The_Amazing_Mr._Howard

The Amazing Mr. Howard

By

Kenneth W. Harmon

JournalStone

San Francisco

Copyright © 2015 by Kenneth W. Harmon

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

JournalStone books may be ordered through booksellers or by contacting:

JournalStone

www.journalstone.com

The views expressed in this work are solely those of the authors and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

ISBN: 978-1-942712-13-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-942712-14-5 (ebook)

JournalStone rev. date: February 20, 2015

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015932363

Printed in the United States of America

Cover Art & Design: Cyrusfiction Productions

Edited by: Aaron J. French

To

Sarah

With love and gratitude

And

In Memory of

Nancy Reed

Who helped unlock the magic

The Amazing Mr. Howard

He smelled her long before he could see her,

the metallic scent of blood carried on the warm breeze.

He accelerated his car, zeroing in on the smell like a shark after prey. She sat alone at the bus stop, her gaze on the sidewalk. In the glow of a streetlight, tears glistened on her cheeks. She was young, in her teens, with auburn hair that curled over her sloping shoulders. Something was wrong. Something had upset her. Why else would she be there on a deserted street in the middle of the night?

He would go to her, his words gentle and comforting, and she would surrender to his will… as they had for over three hundred years.

The door creaked opened and two men wearing suits slipped inside the classroom. Their jackets flared briefly to reveal pistols in shoulder holsters. Mr. Howard stopped his lecture on the Shurale, an ancient demon of the Tatars. He knew they had come about the missing girl. Eventually, they always came to him regarding such matters. One of them was his old friend, Chandler Killgood. A most unfortunate name for a homicide detective.

Killgood pressed his back against the wall and gave a quick nod. The other man, whom Mr. Howard didn’t recognize, stood straight, arms folded across his chest. A scowl resided on his angular, pock-marked face, which reminded Mr. Howard of the creature in William Blake’s
The Ghost of a Flea
.

Mr. Howard glanced at his Rolex. Five minutes until class ended. He strolled to the window. Outside, a soft summer night painted the campus black. Lamps cast circles of white light across the sidewalks. Midges flittered through the brightness. Warm air passed into the open window. He breathed in the fragrance of a summer thunderstorm—the rain-soaked grass and the musty earth
. They have come sooner than I expected, not that it matters. When I am ready, I will give them what they seek, but for now, they must wait. The process has a certain order, like the passing of seasons and the earth traversing on its course through the heavens.

Mr. Howard faced the class. Everyone’s attention was on the detectives. The male students squirmed on their seats as if trying to remember something illegal they had recently done. The young women viewed the cops with a primal yearning. Mr. Howard sighed. In this world, all that mattered was the size of one’s gun.

Back at the podium, he cleared his throat to recapture the students’ attention. Karen Webster, the leggy blonde who always sat in the front row, uncrossed and crossed her legs like a young Sharon Stone. He felt dirty, and in need of a cigarette, yet found himself smiling.
So the blonde is actually a brunette.
Why am I not surprised?
He brushed long silver hair away from his eyes and focused on the textbook before him.

“As we have learned from our reading”—he paused—“and I know each of you spent your weekend doing your homework, the Tatars believed the Shurale to be a demon that lived where, Miss Johnson?”

Blood rushed into the cheeks of the freckled redhead. “In Hell?”

“No, Miss Johnson, Hell is where students reside who fail to do their assignments.” He used a black marker and created a crude depiction of the beast on a drawing board. “Furry body, elongated fingers, and a horn in the center of his forehead. This is our friend the Shurale. Forest demon of the Tatars.”

“Looks like Mr. Howard,” Brian Spriggs shouted from the back of the room.

He shook his head and turned around. “Actually, Mr. Spriggs, this will be you in ten years if you continue to use shrooms.”

Laughter erupted throughout the room. Spriggs slouched in his seat, his gaze on the cops. Mr. Howard returned to the book. The small print slid before him like a fuzzy caterpillar. A soft groan rose in his throat as he retrieved his reading glasses. He pushed the glasses onto his nose. “In addition to the Shurale, there are other forest-dwelling creatures in Tatar myths—the Seka, a dwarf known to make mischief, and the Abada, a benign spirit who resembled an old woman. The Siberian Tatars believed in the Pitsen, which also lived in the forest, but preferred to inhabit derelict buildings. They are closely related to the—”

The bell rang, announcing end of class. Students sprang from their chairs and pressed toward the exit.

“Don’t forget to read chapter ten in your texts on Slavic mythology. You may be questioned on the Svarog.”

The detectives watched Karen’s ass as she disappeared through the door. Killgood whistled softly. “How in the world can you stay focused on teaching?”

Mr. Howard stashed his textbook inside a leather attaché case. “Perhaps if I were a younger man, it might affect my concentration, but at my age, I’d need a double martini and a big dose of Viagra to have a chance with a girl like Karen.”

Killgood extended a hand. “It’s good to see you again.”

Mr. Howard shook the detective’s hand, calloused in the upper part of the palm from swinging a hammer. Killgood was always building something for his kids or his church. “How is the family?”

“They ask about you. When Susan heard we’d be working together again, she wanted to invite you over for dinner.”

Mr. Howard offered a polite smile. “So, we are to be working together?”

The other detective’s eyebrows pulled down. “He doesn’t know why we’re here?”

“Mr. Howard prefers as little information as possible before jumping into a case. Isn’t that right?”

“Chandler, you do know me well.” He held out his hand to the other detective. “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.”

The detective glared at his hand without moving.

What a well-mannered fellow. He must have been raised in a bordello.
Mr. Howard brought his hand down.

Killgood jerked a thumb toward the burly detective. “This is Detective Willard from the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.”

“Detective Willard.” Mr. Howard dipped his head as a courtesy. “You must like rats.”

The detective’s eyes narrowed. “What’s he talking about?”

Killgood grinned behind a fist. “Beats me.”

Willard lifted a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and tapped one out.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. Howard, said, “smoking is not permitted in the school.”

The detective smirked as he lit the cigarette. “Go figure.” He stashed the cigarettes and lighter back inside the jacket, and took a long pull. He blew a cloud of smoke at Mr. Howard.

Mr. Howard snatched the cigarette from the detective’s mouth and tossed it down, grinding it into a black smear. Willard didn’t react until the cigarette was a distant memory.

“What the—?”

Mr. Howard continued to smile. “In my classroom, Detective, even policemen must follow the rules.”

Blood rushed into Willard’s cheeks, turning them the shade of Chateau Latour breathing in a glass. He grunted. “Now you got me riled, but I’ll let you have your moment… this time.”

“How considerate of you.”

“So you don’t want to learn anything about the girl?” Willard asked. “Surely you’ve heard something on the news?”

“I don’t watch television or read the news on the Internet. Why waste my time when they only talk about lunatics blowing things up and imbeciles in government who will bankrupt us all. No, I would rather spend my time listening to Rossini. Have you heard
La scala di seta
?”

“Not lately.”

Eyes closed, he moved his right hand through the air as if conducting a symphony. “It tells the story of the beautiful Giulia and her teacher, Dormont, who insists she marry Blansac. A short comedy, but the music is superb. You are probably more familiar with Rossini’s
The Barber of Seville
.” Mr. Howard looked at the detective.

Willard shrugged. “I’m more of a Johnny Cash man.”

“Johnny Cash… yes, of course. Perhaps one day, if you decide you need some culture, I can play Rossini for you.”

From the accent you try so hard to conceal, I would say you were raised in the South. Louisiana or Mississippi. Probably backwoods trailer trash. Still, you possessed the drive and determination to obtain an education and leave the bayou behind. You must be proud to work for the Colorado Bureau of Investigation.

“I’ll think about it.”

“I am sure you will,” Mr. Howard said.

Killgood maundered to one of the desks and sat. He glanced around the room. “So, you’re still teaching ancient mythology?”

“Yes, it is not often a professor gets to teach others about oneself.”

“Oh come on,” Killgood said. “How old are you? Sixty?”

Mr. Howard erased his drawing of the Shurale. “A little over sixty.” He turned to Willard. “I apologize if I seem enigmatic, but it has been a long day and I am starved.”

“You figure yourself a mystery, Professor, but I know quite a bit about you.”

“Is that so? Enlighten me.”

Willard walked to a bookcase. He traced a finger across the spines of several titles. “You’ve written several books.”

“Very good, Detective. I have written two novels, and three nonfiction books on mythical creatures. The last was about vampires. Are you familiar with them in your line of work?”

“Should I be?”

Willard’s intellect exceeded what he had gleaned from a first impression. He might come across as folksy and slow, but he had the mind of a good detective. Willard trusted no one. He looked beyond the obvious and questioned everything. Mr. Howard would need to watch him with a keen eye.

“Have your books sold well?” Willard asked.

“Why do I feel as if I am providing answers you already know?” Mr. Howard took off his glasses and returned them to their case. He pinched the sides of his nose where the eyeglass pads had dug into his flesh and gently massaged. “My novels never sold well, but such is the case in this age of instant gratification. How can one compete against the siren song of the Internet?”