<strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Louie, the Bartender</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Simon’s Bull</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Cape</span></strong><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Merrin</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">November 10, 2010</span></strong><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Over the chatter of the bar Louie could just hear the sound of the dingy, oversized television attached to the wall behind the bar. Rubbing at a large glass mug with a towel that looked none-too-clean, he reached up absently and cranked the volume. His neck remained craned upward, his greasy hair gleaming in the half light of the bar as he gnawed a toothpick and watched that slim bitch Rita Knipfing give the latest news on the kiddie killer case.</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">The audio crackled a bit before blasting itself out across the bar. And then the petite form of Rita Knipfing (http://assets.nydailynews.com/img/2008/10/04/amd_kidman.jpg) smiled out at her audience. The tone of her voice was entirely inappropriate for the story she had to tell, as was the slight giggle with which she ended the report. </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Miss Knipfing reported that the Cape Merrin Police Department and the MicMac Sheriff’s Department were now receiving aid from federal law enforcement agencies to aid in the search for the kidnappers that had snatched four children from the streets of Cape Merrin. </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Coughing, Louie spat phlegm into the garbage behind the bar and said, “That bitch needs fucking” before he turned the volume back down and ignored the television again in favor of the enticing sight of the glass mug he was wiping down. </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Offices of the <em>Cape</em><em> Merrin Gazette</em></span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">November 10, 2010</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></strong><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">The phone on Alice’s desk jangled to life suddenly, disturbing her diligent work on minor pieces.</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">The voice on the end of the line was male, raspy sounding. “Alice, you remember your son, right Alice? You know what happened to him didn’t have anything to do with wild dogs. Why aren’t you putting pressure on the cops to do something? Why don’t you ask them why they haven’t released a protective order or announced that it’s obvious when the next kidnapping will take place. People could collect their kids, keep them off the street. You owe it to Alexander, Alice, you’ve got to find a way to let people know that November 14th another child will be taken. Just look at a calendar. It’s obvious. The second Sunday of every month is when the kids go missing—whether the cops want to hold back the reports or not—they <em>always</em> go missing on the second Sunday. Remember Alexander.”</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">The phone line went dead, the speaker giving Alice no time to respond to him via the phone.</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">A Deserted Alley Several Blocks from Simon’s Bull</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Cape</span></strong><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Merrin</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">November 10, 2010 </span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></strong><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">The rain was miserable. It sheeted down on everyone and everything too stupid or poor to get out from under it. Ludolf stood at the edge of the alley, the shadows obscuring most of his angular and misshapen form. When the girl in the hooker uniform approached the mouth of the alley, he hissed slightly and a flood of rats issued from the alley and swarmed over themselves on the sidewalk, effectively cutting off Samantha’s progress toward Simon’s Bull.</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">“Good evening, childe,” the odd figure announced from his position, his face still obscured—more shadow than light—“where is you maker? Has he gone off and left you without conveying anything of the rules?” In the last two words a European accent leeched its way into his voice. The shape leaned forward a bit, allowing Samantha to see the fullness of its face (http://i60.servimg.com/u/f60/15/00/05/29/nosfer11.jpg), in an extremely graceful bow, the thing bent its head, and lifted a small hat, feigning a chivalrous deference to Sam. When it stood upright again, it said, “I am Ludolf, and <em>you</em> are leaving messes near my home, little girl. I do not appreciate cleaning up after children who don’t know how to take care of themselves. What do you suppose we do about your little indiscretion at Devil Bat Cave, eh?” The thing looked at her, a bit of drool leaking from the side of its misshapen mouth, waiting for an answer with its fingers steepled together in front of its chest. A thousand rodent eyes looked at Sam expectantly as well.</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Cape Merrin Police Department</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">November 10, 2010</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></strong><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Detective Michaels’s fourth-floor view was obscured by the bulky form of Captain Somerset. “Well, Michaels!? Have you come up with anything I can feed these Bureau cocksuckers to keep them from nabbing the control of the entire case?” he asked belligerently. He was red in the face and the pressure he must have been under from the mayor and other municipal forces must have been extraordinary. Cori had seen him like this only one other time: when Dominguez from Vice had slipped a habanero into a sandwich the Captain was eating. Dominguez nearly lost his job for that trick, but it didn’t stop his practical joking.</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">As he stood there, he appeared to be a human version of those cartoons for kid’s, the one’s that feature trains that huff and puff to deliver their cargo—the only problem was that Captain Somerset was somewhat of an idiot when it came to diplomacy. He had blustered and blundered his way through the encounters with the FBI agents. And now, he was turning to Cori to save his ass. To be his pep talk provider, to coach him. </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">A light broke across his face as he turned to Cori with this brilliant idea, “I know! Let’s say you’re going to post a 24-hour guard down at the mouth of Devil Bat Cave, so that if any tampering with the murder scene happens, well—no—that’s not right, so if anyone should <em>want</em> to tamper with the murder scene—they won’t be able to!!! What do you think? Will that one agent, Snyder, the short one, will buy it? Oh hey, do you want to take first watch down at the cave? I mean, I know you’ve pulled your regular duty already, but if you head out, I can authorize a squad car to relieve you in a few hours.”</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Balfurt</span></strong><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Park</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Cape</span></strong><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> Merrin</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">November 10, 2010</span></strong><br/><strong><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span></strong><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Otis approached Arathel from the east end of the park. His old black Ford pickup (http://www.classictrucksforsale.us/wp-content/uploads/2010/01/-82323204727283000.jpg) was parked along the park’s edge. “Look, I’m going to meet Micheal up at Simon’s Bull tonight. I want to discuss some things. We need to start poking around. The 14th is almost here and the police have their cocks so far up their asses, they’re gonna pop out their own eyes,” Otis said with a macabre gesture miming the ejection of his dead right eye from his head. Grinning toothily, Otis asked the harp player, “Wanna come? Better leave the harp home though—dunno how the Bull regz would like that.” The seriousness of his face inexplicably cracked into a macabre, one-eyed grin; he cackled at his own statement and wandered off to his truck before waiting for Arathel’s answer. </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;">Otis was getting scary; he’d killed too often, lost too much, was alone too often. He was losing his ability to interact with people, well, with normal people. Rumors had been in circulation since his family’s death, but even people who never thought Otis could have done that were beginning to think that maybe he belonged somewhere nice and <em>safe</em>. Somewhere where he couldn’t hurt himself—or anyone else.</span><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span><br/><br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: Georgia;"> </span>