Keepers of the Lost City

20 Visiting Grange House

Sam was driving the Hummer, or as he called it, the Yuppie Tank. Purdue was preparing himself mentally to deal with the widow, Mrs. Williams. He was at fault. That, he owned, but it would be difficult to speak to her, especially now that his name was again associated with another unsavory incident that took several lives.

“I hope to God that she does not listen to the radio,” Purdue said.

“Doubt she watches telly though, which would be a lighter blow,” Sam remarked.

“Oh God, of course, it would have been on television,” Purdue sighed, having not even really considered that. “In any evet, I have made her this offer and she has accepted, so let her think what she will.”

They were going to visit Mrs. Williams in the house she shared with her husband for 46 years, so that Purdue could present her with documentation citing that he would carry the full medical costs for her granddaughter’s treatment. A duplicate would be given to her to sign as acceptance to make sure that she could not sue him for it later, and Sam Cleave was to be the witness.

“Have you had word from my opposition yet?” Purdue asked Sam. “Are they happy with your rendition?”

“Funny you ask that, actually,” Sam replied. “Miss Palumbo called me to ask why my report is so one-sided in your favor.”

“What did you tell her?” Purdue asked eagerly.

Sam shrugged. “I told her that, until we have irrefutable evidence that you authorized the release of those lots, I cannot compile a report that blames you for the leak of the product.” Sam chuckled and gave Purdue a wink. “I told her that if I accuse you for orchestrating the destructive activity behind the culling, you could sue the shit out of me and then I would have to sue them, and so on and so on.”

Purdue laughed with Sam, relishing the journalist’s characteristic sharp wit and his ability to spin a story in such a way that he could control the view of the audience. It was almost a criminal talent that Sam had, but it came in very handy when they had to suspend interest or distract attention from what they needed to achieve.

“You are a scoundrel for the vaults, old boy,” Purdue smiled. As the Hummer turned into the last street that lead to the lane where Mrs. Williams lived, Purdue’s lighthearted demeanor began to change into one of somber apprehension. It was not intimidation. The only intimidation came from his acknowledgement of guilt for the family’s recent misfortune.

“Jesus Christ! Is she as rich as you?” Sam exclaimed as he leaned forward on the steering wheel to regard the ancient historical house that peered over the thick trees that lined the lane and its extensive stone fence.

“Almost,” Purdue replied. “But it comes from her husband’s family, his trusts, and his assets, not hers.”

“I almost feel as if I should have brought a sacrifice to this party,” Sam jested, hinting at the stately regality of the mansion.

“This is Grange House, Sam,” Purdue introduced gallantly, “where Dr. Williams and I spent many nights charming our way into affluent organizations that could further our careers. My God, we had some times in this house. Not just parties. We held secret meetings here with historical societies to acquire… questionable… artifacts for a solid fee, if you know what I mean.”

Sam looked at Purdue and shook his head. “And still you wonder why Karma fucks you.”

Purdue responded with a wry smile that implied that he agreed with Sam’s sentiments, but could not help himself. The old house towered over them like a stern governess. “I can take so many photographs of this beauty. Fuck me! Look at the architecture! A battlemented roof, turrets, wyvern gargoyles… it is like something from a Gothic horror film!”

“I know. It is an astonishing piece of property that I even once made Williams an offer for, but he would not sell it. He said that it was his favorite mausoleum. That always unsettled me the way that he thought of his house as a tomb,” Purdue related to his gawking companion.

“Where was he buried?” Sam asked nonchalantly.

Purdue gave him a long stare that carried untold meaning. Sam immediately caught on what Purdue was projecting. “Oh Jesus! Really? He is buried here?” he scowled in mild repulsion.

“Right at the bottom of the main tower, under the library fireplace,” Purdue winced.

“Holy shit,” Sam recoiled as he parked off the main drive. “Is his wife as creepy as he is?”

“Never spoke to her much,” Purdue said, looking emotionally burdened at the thought of it. “I guess it is time to get to know her a bit better.”

“Right,” Sam said warily, “I’ll wait for you in the car.”

Purdue hesitated, but upon realizing that Sam was serious, he bucked up and stepped out of the vehicle, dossier in hand. Sam watched the tall explorer and tech genius skulk his way into an old woman’s house, grateful that he could stay behind in the palatial garden.

There were no gardeners laboring that he could see, as he expected with such a perfectly groomed property and Sam rolled down the window to revel in the sweet scents of jasmine and roses. Butterflies and birds frequented the branches and leaves of the plants and flowers that gave the place a grand coloring. Sam found the peace and beauty almost ethereal.

A darting shadow caught his eye, leading him to look left of the vehicle. It startled him so that his legs fell numb for a moment, yet Sam could not discern if the figure was real or a play of light. Quickly he jerked open his door, half of his body hanging out to see if there was any credence to his hallucination.

“That was not a hallucination. That is real, Sam,” he whispered to himself. “It has to be. I saw that plain as day, right? That was solid, not some shadow.” Keeping his body low, he lifted his legs out of the Hummer and hunched next to the open door. On the other side of the door, he heard the brisk footsteps race past again, but he remained still to locate the culprit by ear. Slowly, and as quietly as possible, Sam lifted the hem of his jeans and drew his switchblade from his ankle sheath.

With his other arm, he used his hand to press down on the ground to lower himself to road level. Sam craned his neck to look out from under the car door, but he noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Far into the roadway, he could hear the front door creak and then followed the muffled conversation between Purdue and the old widow.

All he could hear nearby was the sound of chirping birds and the hiss of the treetops in the wind, but eventually the smell of moist soil and rubber under his nose bothered him enough to raise his head from where it was almost flat on the road. No voices could be heard from the front door anymore, and Sam knew that Purdue had entered the mansion. He sat up again, perching himself on the extended side step of the large vehicle to have a fag and he retracted the knife to slip it back into the holster.

He lit up a Marlboro and breathed it in, holding it like a phantom drink of whisky before exhaling. The house seemed alive, as most old manors did, but Sam figured that it was merely because this number of windows could hold a hundred peeking eyes.

“Oh God, this is good,” he huffed as the smoke made a halo around his head, easing through his lungs and airway with gentle hazard. At once, the footsteps came from behind him, but before Sam could swing around, a strong hand with zealous fingers grasped his shoulder. He yelped as his body jerked in reaction to the sudden contact and Sam dropped his cigarette. Barely avoiding burning a hole in his jeans, he kicked his legs out to keep the hot cherry from scorching him.

He looked into the ugly face of a man who reminded him of some ugly boxer that one would find in bareknuckle fights in messy alleyways. “Are you Sam?” the oaf asked with a Scouse accent that affirmed Sam’s comparison a bit more.

“Aye,” Sam replied with attitude, reaching down to retrieve his smoke. His fingers were almost crushed under the man’s boot as he stomped down on the cigarette and twisted the ball of his foot in a half-circle.

“No smoking at Grange House, Sam,” the brute warned. Sam was not about to disagree with the ogre, the size of whom loosely measured up to the sudden shadow he had seen previously. It was interesting, thought Sam, how such a big man could move so swiftly.

“Whatever you say, pal,” Sam said, holding up his hands in mock surrender.

“Come. Mr. Purdue asked for you,” the big man requested. “He says bring your gear.”

“The HD or the feed system?” Sam asked. The man gave him an indifferent leer, one that carried a warning that promised a beating if this was to persist. “Alright, alright, I’ll bring the HD.” Sam quickly added, and proceeded to collect his HD handheld camera from the sling bag Purdue had asked him to carry along just in case. Turned out that being prepared for a story, even in the most unlikely scenario, paid off.

In the late afternoon, Sam followed the enormous man up to the main front door of Grange House. He noticed that the man was dressed in cargo pants and heavy-duty sneakers in black. Along with this, he wore a long sleeve T-shirt with the sleeves pressed up to his elbows, also all black. However, the man kept his gloves on, which mildly unsettled Sam. Many big ogres with this dress code used to grace the lens of his camera while he covered human trafficking cartels in Eastern Europe.

“So what is your name?” Sam asked cordially.

“Oleg,” the man answered. “Keep your camera off until you are told otherwise,” he said, giving the journalist a dirty look, “Sam.”

“It is off,” Sam assured him, but Oleg could not be more apathetic. In silence, he took Sam up the steps that ascended the great front façade. They ascended between twin rows of flowerpots that occupied each step up along the flanking walls that served as balustrades.

“Don’t touch the flowers,” Oleg told Sam with the same monotonous tone, as if he was programmed to recite each line. “Mrs. Williams cultivated them herself.”

“What is it, Wolfsbane?” Sam teased, a stunt he instantly regretted. Big Oleg stopped in his tracks and sighed heavily, his gaze fixed before him. His annoyance was evident, but Sam kept walking, hoping to make it to the front door before the troll could pummel him to ground bone. He tried the door, but to his horror, it was locked shut.

“Oh shit,” Sam murmured, still trying the brass knobs of the thick wooden doors.

“We don’t leave doors open anymore, Sam,” the ogre grunted right behind Sam. It gave him the creeps to know that, again, the big black clad man managed to move swiftly and silently up behind him before he even knew it. Oleg’s tobacco breath heated Sam’s hair as he explained, “Not since the business with Miss Amy. Mrs. Williams feel that the attempted murder on Miss Amy was proof that this property is not safe anymore, that someone is watching.”

“Oh, I see,” Sam said. “That is what you are here for, right, Oleg? You have been hired as a bodyguard.”

Surprisingly, the big oaf chuckled sheepishly. “No, no. I’m the gardener.”

‘What the fuck?’ Sam thought. ‘I’d hate to see the chamber maid.’