The Stein & Candle Detective Agency, Vol. 1: American Nightmares (The Stein & Candle Detective Agency #1) (17 page)

“Nope. Long as you go down to London and do a little job for me.” I turned to Weatherby. “Who do you want him to visit?”

“There’s an antiques shop by the name of Choronzon’s Treasures, in Whitechapel,” Weatherby explained. “Go there and ask for Mr. St. Germain. Tell him Stein sent you –but don’t mention that it’s his son. Ask him who hired him to send Herne the Hunter against Angelica Witt.”

“And then you won’t tell no one I’m here?” Neddy asked plaintively.

“I’ll catch amnesia,” I said. “You got my word. Now get lost.” I grinned at Weatherby as Neddy McCain hurried off. “Your father’s contacts will help us crack this case, kiddo. I think we’ll let these limeys finish their film after all.”

“I dearly hope so,” Weatherby said, as we started walking towards Teller’s car. But I could tell the kid wasn’t so sure.

We got back to Bly Studios right around nightfall. Weatherby and I unpacked our things in the guest room, and he showered and changed into one of his father’s smoking jackets, a thick red robe that hung heavily on his small shoulders. I had a cigarette and sat by the phone, waiting for Neddy to call back from London with the identity of our troublemaker.

Despite the Victorian exterior, everything in Bly Studios was free of dust, tastefully lit, and absolutely modern. Weatherby joined me, pacing around the room like a caged animal while I took a long drag on my cigarette, “You feeling a bit better?” I asked. “Got the moors scraped off of you?”

“I will be frightfully sore presently,” Weatherby replied. “But it’s for a good cause, I believe.”

“Really? Helping these Brits make themselves a horror movie with more cheese than Wisconsin?” I smiled. “You seem to have changed your mind.”

Weatherby shrugged. “It provides entertainment,” he said. “And who am I to argue with the tastes of the masses?” It was strangely open-minded for him.

I smiled. “You’re smarter than you look, kiddo,” I said. “Maybe we’ll catch it at a matinee. Provide we survive the making of this picture, that is.” The phone rattled to life next to me. I took the cigarette from my mouth and ground it into the ash tray as I brought up the phone. “This is Candle,” I said. “That you, Neddy?”

It was. “Yeah, Mr. Candle. It’s me all right. I went to that damn shop, just like you asked me too. Scariest place I ever been in, and I’ve seen where they brew the poteen in Galway. Mr. St. Germain was like a walking corpse, and I couldn’t even see his face under that damned mask of his. But I asked him who hired him. I asked him who summoned Herne the Hunter.”

“And?” I asked.

“And he told me. You ain’t gonna like it, mate.”

Neddy was right. He told me and I didn’t like it one bit. “Thanks,” I said. “You’re off the hook. Now beat it.” I hung up and looked up at Weatherby. “Let’s go downstairs,” I told him.

We stood up and headed down the stairwell to the ground floor. Weatherby lost his robe and grabbed his frock coat. That was a smart decision. We could hear the sounds of laughter and drinking, drifting up from downstairs. The new generation of Englishmen, who hadn’t stormed across Europe or seen their cities pounded under the Blitz, seemed to have no desire to do much but party. I didn’t blame them.

Downstairs, the actors, the crew, Clarence Teller and Albert Riordan, the producer, were lounging about, enjoying cigars and drinks in tall flute glasses. Riordan wore a camel hair coat over his three-piece suit, and he watched me as I walked down. His smile remained, but then died slowly, becoming a grim line.

“Well, well,” he said. “If it isn’t our American friends. Come for a drink?”

Angelica stood up and set down her glass. She looked just as good in a tight pairs of jeans and a lacy shirt as she did in a diaphanous nightgown. “Well, I don’t believe Weatherby is old enough. I’ll fetch you a coke from the refrigerator in the kitchen, honey. Would you like that?”

He nodded, smiling like a schoolboy. I glared at him and he stiffened up. “I just got the news from someone in London,” I said. “I know who summoned Herne the Hunter to go after Angelica.”

Riordan stood up. “And you trust this individual?” he wondered. “And we’re supposed to trust you? This isn’t the Wild West, Mr. Candle. Things are often not as simple as they appear.”

“What the Hell is that supposed to mean?” I asked.

Before Riordan could reply, a long green cord shot in through the open window. It wrapped twice around Angelica Witt’s chest. We all stared at it in fear in surprise for a few terrible seconds. “God above us!” Teller shouted, looking out the window. “It’s him!”

Sure enough, Herne the Hunter stood there, his black dogs at the hooves of his horse. Herne pulled on his lariat, dragging Angelica after him. She screamed as we tried to run to her, but Herne was just too fast. He yanked his lariat back, pulling the actress through the open window and out to the porch. I was first out the door, an automatic in each hand, but then Angelica was in Herne’s hands.

He fixed me with those glowering eyes of his as he hauled her up into his saddle. He grabbed a spear with one hand and hurled it at me. My eyes darted up, watching the spear soar through the air and come down slowly. I stepped to the side, letting it sink into the porch. “Gotta try a little harder than that, buddy,” I said.

Herne turned his horse around and pounded across the street. There was an abandoned complex of old warehouses and rough cement buildings parallel to Bly Studios and it seemed like that was the Hunter’s destination. Weatherby, Teller, and Riordan followed me outside, and watched Herne leap his horse over the barbed wire fence surrounding the old compound.

“Oh god,” Teller whispered. “That’s the old military base! There are mine fields there that haven’t been decommissioned! We have to stop them!”

Riordan pointed to his Lincoln Town Car. “We’ll take that,” he said, and dashed down to his car. We followed him, Teller moving to take the driver’s seat.

Weatherby looked at me as we squeezed into the back. “Wait until we rescue Miss Witt,” he said. “Then we’ll tell them.”

“Fine,” I muttered, quickly reloading my pistols.

Teller slammed on the gas and the luxury car shot forward, burning across the strip of road and heading for the military base on the other side. He drove straight through the fence, metal screeching as it tore against the front of the car. We sped down a large dirt field after Herne the Hunter. Small signs marked with skulls and crossbones poked out of the dirt, warning us where the mines were. I had seen buddies turned to hamburger meat in the war by mines, and didn’t want that to happen again.

Herne the Hunter spun to face us as Teller slammed on the breaks. I stepped out, aiming both my pistols at the towering phantasm. Riordan followed, nodding his head as he took a careful step forward. Herne froze, his snarling dogs prepared to pounce by his side. He held Angelica under his arm like she was a child’s doll, and his other hand reached for a large hunting hatchet.

Weatherby and I took a step towards him. The kid had his large revolver, but kept it pointed at the dirt. “Now, Herne the Hunter, you have no desire to harm the woman!” he cried. “She is not fitting prey for such a great hunter as yourself, sir!”

Riordan ran to the front of the Lincoln Car, clasping his hands together and nodding rapidly. “Yes, yes…” he said. “Perfect. The lighting is perfect. The monster’s perfect. Oh, the audience will love this! It just needs a little action, a little passion – a little blood!’

Herne the Hunter played his role perfectly. In a single smooth motion, he hurled his throwing axe forward. It spun, end over end, through the air. Riordan stared at it, watching the blade as it slid up towards his chest. I think I saw his smile fade in the last second before it crashed into his midsection.

Weatherby and I ran forward. “We got to come up with a plan to take this guy, kiddo!” I cried, ducking another thrown spear from the Hunter’s hands.

“Indeed,” Weatherby said. He reached into his coat, drawing out a slim wand of pale oak. “This is wood from the same kind of tree where Herne hung himself,” he explained. “It should affect him adversely. I’ll get Angelica way from him, and you try to lure him away.”

“And then what do I do?” I demanded. “I ain’t got no fancy twigs or sticks to chuck at him!”

Weatherby shrugged. “I suppose you’ll have to think of something,” he said. “I leave it to your ingenuity.” He ran forward, holding the wand above his head. He charged that powerful ghost, pushing aside his fear and screaming out a strangled battle cry in his cracked voice. I raised my pistols, trying to think of some plan of action that could take out the Hunter. Then I looked at the little sign of the skull and crossbones inches from my foot and smiled.

Herne the Hunter’s horse reared up, its massive hooves swinging in the air. Angelica screamed as Weatherby swung his wand like it was some kind of invincible sword. The black shucks lunged at Weatherby, and he pulled away before their snapping jaws could fix in his flesh. Herne tried to turn away, and Angelica tumbled from his grasp, landing on top of Weatherby.

He tried to get her to her feet and pull her away, as the two black dogs charged for them. One fixed its fangs into Weatherby’s arm and tugged him to the ground. Angelica screamed and kicked at the Black Shuck, but the other hound was preparing to pounce on her.

I couldn’t stand waiting around any longer. I dashed into the fray now, my pistols blazing in my hands and knocking the hounds back. “Hey, horn-head!” I shouted to Herne. “Maybe you’d like some tougher big game!” I swung my guns to face his head and fired. One shot whined past his head. The other struck off one of his antlers. If anything could piss off that lone huntsman, losing a horn would.

He grabbed another spear and leveled it at my chest, then galloped straight towards me. His hounds followed, turning away from Weatherby and Angelica and loping for new prey. I stood my ground and waited. If I miscalculated just a little, it would be my body parts strewn across the old military base like paper in a tinker tape parade, and Herne’s hounds could eat what was left. I looked at the point of the ghostly huntsman’s spear, counting down the seconds. I didn’t fire my automatics. There was no need to.

When the time was right, I turned around and leapt forward. I jumped over the land mine, landing hard on my chest on the other side. I waited for the explosion, hoping that I hadn’t triggered it. Nothing happened, and I could only hear the pounding hooves of the Hunter’s horse, Angelica’s frightened whimper and Teller’s shrieking gasp.

I started crawling forward, digging my hands into the grass. My body ached, and I winced as pulled myself along. I risked a glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, Herne had taken the bait. He rode after me, his spear leaning down to skewer me, with his hounds by his side. He rode right into the active land mine.

Soon as the heavy hooves pounded on the dark earth, the mine went off. The explosion ripped through the ground and made everything around me go dark and fuzzy. My ears buzzed and I couldn’t hear anything. I saw fire and dirt ripping up from the ground, erupting into Herne the Hunter, and tearing him apart. He vanished in the cloud of fire, smoke and dust

I came shakily to my feet, my guns still held in my hands. I waited, wondering if he’d ride out of there and slam his spear straight into my chest. But nothing happened. Then something fell down from the sky and landed between my feet. I looked down, my brain still feeling like it was swathed in mud. I realized it was Herne the Hunter’s remaining antler. It smoked slightly, and I kicked it away.

Weatherby and Angelica ran to my side and helped me back to the car. “It worked?” I asked. “We got him?”

“We got him,” Angelica replied. “Thanks to you.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am,” I replied. “Weatherby’s quick thinking deserves the credit.”

“And he’ll get it,” she added. We stood in front of the Lincoln town car, with Riordan lying on the hood. Angelica leaned down, wrapped her arms around Weatherby’s neck and planted a kiss on his cheek.

He smiled bashfully and stepped back, then tripped over his feet and tumbled to the ground, muttering apologizes as I helped him up. “Oh, well, it was nothing, really, Miss Witt. I don’t think…” Weatherby trailed off as he came to his feet. “Um. Thank you,” he finally said.

Teller ran over to us. “You’re not hurt?” he asked. “Not badly?”

“We’ve been banged around, but we’ll live,” I said. I looked at Weatherby’s arm, and saw blood on his sleeve. “Just get us back to the studio, and I can patch us up.”

“Of course,” Teller agreed. He looked down at Riordan, who lay sprawled on the hood of the car, the axe buried in his chest. “Oh no,” he whispered. “Poor devil.”

I shrugged. “He got what he deserved. He was the one who summoned Herne the Hunter.” We stood around Albert Riordan. He craned his neck up and looked out at us. His hands fiddled with his coat and pulled it open. I saw a .35 millimeter camera, held by a leather cord around his neck. It had been hidden by his coat, but the lens had poked out.

Teller picked it up and looked it over. “Good God,” he said. “It’s still filming. It’s been filming – all of this is caught on the camera!”