Predator Press
[LOBO]
If you think about it, as the head of Maintenance for the museum warehouse, I had the access to steal pretty much anything I wanted. Keys, alarm codes, you name it.
But I purposely avoided knowing anything.
Hundreds of thousands of nondescript crates of history have moved in and out of my facility in the ginger care of my forklift skills, and I knew them only by number; preserving the mystery romanticized the bad hours and mediocre pay.
I like to think that at some point, I might've moved the very Arc of the Covenant.
One night my phone rang, and a truck driver told me he was an hour away from the museum; 'The Item' couldn't be moved by boat as initially planned.
"No problem," I says. If anything, that will attract even
less attention at this hour. Hanging up, I dressed quickly in a well-rehearsed sleepy fog.
Armed with a thermos full of black instant coffee, I set out to meet the incoming load.
***
In the strange silence, you could hear that truck coming for miles.
It was exactly on time.
Rumbling into view, the dark truck blinded my in her headlights; the last thing I glimpsed before a colorless, painful tide of light was a man leaning out of the passenger side window of the cab, leveling a large automatic weapon.
The truck stopped abruptly, and the air breaks screamed a metallic wail. "One move," a shrill voice called over the thundering diesel engine, "and you got no more head!"
Standing in the wide open with my hands behind my head as instructed, I called out the code: "How were the Wisconsin Dells?"
The rifle disappeared into the truck for an astonishingly short moment as the passenger door opened, and the figure jumped to the concrete. Rifle still trained on me, he closed the distance between us quickly. "I'm going to need to see some ID, sir."
He was a young pup dressed in camouflage fatigues.
"No problem," I says. With a subtle nod, I indicate the asphalt about twenty five feet in front of me. "My wallet is right there."
As the boy inspected my wallet, things relaxed; the driver of the semi started easing the trailer to the docks. "Pleased to meet you Mister Jones," he says casually.
"My name is
James," I correct.
The kid laughs, lowering his gun. He gives me back my wallet. "We'll be done in less than four minutes, sir. Please stay in plain sight." Quickly moving to the dock, he shouldered the gun and began giving hand symbols to guide the driver.
It slammed into the rectangle of Dock 17, and sealed perfectly.
While the boy was extending the lever and beginning the arduous task of lowering the trailer's legs, I heard the driver of the truck disembarking. He pulled a heavy lever deep behind one of the truck wheels releasing the 'fifth wheel', took my signature on a clipboard without word or ceremony, and the two were roaring off loudly into the night.
In exactly four minutes.
***
I didn't know Phillips and Rodriguez were both up for museum tenure at the time. In fact, the last time I had even seen either one of them was on the rare occasion I had to go to the museum
itself. Both were professional, friendly, and wildly brilliant as is the hallmark of the museum staff in general.
I'm kind of a glorified custodian of sorts. Aside from the occasional personal desire to watch their precious cargo being loaded and unloaded, the fact that they knew my name at all wasn't by any particular reputation, but by simple repeated exposure.
But Doctor Phillips one day, having observed how much
access I had, offered me an untraceable $1,000 a month to ensure he always had secret access to the place anytime he wanted.
So I simply neglected to report that Dock 11 was badly in need of repair, and had a crumbling 20 inch gap on the top behind the rubber cushions; a vulnerable, virtually undetectable spot accessible only by climbing over the top of a docked trailer and slipping behind. It was easy money. All I
really had to do was make sure there was always a trailer parked there.
I had Dock 11 repaired the same year Phillips disappeared without a trace.
The money stopped coming anyway.
***
Today, sixteen years later, Doctor Rodriguez is not only tenured, but is up for Board of Directors; the museum has been doing very well and is facing an unprecedented number of retirements.
People, for various reasons, are wanting to "go out on top".
Reflecting the success, at this point I'm sweeping the warehouse floors for about $20,000 more a year due to a few college courses. I'm now referred to as a "Curator".
When I'm there, I turn off most building security off by sections, coordinating where my activity will be so as not to trip alarms and unnecessarily bring police.
When the South alarm went off, I sent the "safe" code almost routinely. It was almost certainly rats, or possibly the salt water wreaking havoc on the aging electronics; no one had been in the South Wing for years, and there was nothing there of any value. The South Wing was where Docks 1-20 were, and they had been mortared over many expansions ago due to rapidly evolving OSHA laws.
Eventually, I found my way over to check the traps.
Near the only entrance, I found the emergency lights on, and a broken old vagrant stumbling through the maze of stacked cargo.
"Sir," I says politely. Triggering my silent alarm. "I don't know how you got in here-"
"James?" says a crackling voice from the figure. By the way his head turned, I could tell he was blind. The man staggered toward me with a gnarled, heavy looking cane. "James, is that
you?"
My heart stopped. I
knew that voice.
"James!" demanded the man. He waved his knobby cane vaguely in my direction, balancing on what remain of his horribly wobbly and twisted legs, obviously once broken and healed in impossible and distorted directions. "Goddamn it James. I have so sought the sound of your voice!"
He shuffled into the light, and I saw his face.
It was inhumanly old and yet alive. Long white hair and a beard framed a barely-toothed, snaggled smile. Both eyes were shut, and one looked slightly misshapen and bulging, like an egg.
"Doctor
Phillips?" I stammered.
The decrepit husk of a man cackled in delight as I caught him from falling.
"Yes."
"You smell terrible!" I says. "Where have you been?"
Unexpectedly, the old man doesn't try to support any of his weight; despite his whithered 90-pound frame I struggle for a moment, feeling him lurch from weak coughs as I try to lower him gently to the ground.
"Where
haven't I?" he grins horribly at me as I lower his head to the floor.
"Sir," I says. "You need a doctor real bad."
"No," says the man softly. "I just need a second to rest."
This man is no threat, I conclude.
This man has only a few moments left.
"The cops will be here in a few minutes," I confess.
"I know," says the doctor.
"How did you get in here?"
"I never left."
"Doc," I says, despite the obvious. "You better just level with me."
"James. I can't. I mean I'm not sure. All I know is that I'm finally home after all this time." Impossibly, the old man's bones seem to sag even further. "Can I just rest for a second? Please?"
I'm worried. I've got a wife and
kids now, and I don't know how I'm going to explain away this battered, ancient old fossil dying in my arms in the center of a high-security museum warehouse under my watch and care.
This man who has been missing for some fifteen years.
This man who was the chief rival of Dr. Rodriguez.
"Did you find your relic?" I ask finally.
The old man smiled widely, regarding me through his closed eyes. "You must tell me how you got the name 'The Cat Strangler'."
"How did you know about that nickname?" I says. "I ain't even
thought of that in years."
The dry, bony doll wasn't breathing much anymore, and seemed to age rapidly before my eyes. "Tell me," he rasped.
"I got that name when I was 6 years old. My dad was a famous musician, and I played for him on his birthday. He said I played so bad, the name of my band should be
'The Cat Strangler'."
There was a weak tremor of laughter through the dying man. "And then he died."
"Yeah. That was his last words. His ankle got tangled in my guitar cord, and he busted open his head on the floor. I never played again."
Doctor Phillips faded away, chuckling softly. "God, that's the most fucked up story I've ever heard."
Predator Press 
