashing water on my face felt good and woke me up a bit more. There was no shower in here, but it was at least enough to remove the worst of my stink. I would normally stop by the local YMCA to grab a proper shower, but due to the seriousness and time-sensitive nature of the case, I decided to forego the luxury.

I left the building as soon as I felt presentable and headed straight for Bernie’s. My stomach was already rumbling hard enough for Bernie to hear as soon as I crossed the threshold. He looked at me strangely, his usually jovial face furrowed and seemed to be gauging me.

He started saying, “Beating the crowd today…”, but as his expression changed, he wound up saying, “What happened to you?” I had first thought he had been mad at me for some reason, possibly for never settling my tab, but his voice told me he was concerned.

“This?”, I asked pointing to my face. “Hazards of the job, Bernie.”

“You look like you went in the ring for a solid three rounds! What happened? Are you alright?”

“Really, it’s nothing,” I cleared my throat and decided to change the subject. “How about breakfast, eh Bernie?” I smiled but only managed to really smirk because my cheek hurt. I must have winced because Bernie curled his lips inwards and looked a little more concerned.

“Alright Sam, I’ll fix it up for you,” he went over and did his usual routine, though he glanced over his shoulder at me a few times. When he was finished, he handed me the coffee and bagel and said, “It’s on the house this time, forget that tab.”

I stared at him for a second and felt confused, even a little offended for some reason. “I’m alright, really. You don’t need to be so concerned buddy,” I started reaching into my pocket to pull out a few dollars, put he reached over the counter and stopped my arm.

“I mean it, Sam. You’re not my best customer, no, not by a long shot,” he stopped talking a moment and laughed to himself for a second, “but I like you. Whatever’s going on, just be careful, pal. I’d hate to lose my worst paying customer,” he leaned back away and gave me his friendliest smile.

I considered what he told me for a moment and nodded slowly. “Alright Bernie. I’ll be careful. Thanks,” I left quickly after that, just as Bernie screamed “See you tomorrow!” through the closing door.

I didn’t want anyone to worry about me, much less the guy who sells bagels and burnt coffee. I told myself that one of these days, I’d get a case that would make my name mean something and I’d never have to worry about paying back what I owe, and I wouldn’t have to take on these grunt cases and get myself beat up.

In the meantime, I’d be heading over to Olivia Sherman’s for a little reconnaissance. I had finished eating the bagel before I got to my car and was putting off drinking the coffee, so I put the cup in the cup holder and drove off. I only took sips of the burnt liquid when I felt my mind drifting off towards last night’s dream. The deep bitter taste helped keep my mind from wandering too far back into that dream and I wound up finishing the drink much faster than usual before it even got cold.

The north side of Oakport was old and had seen better days, yet it remained a well-off area. Most houses and shops dated back from when this was a logging town, and this area was at its core. Many of the buildings had historic plaques outside giving information on when it was built and by whom. These places were carefully maintained to keep the aesthetic from the early eighteenth century, making them look alien to the rest of the city that was becoming a growing collection of skyscrapers.

I found Parkway drive and drove slowly along it, studying the neighborhood, until I got to number seventy-eight. It was one of the only brick buildings in the area and stood out from the varied brown buildings near it due to the bricks’ red tinge, but also by being the only two-story house on this block.

I drove past the house and parked my car a little further down, where the road went up on a slight hill, but close enough that I could see what was going on in my mirrors. The curtains were all drawn, and the garden surrounding the home was well maintained and lovely. There were two large oak trees in the front yard, hanging flowerpots by the windows on the porch, and neatly trimmed hedges along the property’s perimeter coming to about chest high. Olivia clearly values her privacy dearly.

I waited and watched for almost an hour, chasing intrusive thoughts away as they surfaced. For some reason, all the bad decisions I had made in the past started to file through my mind like a new, even worse movie reel. I kept seeing Franklin and Julia’s disappointed faces, time after time, as I failed to show up at appointments, late for dinner, missing football games. All for work.

That work where I felt I was needed to keep people safe. That work where I thought I made a difference. That work that had me investigating crime scenes. That work that got me an alcohol addiction. That work that threw me out when my addiction started getting the better of me. That work that cost me my family.

At long last, Olivia came out of her home, and her appearance chased my thoughts away. Only the task at hand mattered now. She seemed smaller now that I could see her in the sunlight. Her brown hair was loose and just past shoulder length. She seemed to be in her early or mid twenties, but she had a serious expression about her, as if she had never laughed in her life, and her black and white blouse and vest seemed to accentuate her joylessness. She got into a blue sedan without sparing a glance to her surroundings and drove off.

I started my car and turned the steering wheel to head in the opposite direction from where I was facing to follow her. She drove slowly and below the speed limit. I assumed it was because of the fresh and melting layer of snow, which painted her in my mind as a cautious person. I made sure to keep a decent distance between her and myself, and she didn’t seem to notice me at all.

She didn’t drive very far and stopped at a shop called Oakport Antiques. I pulled off on a nearby street corner and watched Olivia as she got out of her car. She headed to the shop, reached for the door with a key and twisted it into the lock before disappearing inside. Seconds later the lights came on. It appeared as though Olivia was the owner of that little shop.

I waited in my car and considered going inside for a moment. I didn’t think she had seen me last night, but there was a chance Erica had told her about me, or at least told her what I looked like. I decided I should take my chances with Olivia as she was my best lead to Leonard at this point.

I got out of my car and looked at my reflection in the window. I had second thoughts about heading in right now. With my trench coat on and those cuts on my face, I looked like a guy who spent a night skulking in the bushes, or a detective who was spying on strange happenings. I took my coat off and left both it and my pistol in the car. I replaced my coat with a blue and white wool sweater and put on a matching baseball cap. I should seem inoffensive enough like this, or so I hoped, and if the state of my face came up, I’d just dismiss it as a shaving accident.

My heart skipped a beat as soon as I entered the shop and was greeted by a taxidermy grizzly bear with jaws wide and paws outstretched. I took in a deep breath and took a quick glance at the store’s content. Solid vanities and desks of a deep dark brown wood were lining every wall and series of glass cases with various small objects were in the center. A few lighter bookcases separated the store into sections and each shelf was full enough to warp the wood. I could see Olivia to my right, sitting behind a counter that seemed to belong in a museum itself thanks to the moldings of vines along the length of it. She was already engrossed in a book and either hadn’t noticed I had walked in or was uninterested in my presence.

I decided to study the store before speaking to its owner and casually browsed the items. The first few cases contained old jewelry, some plain such as heart shaped pendants, others with brooches lined with gold with emerald hearts. A section was dedicated to logging and had several well-used axes, saws, and hooks, with books on the history of Oakport and logging. The next one was filled with butter churns, milk containers, buckets with rusty horseshoes, hoes, rakes, shovels, and a few old family pictures.

One glass container had several old firearms in it. Revolvers of blackened steel, rifles engraved with hunting scenes and a few shotguns with profile portraits of either dogs or ducks were all prominently displayed. They all seemed to have been carefully cared for and were likely in working order. I imagined owning one such weapon before, on many occasions, if only to have something so finely crafted in my possession. The guns all cost over three hundred dollars, so I would have to satisfy myself with my dreams and fantasies. At least those cost nothing.

I eventually made my way closer to Olivia and inspected the collection of books on the shelf near her. I could see a framed diploma from Oakport University behind her, awarding her the rank of ‘Master of Philosophy in Egyptology’.

Many of the books near the front desk had to do with myths and religions of the world, most of which seemed related to Egypt, though some I recognized as Mesopotamian. I picked a book at random and let the pages fall open of their own accord. I looked at the page that fell open and was surprised to be looking at an ibis, the bird I couldn’t get away from of late. I should say, the head of an ibis, as this page had a picture of an Egyptian god named Thoth. I read the text briefly, describing him as the god of wisdom, science, and arts, as well as an arbitrator between divine disputes and even being one of the deities responsible for maintaining the universe itself. I shut the book and thought about what a symbol of that god turned black could represent, but my ruminations were cut short by Olivia tearing herself away from her book to speak to me.

“Found anything good?”, she asked from behind the counter, looking annoyed at having to engage with a customer.

“Curiosities,” I responded plainly as I pulled out another book, this one on the history and construction of pyramids.

“There’s plenty of those here,” she responded half-heartedly. “Tell me if there’s anything that interests you,” she went on, returning to her study of the book. From here, I could see she was writing something in a journal at the same time, though I couldn’t tell what.

“Sure,” I responded as I put the book back and pulled out another.

This one had to do with flora of Egypt. I leafed through a few pages and saw a picture of a board that reminded me of the one I had in my office. It was a deep red brown with a slightly wavy grain. I read the name at the top of the page and saw it was acacia, a wood known for its durability. I read the paragraphs describing the wood’s significance and learned it was a symbol of immortality, chaos and change in Egyptian culture. Who would make shipping crates from this kind of wood, and what was an acacia crate doing in an abandoned warehouse in Oakport? I could sense Olivia watching me furtively from the corner of her eye and sighing more loudly each time. I put the book back and decided to go talk to her.

She reluctantly pulled herself away from her work once more and asked me, “Have you found anything?”, as she looked at me with that same mixture of annoyance and boredom.

“Yes,” I replied plainly, “but sadly I just can’t afford any of it now.”

“Of course. Do come back when you can,” she said as she put on a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“You seem to have an interest in Egypt,” I pointed to the book between us with pictures of hieroglyphs and then the shelf I had just been at.

“It is a fascinating subject, don’t you think?” she asked with a hint of interest now that a subject she cared for was broached.

“Certainly. What is it that grabs your attention about such old stories though?” I tried to catch a glimpse of what she had written as we spoke, but her hand was in the middle of her journal, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of the book she was reading. It seemed to me as though she was translating it.

“The Truth behind the mysteries,” she answered elusively, trying to maintain an air of nonchalance. The muscles pulling at the corners of her mouth formed a barely noticeable smile as she cast her eyes and finger along the page.

“Must be a lot of truth in that book,” I remarked, nodding at the book she held.

“A personal project, one I’d like to get back to,” she answered with finality.

This was undeniably my cue to leave. Staying any longer might rouse suspicions from her and I couldn’t afford to lose her as a potential source. I tipped my cap to her and said, “Well, good day,” and turned to leave the store, glancing slightly over my shoulder as I crossed the threshold, but she was fully engrossed in the text and offered no reply.

I walked back to my car and wondered how she could afford to have a store, or if she had customers at all if this frigid reception was how she interacted with people. I sat in silence for a few minutes and though about what to do next. I was certain there was more to be learned from Olivia but pushing too much now would get nowhere.

I started circling back to the warehouse I had examined two days ago, and ran over the questions in my head again; why did this warehouse have crates made of acacia wood, and why would Leonard go there meet this ‘J’ person? I stopped suddenly as a wave of inspiration hit me, and decided I should head to city hall in the hopes of finding some old documents that could potentially turn the tide of this investigation… if all went to plan.

I put my car into gear and drove the short distance to the municipal building. The grey stone building stood proudly between two large oaks, with two stone lions standing watch on either side of the gates leading to the entrance.

The receptionist greeted me as soon as I crossed the door, seeming almost excited to see someone. He was an older man, looking like he was near retirement from the wrinkles on his face and balding pate, what remained of his hair a stark white.

“Morning, mister. Why are you visiting city hall today?” asked the old man.

“I’d like to see some records about McMillan Exports. I’m here on behalf of a client.”

“Oh, alright. Follow me to the archives,” the old man croaked unquestioning as he led me down a flight of stairs to a door labelled ‘archives’ on a bronzed plaque.

The archive was always larger than I remembered. There were two dozen rows of black shelves lining the room all four rows deep. It was almost a small warehouse in itself, except what was stored here was knowledge of little use to most folk other than people like me, snooping into dealings of buildings before they became abandoned. I followed the clerk to a section labelled ‘M’ on the first shelf.

“Be sure to put everything back where you found it,” he chastised. He must have had to deal with careless visitors before.

“Of course,” I replied plainly. I understood his pain. There are few things that annoy me more than disorganized or carelessly stored files.

It took me a few minutes to find the McMillan Exports file. It was practically buried behind newer ones, and I could see a layer of dust on it. I found myself a table and began rifling through the documents.

There wasn’t much to be said about the contents, mostly just copies of contracts for trading various goods internationally. Most contracts went to England, France, and a few to Singapore, but the most interesting one was a singular contract with Egypt, with an antiques dealer named Jeremiah Johnson. A dead end, but interesting details nonetheless.

The warehouse and the trading company that owned it went out of business in sixty-seven. I eventually managed to find a copy of the deed and saw a name that was familiar: Erica Kent. I then found a document of purchase dating from 1904 where John McMillan sold the warehouse over to George Kent, and the deed was transferred from one generation to the next to this day, keeping the original name.

I chuckled to myself at having discovered the source of Doctor Kent’s family fortune, or at least one of their assets. I got the impression there were probably more businesses owned by the family, probably all over Europe. Erica didn’t seem to be faking her accent, and her degree seemed real enough given she was teaching at a university.

I carefully put the documents back in the file as I had found them, making sure to remove as much dust as I could before jamming the file back where I had found it. I waved at the old clerk as I left. I saw him get up as soon as I was making for the door and he seemed worried as he headed over to the archive, probably expecting to find a mess of documents somewhere. I thought he would be pleasantly surprised.

Without any more delays, I headed back over to the warehouse with new insight, yearning to see what I might have missed before without this juicy context.