24 SEPTEMBER 1894 - ST. DENIS, LEMOYNE
PEMBROKE HOSPITAL
LONDON, ENGLAND
DOCTOR,
I APOLOGIZE FOR THE LONG BREAK BETWEEN CONTACT. I OWE YOU A LONGER EXPLANATION FOR MY ABSENCE, BUT IT WILL HAVE TO WAIT. A DEVASTATING HURRICANE LEFT THE WHOLE OF THE FRONTIER UNINHABITABLE. FORTUNATELY, I HAVE FINALLY FOUND MY WAY BACK TO ST. DENIS, AND AM PLEASED TO REPORT I AM SETTLED BACK INTO THE MEDICAL OFFICE WITH A FORMER COLLEAGUE EVEN: DR. ALDEN.
I HAVE BEEN PUTTING SOME OF YOUR THEORIES TO TEST AS WELL AS INJECTING SOME OF MY OWN INNOVATION. I HOPE TO HAVE A FULL REPORT SOON. HAVING TANGIBLE SCIENTIFIC ANSWERS TO SUCH ESOTERIC QUESTIONS IS EXACTLY WHAT OUR MISSION IS, AFTER ALL.
THERE IS SOMETHING OUT IN THE SWAMP THAT INTERESTS ME. REPORTS OF SOMETHING "EVIL." PERHAPS THIS IS ONE OF YOUR CREATURES YOU HAVE TOLD ME OF? I WILL LOOK INTO IT, AND EMPLOY WHAT YOU'VE TOLD ME. WHILE YOU ARE LESS THAN HALF MY AGE, YOU HAVE TWICE THE BRILLIANCE. LET IT BE KNOWN, THE ORDER STILL HAS FRIENDS HERE IN AMERICA.
G. J. KANE, MD
ST. DENIS MEDICAL OFFICE
LEMOYNE, USA
Dr. Kane paid the telegraph office for the very long distance communication he was requesting be routed overseas by Morse. There was an extra few cents there to guarantee discretion.
It had been a few days since it rained, so when the skies opened up to raucous cracks of thunder, it was a surprising relief. He made it inside the medical office just in the nick of time before sheets of rain flooded the cobbled streets sending a tidal wave of horse shit and detritus washing downhill. To Galen, it was as close to home as anything and still a distinct step up from the slums of Whitechapel. Still, he missed it in a way. Writing to his colleague at Pembroke gave him a sense of closeness to that life and yet emphasized the gulf between them.
He turned his attention to the needle and thread that had been stolen from the cabinet, checking the rest of the inventory for anything else missing, though he found no other adulteration. His mind drifted as he counted -- drifted to the fetid swamps of Bayou Nwa, to the haunting woods of Roanoke, to the darkened alleyways of St. Denis' red light district. They all shared the same dark static that stood the hairs on your neck straight up and gave you the fleeting thought of far too many eyes watching you from the shadows, shadows which moved ever so unnaturally in the flicker of gas lamps or campfire light.
The Order had little presence in America, and yet he knew of some who resided North of here, near Boston. The country was largely still wild and unknown, ripe for study and -- more importantly -- experimentation. The potential was exhilarating. Somewhere, hidden between the annals of mythos, alchemy, and religion, and the libraries of modern science were the answers to life itself, that singular thread that would unravel the mysteries of God's greatest Work. The promise of such a discovery sent a near-sensual shudder through his core and he desired so greatly to lie down and breathe deep from his trusted opium pipe.
He stood up and went to the door and gazed out at the rain. He lit a cigarette. It was a poor substitute, but the wiser one.
TWO DAYS LATER:
ST. DENIS MEDICAL OFFICE
ST. DENIS, LEMOYNE
DR. KANE,
YOUR LETTER CAME AS A SURPRISE AND A RELIEF. I AM GLAD TO KNOW YOU ARE WELL AND CONTINUING OUR MISSION. I LOOK FORWARD TO WHAT YOU DISCOVER.
I DO HOPE YOUR EXTENDED ABSENCE WAS NOT ATTRIBUTED TO A RETURN OF OLD HABITS. I ASSURE YOU, THE PLEASURE OF THE WORK FAR OUTWEIGHS THE ECSTASY OF THE PIPE. YOUR CASTLE MUST BE A LIBRARY, NOT AN OPIUM DEN, DOCTOR. WE REQUIRE YOUR MIND SHARP FOR THESE TASKS -- I TRUST YOU KNOW THIS.
SWAMPS, FENS, BOGS, AND MOORS ARE HOST TO MANY INEXPLICABLE PHENOMENA. I HAVE SHIPPED YOU A COPY OF ZENON ARCENEAUX'S NO. 6 OF THE LEGENDS OF THE SOUTH COMPENDIUM. IT IS NOT ONE WE FIND VERY USEFUL HERE IN LONDON, AS YOU CAN IMAGINE. IT SHOULD ARRIVE IN A LITTLE OVER A WEEK.
DO KEEP IN TOUCH.
Galen frowned at the almost preternatural jab from E.S. towards Galen's drug habit. What did a privileged gifted young doctor know of vice when he has never suffered as Galen had? He had never seen the inside of a prison cell, felt the ache of ball and chain carving into flesh, nor felt the burn stripped skin and bloodied hands toiling for days picking oakum or breaking rocks. It was only when the gaoler discovered Galen's hands were better used in the prison infirmary did the hard labor cease. It was there he found relief, by sneaking small amounts of opiates from the supplies, blaming it on prisoners or unexpected treatments. He was able to forget so many of those days this way. Still, what memories remained visited him nightly in his dreams.
He brushed it off to focus on a more important topic -- the man in the mud, found last night by Clancy Alexander. The body was only just on the cusp of rigor mortis, and yet it had already been swarmed by all manner of swamp decomposers -- flies, worms, beetles, birds, rats -- obliterating any hope of a pristine examination. The proximity to the meat processing plant was not lost on him. Much could be gleaned yet though. The man's pinstripe suit was of the finest quality. His shoes were clean, indicating he had likely been carried there and left, already dead. His white gold watch chain still had the watch connected, and sterling silver buttons with custom design were still affixed to his waistcoat. This was no robbery. There were no signs of struggle nor violent manner of death, no bullet wounds or perimortem bruising. What there was, however, was a distinct greyness to the skin and dryness of his veins that indicated significant loss of blood, and a wound to the neck as if a giant snake had bitten him.
There were stories of massive serpents in the swamp, but how he'd be dropped here by one without getting a speck of mud on his front seemed improbable. And besides that, this man clearly had come from the city -- he had a scar on each of his cheeks, carried a finely tooled black holster and strap that would lock the weapon in place. As there was no sidearm in the holster, it had clearly been removed, either by the victim or the perpetrator. No, this was no victim of a wild beast, but the victim of premeditated murder. By who though? And why?
Could he be one of Bronte's men? A hitman whose target got the better of him? A gangster or politician's lacky? A wealthy industrialist's heir?
After the examination, he left the body in the cold box for the police.
When you're a hammer, everything's a nail. Galen said to himself, There is no reason to believe this is the work of something unnatural. We'll see what we can find when we get back to the office. Ed's book should arrive today, and I will keep myself busy by educating myself on the region's history. I would very much like to speak to Jolene. If anyone knows what lurks in the mud, it would be her.