Chapter 1 - A Request by Midnight

The story of Edgar Wainwright, famed archaeologist and freewheeling adventurer.

Pacifica Veil, a slumbering city nestled within the forested coasts of northern California, bristled with a kinetic longing for many years before being subsumed by other more idyllic places. Its balmy summers and cool winters belied its mostly industrial bent, its biggest draw being the drab bustling port that sat a mile or so from the city center, an institution that had for a short time become a significant player in imports and exports for the western coast of the United States. The city's second biggest attraction was Farenhold College, a once plucky upstart of an institution that had, as of now, made quite the name for itself in several areas, most notably in archaeology, to the point of creating and overseeing its own museum, the Farenhold Museum of Wonders Abroad. A robust achievement that, in its heyday, had attracted scholars and academics from all across the country, part of its allure being the "out-of-the-way" feeling that pervaded the city. Coming to Pacifica Veil in those days felt like a gateway to new places.

And as fortune would have it, Pacifica Veil was my home base long before the college or the port were little more than cheap third-rate alternatives to other more established institutions out east. The truth was that this city had chosen me long ago. I remember feeling cramped in Boston growing up. Part of it could be attributed to the fact that I had caught the travel bug early, having gone on several business trips across the Atlantic with family in my formative years. Even then, I had yearned for something less refined and more untamed. California seemed like the answer to that longing, and so I went. Now, twenty-five years later, not much had changed, and yet I felt more unsettled than ever. My office still occupied that squat red brick building on the corner of Freemont and Vanmore, the only real change in my life being my move into a modest apartment in Brighton after having to sell my house. Regardless, I found myself bunking at my office more often than not, either too drunk or too tired to make the journey home. This practice was slowly killing me. I knew that. Yet this was all I had left. If something didn't change soon, one of these days I wouldn't wake up. The question I couldn't answer was if I did let all of this go, would she leave as well?

Manic thoughts had been plaguing me for months at this point. I couldn't tell if they were memories or nightmares. It was hard to tell the difference. It's a wonder what a complete and total shattering of a comfortable life can do to a person. I had seen many therapists and doctors, and professionals in the intervening months after Luna's disappearance, including receiving a particularly strong prescription for opiates. But no matter how many times I tried to medicate, I found that anything that could drive those thoughts away for a time wasn't strong enough to keep them from coming back eventually.

Here we were again, digging my own grave.

My eyes fluttered open, the familiar surroundings of my office coming into focus. The pain was low and pulsing, but also familiar. I reached my hand towards the back of my skull. The blood was a bit dry, slightly caked. I reached my other hand to find stability somewhere, eventually finding purchase on the back wooden legs of my desk. I tried pushing myself up with minimal success. My head now throbbed. I debated for several minutes whether I should just stay on the floor for a while longer in the fetal position. I could see the window behind me. It was still dark. I could hear the faint taps of rain on the windowsill, as well as the distant rumble of thunder punctuating my next thought.

No one would come calling, right?

Nevertheless, whatever shred of dignity I still maintained got the best of me. I forced myself up, using every ounce of energy left in me, and surveyed the office. It was a mess. Papers were strewn about. Two empty handles of whiskey sat in one corner. There was a large stain on one of the rugs that I was mostly sure wasn't there before, and the office chair had been tipped over on its side, which I assumed was how I ended up deposited on the floor.

I tried my best to tidy up, though, in my current state, I wasn't particularly effective. Eventually, I got the office to almost exactly as Luna and I had left it a year ago, newspaper clippings dotting a far wall with rows of files and cabinets piled up beneath them, a book shelf taking up most of the opposite wall, filled with treatises on various ancient civilizations, esoteric traditions, and methods of archaeology. Amongst these tomes was a book, propped up by a mostly empty mug of cold coffee, titled "Excavating the Past: What Ancient Civilizations Can Teach Us In The Modern Age." I eyed it with some small sense of disdain. A product of years of expeditions taken by--as the New York Times put it--the "intrepid charismatic archaeological high-flying duo known as Edgar and Luna Wainwright."

Well, world, look at me now!

I paused to steady myself as the pulsing in my head grew for a moment. I could see where Luna would always lean with a glass of wine against the ledge of the office window while we tried to tackle a logistical quandary or strategize how to convince some vaunted foundation to fund our wild ideas. The truth is that we had always wanted history to be shared. We thought that if humanity could fully understand the past, we could then truly conquer the present. I could hear her infectious laugh and her bright smile. I could see the rug where we'd made love twice after returning from an expedition, and the fireplace where we would drink hot coffee and chain-smoke late into the night, now replaced by a cold black stain of coal and ash.

It had been a year since she had disappeared. The hundreds of nights we spent researching obscure people and their secrets came flooding back. It was becoming harder to parse out each moment. It had only been a year, and I could already feel myself losing sight of almost ten years together. I focused on her face once more. The edges of her face had started to blur slightly. I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself. My heartbeat felt like a caged emaciated man trying desperately to be free.

I fiddled with the locked drawer underneath my desk on the right side. Retrieving the key underneath a newspaper clipping concerning Luna's disappearance, I unlocked the drawer. Inside was a Colt Single Action, a flask, and several tablets of opium. I ingested two tablets and closed the drawer once more, leaving it unlocked. I settled into my chair and closed my eyes, hoping to drown out the rest of the night in sedated darkness. The rain hammered the windows of my office. Lightning streaked across the sky in arcs every few minutes, illuminating this haunted place where I had spent most of my time the past few months.

I wondered what Luna was doing right now, wherever she was. Maybe she was embedded deep within the jungles of the Amazon, determined to make herself known. Maybe she was in some far-off land deciding to return once she'd made some perfect discovery that was still buried beneath the sand. Maybe, she was off exploring the world and one day, once she had done it all, would return to this little office like nothing had happened or changed, as if everything had merely been frozen in amber, a perfect memory that never faded away.

After several minutes, I fumbled for the flask that was already almost a third empty. Untwisting the cap, I could feel some of its contents spill onto the floor beneath my desk. Moments later, a hiss and a yowl told me that Harmon had sniffed it, tried to lick that exact spot, and did not like what he'd found. I watched his black feline form saunter out from beneath the desk. He turned to take me in for a second, giving me a meow that felt laced with some form of disapproval. I scrunched my nose in protest. Bored, Harmon wandered away, surely looking for any scraps of food or a stray bug to nibble on.

A knock on the door caught my attention. It was late. I thought maybe I had imagined it until a second series of three knocks confirmed that there was someone actually at the door.

"Just a mi..." I said, barely able to string the words together. The pressure in my head felt immense. Christ, was I still drunk? My legs felt unsure. The knock happened again. I steadied myself as several beads of sweat made their way down my forehead, landing on my glasses. I wiped them clean and slowly walked my way to the door. The knock rang out a fourth time. Much louder.

"Jesus Christ, I'm coming. One sec-"

I opened the door, prepared to unload a hungover fury on this midnight interloper, but my words were cut off by a force of beauty I had not expected. I was never the religious type, but it sure seemed like there was some grand plan in motion by someone that led me to this night answering this door for this particular woman. She had big eyes, a slender frame, and milk chocolate skin. A curly poof of black hair sat atop her head. I could hear the rain beating against the roof and a crash of thunder that made my heart skip a beat. The man caged within was calm too. I nervously cleared my throat.

"Please come in. I'm Edgar Wainwright. And who do I have the pleasure of acquainting with?"

The woman eyed me nervously crossing the threshold into my office. I offered her a seat on a small, brown, ratty couch near the bookshelf, while I did my best to take a seat at my desk without revealing my impaired state too much. A small mirror perched atop the mantle across from me taunted me with the truth. I dared not look.

"Mr. Wainwright. I hope I'm not disturbing you this late at night." I instinctively ran a hand through my hair, trying to tame it down. I felt hot, as sweat began to form in small rivulets across my brow.

"Of course, now. Please, how can I help you?" I stammered. I could see her nose wrinkle, catching the smell of alcohol and cigarettes that pervaded the room.

"My name is Katrina Hunter. I have come here to ask a favor of you. And Mrs. Wainwright too, if she's available." Katrina said, pausing as if Luna were moments away from arriving, her eyes darting around the room, taking in its rather sad state.

"It'll just be me. Mrs. Wainwright hasn't been a part of the business for some time. I can assure you I am more than capable on my own," I responded.

"Well, Mr. Wainwright," she said, accepting the news with some amount of hesitancy, "My request is a bit strange. Three months ago, my brother, Corin, was hired on as a deckhand for a fishing expedition in the southern Pacific. He never made it back."

"This sounds like a police matter." The mechanics of my profession began to return as the alcohol faded somewhat. I could feel my body calm a bit as my shoulders sank.

"I've tried. No one's been remotely interested in taking up this case."

"I still don't see what this has to do with me. I'm not a private investigator."

"The last time I saw him, he'd said he'd found something. An island. Not on any map." At least once or twice a year, a few of these types would show up at my door, people with missing relatives who make up stories to entice me to look into it. Every time the truth was much simpler. The missing person was either dead or wanted to get away for a good reason. I wondered which one this was.

"How did you communicate with your brother? How do you know he found what you say?"

Katrina paused, her mouth open as if trying to figure out the right way to say something but then deciding against it.

"I just know. I sometimes have a sense of these things, Mr. Wainwright. Look, my brother left. Corin was his name. That was three months ago. Never returned. " Katrina said nervously, her eyes darting down.

"You just know?" I asked. She was either genuine or a fantastic fake. Perhaps the best one yet.

"Seeing death. That's what Corin kept saying over and over. Frantically. That was the last time I could reach him," Katrina said, tears welling in her eyes, "The ship never returned."

I examined her composure intently, trying to glean any small hint that she was lying. She seemed honest. She had a missing brother. That brother went on a fishing expedition. He was never seen again. That much I could see was likely true. But she was able to keep track of him somehow?

"So you expect me to believe all of this based on your hunch? This is a serious business, Miss Hunter. I don't just act on whims," I said, pouring myself a small bit of brandy from what was left in a small flask on the dresser.

Katrina took a deep breath before sitting up a bit straighter, resolute as ever.

"Listen," she said, pausing to see if there was a better phrase to use. Finding none, she continued, "I'm a practitioner of certain arts."

I chuckled almost out of instict, standing up from my desk, hoping to end this interaction as soon as I could.

"Look, Miss Hunter, I am sorry for the loss of your brother, but things are a bit up in the air here. We have several upcoming expeditions planned. There's no time for some fruitless galavanting in search of a brother who is likely dead. I think what is best--"

"Please, Mr. Wainwright," she said, frantic and fumbling through her bag. She stood up and laid a picture on my desk. It showed a young boy, maybe 21 or 22. Tan skin. Dark curly hair. A warm smile. I could see the relation.

"I can pay double your usual rate. Half now. And half on the return," Katrina continued. She was standing now too. I could see her eyes twinkle as she tried to hold back tears. I took the picture in my left hand, trying to get a good look at it. I knew what fate had befallen this kid already. It was more than likely that the ship encountered a bad storm. Some overambitious captain tried to take a shortcut. I would come back with no new information, but I needed the money.

The truth was that there were no other expeditions. Not for lack of trying. This is the first one that had landed on my desk in several months, and she seemed to have some connection with her brother. A deep one.

"What do you do?"

"Tarot."

"And the cards told you he's still alive?"

She didn't answer. She wasn't sure.

"Look, I appreciate your concern, but I'm very busy," I said, my buzz having been fully replaced now by the creepings of a vicious hangover. Katrina smiled, the warmth of which filled the room and dispelled at least a modicum of my misery. She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed the corners of her eyes.

"Of course, Mr. Wainwright," she said, gathering her things, "I was hoping I could count on you, but I understand."

I held up the picture of her brother to give back to her.

"Keep it. In case you change your mind. Take care now, Mr. Wainwright," she responded.

"Take care, Miss Hunter."

She was gone.

I topped off my once again empty whiskey glass, turning the picture of Corin in my hand. I set the photo down on the desk and leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes. I spotted Harmon in the corner, a feline gargoyle observing all that had transpired.

----

Charles Fontaine, chair of the archaeology department at Farenhold College, betrayed nothing as he eyed me deeply, his tortoise shell glasses sitting low on his crooked nose. He had called early this morning asking if I could meet that afternoon. It was the first time I had heard from him in over a year since Luna's disappearance. It was a familiar trip up to the college. One I had made dozens of times over the years. Charles was a man I was loath to turn down, even now, though, some small part of me assumed this couldn't be good. As I traversed the winding path that led up to the college proper, I wondered why he had called.

I thought back to when I first met Charles. He's the one who got us our start in archaeology, taking a chance on Luna and me when we were wild and free with a dream and a story to tell. I remember that first trip as clear as day: a dig site in Peru. It was eleven days of hot and muggy bug-infested jungle, and all we had to show for it was a small broken pot recovered from the site. I wondered where that pot was now. Probably in some attic somewhere in some stuffy museum.

"Edgar," he said, trying to choose his words carefully, "You've been a wonderful asset to this institution, but things are changing. I'm sure you've heard there have been some leadership changes. And well, the new president thinks it's time we took a step back. This place is not what it used to be. We've had some good times together; you, Luna, and I, but especially in light of recent events, we think it's time we focus on what makes sense."

I perused the walls of his robust office, framed pictures outlining various expeditions undertaken by the college over the past ten years littered the walls. I could spot myself in many of them. Luna as well. Finally, the smile came, Charles' stony tan facade cracking, as if both he and I were in on the joke together, a brotherly jest between old friends. I remained stone-faced as best I could.

"Charles..." I said, searching his face for any sign of reaction.

Had it come to this? Me begging?

"It's been challenging since everything went down. If there's anything..." I continued, trying to find the words.

Charles leaned in. His eyes narrowed a bit, examining my face.

"Are you sleeping okay, Edgar? Honestly, you look like shit."

I stared at him, a burst of anger seeping from my chest. I swallowed hard, forcing it back down, causing it to slowly dissipate. Sitting back in my chair, I looked at him.

"If you need money, I'm sure I can set you up as an adjunct in the archaeology department. Give you a couple of classes. It's the least I can do," Charles continued. I raised a hand in protest, regaining my composure.

"I don't want to teach."

Charles leaned back in his chair, letting out a weary sigh, his eyes turning towards the arched windows behind him. It was a bright, quiet day. Several sparrows could be seen fluttering from tree to tree, chirping some sort of melody. Last night storm had ushered in a cool breeze from the sea. Several students meandered along various paths below. The spring semester was wrapping up.

"You know as well as I do that Farenhold has never been opportunity-averse. We've taken on risks over the years that many other colleges would balk at. But? There are questions. Legitimate ones about how our money is best spent," Charles said, his mind far off, remembering the good old days.

"With the lawsuit and all these questions swirling about chain of custody, it's been difficult to say the least," Charles continued, "It's good that you are here, actually, so I can tell you in person. We've closed the exhibit."

My face fell. I could feel the heaviness in my chest gurgle up once again. The caged man was clamoring to be free once more.

"When?" I asked.

"Three months ago. It was supposed to be temporary, but...we thought it was time. If there's anything you still want from it, let me know."

Charles paused. I swallowed hard once more, papering over a black knot in my stomach.

"Yeah, I suppose it is time." I said, standing up and holding out my hand, "Well, it's good to see you, Charles."

Charles smiled, shaking my hand.

"Take care of yourself."

----

Most nights, I would head back to the office. It had become a nest of sorts for me, a place to stash the pieces, but for some reason, I wandered home instead. Brighton was a ways from Farenhold College on the other side of Pacifica Veil. As I meandered through the streets, I thought of Harmon, probably curled up in some corner of my office, sleeping the day away. I made sure to have left him with plenty of food, and I cracked the back window open just a little to let him go out and explore if he wished. In the past year, he had become quite the outside cat, usually returning at night for food and warmth.

The sun had just set as I made it up the steps to my small apartment. It wasn't much, kind of hidden away from the road, butting up against several other residential buildings. My feet ached, but I didn't mind. I had taken to walking a lot more after selling the Lincoln. It had sat on the street for months. We used to take that thing everywhere. Luna was so excited. I remembered having the biggest smile on my face as I navigated it down the driveway of our home. She was shocked, but eventually came to love that thing.

As I fumbled for the keys at my door, I could hear the low din of a gathering in the apartment across from mine. Voices melded together. The sound of drinks being emptied and refilled once more permeated the hallway, underscored by the soft sound of a piano. I didn't know my neighbors, preferring to keep to myself, but sometimes I would lie awake at night imagining what they were talking about across the way. Luna was always better at making friends than I was. I'd imagine she would go knock on the door, effortlessly scoring an invite to whatever soiree was next on the calendar. It would be a refined evening. She and I would regale the gathered attendees with our adventures. There would be oohs and aaahs all around. Someone would refill our glasses of wine once they were low, and the jovialness would carry on into the wee hours of the morning. Sometimes, these fleeting fantasies felt like memories. I could convince myself, at least for a time, that they were, trying my best to will it into existence, the version of my life where everything didn't fall to pieces.

I tried to read for a bit before resigning myself to sleep. I had taken a fancy to old war novels. The stark portrayal of good and evil always fascinated me. Especially when reality couldn't be farther from the truth. Still, that simple, confident view of what you believe had found its way inside me of late. I wasn't sure what it meant. Maybe I longed for something like that.

Before long, I had fallen asleep in a sprawling black leather chair, a glass of whiskey and an ashtray situated on a small side table. Across from me was a sliding door that led out to a modest balcony. The moon sat big and bright, illuminating the cluttered landscape of Brighton and the interior of my apartment. Shadows, pulled from the alleyway below, danced along the floor, forming abstract shapes and forms.

The sky, drained of its color and turned a milky eggshell white, melded into the walls of a familiar abode. The oak floors. The chipped paint. I could see the etches along the door frame of my old room, marking my height as I grew older. It was my childhood home. My mind had been receding back to this safe space more and more in recent weeks. I could hear my father snoring in the far room, asleep in the mauve recliner that had developed a permanent imprint of his likeness in it. My father's snores devolved into a quiet static as the faint whiff of ash in the air tickled my nostrils. I knew my mother was upstairs by the window smoking. The front door was open, creaking as the cool salty wind swirled through the trees outside. I could taste iron and then something I didn't recognize. A new sensation.

Was it numbness?

Was it wetness?

Was it sweet?

Was it burning?

A balmy New England night greeted me as I crossed the threshold of my house onto the front porch. The vibrant garden that I remembered was gone. I could see my mother working tirelessly, turning dirt into a cornucopia of plenty for the whole neighborhood, superimposed onto grass that was now cracked under the summer heat. I wandered up and down the street. The neighborhood was the same. The houses were the same. No one else was around. I looked up.

The clouds were dark, creating a stillness that felt stretched into the horizon, like the calm before an infinite storm. The first drops on my skin sent a chill down my spine, a pitter patter morphing into a downpour. The coolness washed away the initial uneasiness that sat within me. I could feel the dampness of my clothes cling to my skin. I trudged forward, bounding into a mud puddle. The rain picked up even more, filling the street. As the water rose, I ducked down beneath the surface. A sense of calm greeted me for the first time in almost a year. I swam around, first the backstroke, then the butterfly, my college swim team training flowing through me once more without so much as a thought. I did a few laps, a smile as wide as ever gracing my face, one that I wouldn't see but could feel.

The storm overhead swirled with terror and awe, pulling me to the surface once more. Great waves scooped me up and lobbed me further out to sea. I tumbled to and fro, cresting every watery summit, catapulting into every oceanic valley like clockwork. No shoreline comforted me now, my anchor to any semblance of land broken, the ocean stretching out into darkness. Eventually, the rain eased and the winds quieted, and that calmness returned. I swam, threading a needle through the great blue, twisting and turning as I felt necessary. I could not tell you how I knew where to go. Something in me felt drawn towards it, like a calling that had existed before time and space and was finally being answered. I pushed forward as fast as I could, my aching muscles carrying me even when my consciousness faltered. Had it been days or weeks or mere minutes? I could not say. All I knew was that eventually, whatever it was would finally make itself known.

The island filled my whole periphery, as tall as Everest yet still miles away. Its peaks cracked with energy as lightning caused boulders as large as mountains to crash into the sea. I dove deep underneath the waves to avoid being crushed. In that moment of suspension once more, I could feel something thrum, like this hallowed place was alive or made alive. Something was watching me. As I waded there, enthralled at this mysterious place, shadows darted below, wriggling and writhing in sharp bursts, bounding back and forth. A tentacle slinked around my leg, its suckers puncturing my flesh. With a sharp tug, it dragged me down like a whip. I could feel the air leaving my lungs in waves as I tried to free myself. All I could see was that polarizing cliff top, high above the waves.

I must get there.

"Edgar, please. Come. You must find me."

I screamed. A sharp, searing pain shot across my chest as several more tentacles enveloped me. And then, in all but a moment, the pain faded, the light of the surface growing dimmer and dimmer, my final thoughts echoing in my mind.

It was her. It had to be, right?