In Deep – 9: Interlude

I thought things were looking tricky before; now they were downright dire.

I kept moving, trying to stay ahead of the pursuit, jumping over fences and laying low in neighbouring gardens; the fact that they were so overgrown made staying out of sight relatively easy. I didn’t allow myself to get overconfident: I had plenty of local knowledge to guide me, but so did the guys following me. What I knew, they most probably knew also.

I crept into old man Southwick’s glasshouse and holed up for awhile to get some kind of plan structured. I sat down on the concrete slab, brushing away pieces of broken glass and trying to ignore the heavy odour of fertiliser and potting mix. I had a strong desire for a cigarette and several times I had to consciously stop my hands going through the motions of lighting up: the last thing I needed was to signify my presence with a pall of smoke. In the end I stuck the coffin nail in my mouth and just pretended it was lit.

Off towards the ocean, a flicker of light and a distant rumble told me that another storm was rolling in. At least that was something in my favour: the cover it would provide would help me get somewhere - I just had to sort out where that somewhere was.

I figured that my pursuers would stake out every locale to which I had an attachment. That would mean my home at the “Sunny Seashells”, the old Waite mansion where I grew up, and my office in town above the convenience store. For a minute I thought of Doreen’s place, but I rejected that idea: Winston would think of it and I didn’t want to bring any grief to the Hepplethwaites. The problem of how to escape Innsmouth when the residents were looking for you wasn’t insurmountable: Olmstead did it, back in the day. However, the locals had learnt from his example: the train tracks which he had followed to freedom had been strategically torn up in places and the tunnels shut tight with heavy wooden doors. I sucked angrily at my unlit cigarette and tried to take another tack.

Alright, so getting out of town was problematic. What about staying in town? What I needed was a place where I could lie low for awhile until the heat cooled down. Again my options seemed limited. The old abandoned gold works and canneries were obviously a good choice as hiding places, but that word “obvious” stuck out a little too prominently – if I could think of it, so could they, and it would be just a matter of time before they kicked the door in and found me, in a wrinkled suit with a three day growth, shovelling beans out of a tin. Rodney’s shack was also out of the question, since I’d just seen it get kicked over by something very big with very big teeth, something I didn’t want to tangle with if I could help it.

That left me thinking about defence. If I did get cornered, what were my options? I was unarmed, apart from my fists, and I very much regretted having thrown the gun away at the Gilman estate. Still, it was done and no use crying. That being said, my own gun was in the safe in my office in town, along with $25,000 in small bills, cash that would be useful in getting beyond the reach of the Order. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed that a quick trip to the office was warranted. There was a back way in that few people knew about – handy for when irate customers or bill-collectors came calling – and maybe the guys from the E.O.D. would think that I wasn’t stupid enough to go there. Maybe.

The first few drops pattered on the glass roof above, and a white flicker of light sent gentle shadows scattering through the rotting greenery. I stood up slowly and dusted myself down. Going to the office was a bad idea, but no better than any other alternative; at the very least I might be able to arm myself if I got there first. I stepped out into the darkness and trotted silently into the storm...

To Be Continued...