Jack's office was tiny, and up two flights of stairs.  It was not New York, to be sure, where fancy dames were no doubt beating down the door of every shamus in town.  But he could daydream that one might find her way here, in time for him to pay the rent.

His daydream of a blonde siren was shattered by a frantic knock on his door. Alas, it was not a lovely lady - it was quite the opposite, and a strange opposite indeed.  A man of late middle years was there, wearing a most unusual outfit; a black robe, with a rope belt, and rope sandals. He was bald, but had a mustache and beard, salt-and-pepper grey. A plain wood-bead rosary hung from the rope belt, a carved wood cross at the end of it.  A pair of wire-rimmed glasses was the only other ornament.  Abruptly Jack realised he was looking at a monk, one of the ones from that monastery tucked away in the back woods of Arkansas.

"May I have the honour of addressing Mr. McCurdy ?"  the man asked, his voice fretful as his expression, but nonetheless polite, and accented strangely.

McCurdy kicked the bottom drawer closed on his desk and swallowed the last of what was in his coffee cup even as he leaned forward on his elbows.  He looked at the Franciscan and wondered if he knew just how far from heaven he had fallen.

“Well, I reckon that all depends on just how much of an honor you think it might be.  You haven’t come to collect for a higher power have you, padre?”

The gumshoe rose to his feet then and acted like he was going to straighten his tie and thought better of it.  His shirt had lost its starch long ago and that was why he kept it hidden beneath the blue suit coat that had seen better days in a closet.  He tugged on his belt self-consciously, telling himself for the millionth time he needed to get to the tailor’s to have them taken in again.  He needed to stop losing weight.  Else he was going to have to break down and buy another suit altogether.

He ran a hand through his short brown hair and got a handful of pomade for his efforts.  That hand went into a pocket while his other floated forward in a gesture that wondered if the monk was willing to shake it.

“Yeah, I’m the guilty one.  Call me Jack or call me McCurdy, but please don’t be callin’ me mister.  Sounds too much like it should have a missus followin’ it.”  He smiled his charming smile to ensure the stranger he was pointing fun at him.

“What can I help ya out with?”
This message was last edited by the player at 01:33, Mon 07 Feb 2005.

The monk gingerly shook his hand.  McCurdy noticed that the offered hand was stained with ink, in a splendid array of colours, and had some writing callouses on it.  "Pleased to make your acquaintance, erm....Jack.  I am Brother Sebastian.  I admit...that the situation is most unusual.  We need someone who can travel in the World and do worldly deeds.  The income at the monastery is not grand, but I was hoping you might not mind that."  The eyes drifted over the suit, noting that it hung on McCurdy's frame, and the notch in the belt, a new one.

"But let me get straight to the matter; we have learned that a religious artefact has been found in Texas.  We would like it back in the hands of the Church.  Do you have an automobile ? Well, really, time is of the essence.  Can you fly an aeroplane ?"

McCurdy took his hand back and put it away in his other pocket.  He smiled warmly, maybe a bit too warmly, as if he knew a secret.

“I’m sure you already know I can fly, padre,” he said, his southern accent thicker than normal.  It always thickened when he was about to impart his observations.  He liked people to think he was a dumb hick that was just dumb lucky in his figuring.  Kept them guessing.

“Too many detectives in this town for it to be coincidence that you’d open my door without knowing that already.  Your hands tell me you’re a meticulous person.  One of the more studious types.  You would have to be to do what you do, copying old books.  Illuminated manuscripts I believe is the popular term to use around the bookworms.  I just call’em old books.

“You wouldn’t have stepped out of your monastery without having some idea of who you were going to see, padre.  So here you are and here you found me.  Yes, I can fly.  You probably already know I flew during the war and that I still fly today as a hobby.  You probably even know what kind of plane I have.  Might have even seen it down at the port.  But that’s just the side of the issue, isn’t it?  What’s really important is the artifact and if I can get it.  Before the other guys do.”

McCurdy moved the chair that was sitting in front of his desk a little, indicating Brother Sebastian should sit.  Then he moved around to his own chair and sat down heavily, leaning back on the swivel of the banker’s chair.  One hand went to the blotter on his desk and pulled a match from the striker box.  He slowly started tapping it end over end on the blotter.  He didn’t pull out one of his Camels though.  Not yet.

“So tell me about this artifact.  It didn’t belong to you — your church.  Otherwise it wouldn’t have been *a* religious artifact, it would have been *our* religious artifact.  So what gives, padre?  Who does it really belong to?”

"Corpus bones,"  muttered the monk, but sat down, showing some bony shanks, one of which had a splatter of blue on it.  "Yes, the item in question is not one of our artefacts, though it is important to any who worship as Christians.  It has been lost for four decades.  We have only ever heard of it, but now, we have had a brother in Texas contact us with the information that it has been found.  It's terribly important that it not fall into the wrong hands. Frankly, if you took it to the Vatican instead of bringing it to the Monastery Antiquas, we would be equally pleased, just so long as it's safe."  McCurdy sensed a little irritation from the man; it was clear to see that Brother Sebastian preferred his books, who didn't argue.

But the monk also wanted to come down to brass tacks. "So, Mr. McCurdy, will you fly to Texas and try to track down this artefact ? And...do you mind being paid partially in beef, beer and flour ?"  Apparently Prohibition was not something that was practiced by the monastery.  Jack could stand to make a lot of money on that beer.

“Beer?”  McCurdy chuckled and took a Camel out of the small box next to the match striker.  He deliberately took his time lighting the match and sticking it against the cigarette, drawing the smoke in as if he was thinking.  He was thinking, but probably not about what the monk might have thought.

He looked at the monk for a moment longer, studying him and then leaned forward and lifted a pen and paper off of his desk.  He started writing.  “Here’s an address.  Deliver the stuff to a man named José there.  He knows me.  I’ll send him word to expect to hear from you.”  McCurdy handed the slip of paper to the monk and leaned back again.  He wasn't going to tell him that he would be delivering the stuff to his house and that old man José and his wife were friends that helped him out around the old family farmstead, caretakers of sorts.  He didn't trust the monk that much despite his affiliation with the big man upstairs.  He didn't trust anyone that much.

“Now...  Tell me about this artifact.  What is it?  Where is it?  And who do I have to take it from?”

The monk blinked back, giving McCurdy a cautious look through the spectacles, and accepted the paper, folding it into a neat rectangle.

"The artefact is a gold cross.  It is set with emerald, you know, the green stone.  It is inscribed in Spanish and Latin.  It is in the possession of a travelling man, a preacher of some kind.  We don't know anything about him, other than he was in Texas yesterday.  If he is a good man, a godly man, that isn't known."  The eyes narrowed behind the magnifying glasses, as the monk surveyed McCurdy.  "Do you believe in God, Mr. McCurdy ?  And the Devil ?"

“I believe in the devil in men,” McCurdy said through the smoke.  “And after what I seen in the war, I don’t have much use for God.  If that’s a requirement for this job, you might want to look elsewhere.  If not, then tell me why your brother in Texas hasn’t approached this preacher already?”  McCurdy stopped and flicked the butt of his cigarette with a light thumb.

The monk fussily fluttered his hands.  "I suppose it doesn't matter, so long as you do what we ask,"  he said, though the idea clearly displeased him.  "Our fellow in Texas had no orders to track him down; he was merely there to tell us what had happened.  You'll have to ask him the particulars, it's a very small congregation down there and he gave us only the shortest telegram to go on.  Your job is to find this preacher; find out if he still has the cross, and ask him what he is doing with it, then ask him to give it to you.  Then you report back to us for further instructions."

McCurdy flashed a reassuring smile and let it linger.  A set of neat, straight, teeth stained by too much coffee and tobacco greeted the monk.  The smile faded to a crooked smirk and he shook his head as if answering an unspoken question.

“Don’t you worry, brother monk.  I’m like my daddy and his daddy before him.  When they took on a job for a man they worked for that man and no one else until the job was done.  You’ll get your cross if I say you will.”

He leaned forward on the desk as if the conversation was nearly at an end and slipped a card out of a holder sitting at the base of his brass Emeralite brand desk lamp.  He adjusted the Fort Wayne 12” on his desk to ensure that it did not blow the card he was about to hand to the monk across the room, and held it toward him.

“If you need to reach me, you call this number.  The girl that works the other end of it is Sally, my part-time secretary.  I check in with her regularly when I’m out of town.  Tell her how to get in touch with you and I’ll check in with her when I get to Texas.”

He rested on his elbows atop the blotter, lacing his fingers.  “So who’s this ‘fellow’ I need to see in Texas?  Does he have a telephone?  Or will I need to see him in person?”

The monk nodded.  "I had hoped it to be so,"  he replied enigmatically, accepting the card as well, which was tucked into the paper he had folded so precisely.  "Our man in Texas is Father Dean, in the town of Perfection.  He said the man with the cross is Brother Clary.  His exact message is "Brother Clary found Lupino Cross hurry."

The early summer sun gleamed along the desk in McCurdy's office and the stained hands of the monk.  "We have some contacts you can meet, along the way, to provide you with what you may need,"  Brother Sebastian told him.  "I hope you will not delay."

“Lupino cross, eh...”  McCurdy tucked that name into his mental file cabinet and then said, “I have a Jenny.  It might be a bit old, but it’s reliable.  I can make two hours a hop before needin’ to fuel up.  How far is Perfection — what larger town is it near?  And is there anything you want to tell me about this ‘Lupino Cross’?”

"Perfection is just a little town, in the middle of Texas," Brother Sebastian replied, adjusting his spectacles and reaching into a fold of his robe, to a hidden pocket.  He withdrew a folded sheaf of paper, which he smoothed out delicately on the desk.  The top sheet was a picture, in coloured inks, of a gold cross with a green stone in it. The bottom ones were maps - highly detailed, precisely drawn, and good enough for use in air navigation, of a route all the way to Texas.

"The cross is a powerful artefact," the monk said, in a lower tone, and McCurdy got the feeling that this was something that Sebastian hadn't really wanted to say aloud. "It has been carried by very holy individuals on crusades against evil. We want it in the right hands."

The talk of religious crusades and battling evil with powerful artifacts in the same sentence did not seem to phase McCurdy.  He’d heard all kinds of talk in his line of work.  Most of it struck a sour note when it came to the truth, but what was important was to respect the opinions of those that believed what they spouted.

“Nice maps.  Save me some time.  And this is what the cross looks like, eh...”  He studied the painting for a moment, imprinting it on his brain.  He had a good memory.  He always had a good memory but it didn’t really strike him how good until he attended the Methodist College in Arkadelphia before the war.  He didn’t have to study much of anything.  Whatever he read or heard just seemed to stick with him, needing very little prompting to be recalled.  Of course, he also learned his mind tended to wander too.  He learned to control that in the war though.  Had to...

He put the map down.  “Alright, Father Dean it is.  I’ll be in the air at the break of sunrise.  You can wire him and tell him to expect me by noon tomorrow.  If he has a car — or knows someone with one — I’d be obliged if he’d meet me at the airstrip.  Save me some walkin’.”  He sat upright in his chair, expecting the interview was about over.

The monk puffed up happily at the compliment on the maps. "Thank you,"  he said, then seemed to recall that Pride was a Sin.

"Very well, Mr. McCurdy.  We will make certain there is enough...fuel ? for the aeroplane, and make the necessary contacts so that you can proceed to Texas with little difficulty.  You may wire us if there is anything you need that we may provide."  The monk stood again, and rummaged in a hidden pocket for a small leather pouch.  From the miserly way he opened it, McCurdy expected moths to fly out, but they didn't.  Brother Sebastian counted out 12 silver dollars onto the desk.  "I know it isn't very much, but it may help,"  he said. "We really don't deal much in coin. I'll contact Father Dean, and ask him for some more money for you."

“Twenty-five dollars a week plus expenses,” McCurdy said as he stood.  “That’s my fee.”  It wasn’t that little normally, but it would be for the monk.  “Usually require one week minimum, but I’ll make an exception for y’all if it takes less than that.  This should cover half a week already.  If it takes longer than that, we’ll work out the balance in goods as agreed earlier.”

He started to escort the monk to the door.  “If there’s nothin else, I’ll get right to work.”  McCurdy was already thinking of the places he needed to go: the airfield, Sally’s, the library...

Brother Sebastian got to his feet, sandals pattering. It seemed the World was a big and unfriendly place, for someone used to being away from it. The monk was happy to depart.  "I fear that all we have, in legal tender, we have just given you," he said, "But - the Lord will provide."

He left, and McCurdy was hustling to his errands. He arrived at the airfield to see a man in overalls filling the tank of his Jenny - and waving away money.  It seemed Brother Sebastian had 'contacts'.  He went on to Sally's, explained the case, and as he was telling her about the monk, the telephone rang.  It was his landlord, giving him an extension on his overdue rent.  Then it was the library...

GM:   roll % and tell me what you're looking up !

McCurdy sighed as he finally sat down at a long table, a stack of books dropped in front of him.  He dreaded this part of the job, but knew it was necessary.  He looked at his watch, noting the time, and then grabbed the first book on the stack, pulling it toward him...

[91 on d100.  Looking for references to the Lupino Cross or anything similar enough to be suspect.]

The books didn't mention the Lupino tribe, apart from one small notation of an obscure Amazon tribe, and definitely mentioned nothing of a cross.   Perhaps he was just too far away from the area to be able to get a lot of information on them - there wasn't much call for research on South American tribes in this part of the world.

He was able to obtain groceries for his trip down, too; and a wooden crate of carefully wrapped whole-grain bread, sausages, cheese, and a selection of apples, grapes and other local fruits was waiting by his door when he returned.

This message was deleted by the player at 11:15, Wed 09 Mar 2005.

McCurdy stared at the crate for a moment as he stood on his porch, and then glanced to either side.  He turned and stared back down the long, dusty, drive and then looked over the old homestead with its run-down barn and dying house.  He was beyond thinking about the case now; he was thinking about the past.

He realized he had lit a Camel, and spit a grain of tobacco from his lip as he blew the smoke away from him, leaning on the porch post with its peeling skin and scarred muscle beneath.  It was the crate that did it; it was what jarred the memories.  Visions of his youth came to him... his father, old and nearly broken, his mother, strong and proud, his sisters, young and just as proud, and then he... the wild boy that could barely be controlled.  The burden of the farm hadn’t fallen on his shoulders until his father died in 1911.  He had helped around the farm as he aged, but when he turned seventeen he soon found he was spending most of his time gallivanting around the poker houses and the brothels of Hot Springs rather than helping his father.

Sean was a hard and stern man, and as soon as young Jack could get out from under his iron fist, he did.  He rarely spent his days or nights at home after he escaped at the young age of seventeen.  He still lived there, sure, and he still worked the fields some — mostly during the harvest — but he had never wanted to be a farmer, he didn’t inherit that from his father or his Irish roots.

Jack was drunk and in the arms of a whore the night his father died.

That night sobered him up more than anything ever would in his life.  Even the war.  He left behind his wild youth then, spending more time at home.  The loss hit his mother hard, she never really recovered.  Her health slowly began to decline after Sean died.  His sisters were still young, but Vivian had married soon after their father’s death.  She had just turned seventeen.  It is what she had been waiting for, Sean’s death.  He was not very liked by his children.  He had a temper in his bones that he often took out on their mother.  Jack had traded fists with him on more than one occasion.  Never the victor though.  Sean was a hard man.

Hotona, his youngest sister, lingered for another two years before she found a beau and moved off to Conway.  She married a lawyer, ten years her senior.  He’s the Circuit Judge of Faulkner County now and taking real good care of Hotona.

After they left, Jack was alone in taking care of the farm.  He regretted then his wild youth.  If not for José and his wife, Salanita, to help with the farm and around the house, he knew they would never have been able to keep the place.  The farm was on solid ground within four years though, doing even better than it had with his father steering the plow.  It turned out Jack had a head for organization and a remarkable capacity for retaining anything he learned.

In 1915, with the farm secure, his mother arranged for him to enter the Methodist College down in Arkadelphia; she wanted him to be something more than just a farmer.  She was tired of it, tired of the life, and she didn’t want to see her only son tired and broken at the end of his days like her husband had been.  She wanted her only son to have prospects.  He could not marry into prosperity; he had to earn it.

McCurdy shook the memories away then, not wanting to dwell on the disappointment in his mother’s eyes when he quit, and flicked his cigarette out toward the drive.  He turned and hefted the crate to carry into the house.  The old planks of the porch seemed relieved to have the weight off of them.

McCurdy carried the box straight to the kitchen and plopped it on the stone counter.  Maria had cleaned and he made a mental note to pen her a note of thanks, maybe even leave her one of them silver dollars.  He never really counted on José and his family to do what they still did for him since his mother had gone; he never wanted to take them for granted.  They were a blessing and he always wanted to feel that way about them.  He never wanted to forget what they did for his mother during the war.  He never wanted to think of them as anything but the family they had come to be.

Salanita was not quite as spry any longer, so her daughter, Maria, had taken her place as the sort-of house maid.  She wasn’t really a maid, after all a maid worked for money.  The house was as much José’s and his family’s as it was McCurdy’s now.  They seemed to be there more than he did.  José was still the caretaker of the farm, managing the few hands he had helping him in the fields, Salanita still managed the cooking, and their only daughter Maria took care of everything else that had to do with taking care of the McCurdy family home.

José had taken to growing cotton in the fields while Jack was in Europe, long gone the acres of vegetables and fruits.  Cotton brought in more money.   It was enough to keep the place going with a little extra to spend in the city even.  Jack had left the place in José’s capable hands when he left for the war, and after his return, he didn’t take it back.  In his mind, José deserved it more than he.  José loved to work the land.  And Jack would never take that from him.  Jack never was a farmer.  Never would be.  It stood to reason that José should keep the bulk of what he made from his toil and hard work.

Jack had his small office in town.  That was all he needed.

McCurdy checked the ice in the box and then put three apples inside the cabinet above it.  He liked cold apples and silently thanked the monk for delivering some.  That brought his mind back to the case.  Nothing on the cross in the city.  Probably wouldn’t be anything in the library or museum over in Little Rock either.  Maybe he could check around when he got to Texas.  The cross probably didn’t have much of a history other than what the monk told him, but he always like to know as much as he could about any case he took on.

He put the groceries away and then looked out the kitchen window and across one of the fields to José’s house.  He leaned a little more and saw José and his crew still out in the fields.  Maria must have just gone home.  He sighed and started to wash the grapes before setting them on a towel in a bowl to drain.  He took one of the rolls of sausage and set it in the ice cabinet as well, and left the others in the crate.  He set one loaf of bread and a hunk of cheese on the cutting board, and then hefted the crate, setting it on the counter nearest the door to the kitchen.  He cut off a piece of the cheese, snipped off a sprig of grapes, and moved to his desk by the window in the living room.  He popped a couple of grapes in his mouth and bit off a mouth of cheese as he dipped his pen into an inkwell and began to write.

He needed to tell José he was leaving for a few days; to tell him where the crate of foodstuffs was and that there would most likely be one or two more delivered.  He left instructions for him to take care of it for him and to help himself to anything that showed up on the porch.  Then he wrote a letter to be delivered to Sally; a letter outlining the arrangement of his affairs if something should happen to him.  He always wrote such a letter whenever he was leaving town.  Never knew what might happen.

When he finished the letters, he leaned back in the chair and slowly finished his supper of grapes and cheese, staring out the window and at the world outside.  It was going to be a long flight tomorrow.  He needed to rest.  A night of sleep... and then a new day.

McCurdy sat and stared out the window at nothing, thinking about a bejeweled cross and an ink-stained monk, wondering what he had gotten himself into...

[ooc: If I took too much liberty with the background go ahead and snip what needs snipping. :) ]

Jack ate well on the cheese and grapes, recognizing a superior crafting to the cheese that you didn't get in store-bought cheese anymore.  He slept a long, dreamless sleep, and awakened to find another crate had been delivered, by a robed man with a donkey.  The monk had spoken in no language that Jose could understand, but had pressed something into the man's hands with great agitation and care; it was a tiny glass vial, sealed at the ends with silver and mounted on a silver chain, and held within it a blackened, small bone, like a finger-bone.

He had dreamed of great, oppressive heat, and air full of sulphur and brimstone, and eyes in the darkness...large, gleaming yellow eyes, like that of a huge snake's, glinting at him like a predator.  Something waited....

McCurdy adjusted his tie in the mirror, looking at his eyes, glad that they weren’t yellow with narrow slits that belied an evil so terrible he could still feel it on his skin like rancid fat.  He finally got the knot right and leaned over the sink, his hands resting on the sides.  He looked carefully at his image in the mirror, trying to see a lingering fear or doubt that he could not explain.

The guy looking back at him looked old, older than he should, but that would clear up with his first cup of coffee.  His gray eyes were tired and bloodshot, and his teeth were yellowed from too much coffee and Camels.  His day's growth of whiskers made him look more grizzled than normal, but his lines were still lean and the color was returning to his hollow cheeks as he watched.  Nothing lingering there.

He moved out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, looking out the window at the men working in the fields.  He checked the coffee on the stove and it needed a few more minutes.  Then he leaned against the counter and finally looked at the “thing” Jose had brought in a bit ago.

He hadn’t wanted to touch it, Jack didn’t.  By touching it, he would be accepting the responsibility of it.  He knew a religious artifact when he saw one.  At least one that someone believed was an artifact.  He personally didn’t believe it all that much, but that didn’t change the fact that someone else did.  And that made that thing important.  Important enough to be powerful in the eyes of the right people.  For some reason, he figured if he didn’t touch it, he didn’t accept it and it could be returned to where it came from.

He wondered where it came from, as he sipped his coffee and stared at the glass vial while the sun rose ever higher.  He wondered who it had belonged to when it was still attached.  Probably some guy the church sanctified one hundred years after his death.  Or was that saintified...?  McCurdy smiled crookedly.  It was funny.  A part-time atheist on a religious quest.  How ironic.

He finished his second cup of coffee and put his coat and hat on, still staring at the vial on the counter next to his wallet and his keys.  No word of what it was for or for whom he was supposed to give it.  Maybe the preacher in Texas would know what it was about.

He snaked a hand out and snatched his wallet and keys, slipping them into his coat pockets.  He stared at the vial and contemplated leaving it again.  Then his hand snatched it from the counter and out the door he went....

The vial had a cool feel to it, that metal and glass can take on, and it rattled ever so gently as he snatched it up.  It was time to go.  He went out to the Jenny, noted the windsock giving him a favorable headwind, in a sky that promised a clear day, and off he went.

The plane touched down at the first waypoint, and Jack was surprised to find that he had been expected, and that credit was extended to him on the purchase of fuel.  This continued as he went south.  He was in range of Texas as the sun was setting; he could either push onward for a night landing near Perfection, or stop where he was in North Texas.

(GM: if going onward, roll % for flying skill)

Jack stood by his plane and looked at the sky.  The sun was low.  Perfection was still a ways away.  Probably didn’t have a very good airfield either.  Long day of flying.  Fatigue would be setting in too.  No sense in risking his plane or his neck.  Wouldn’t be doing his client any good either.

Jack kicked at the dirt once and then sighed.  He’d be sleeping the night here.

Jack settled in to sleep, under the purple sky, and watched the stars begin to blaze as the night came on.  It was a beautiful night for stars, with the moon on the wane.  He heard a raspy creaking sound from a bird way back in a stand of cottonwood, and other little rustlings that suggested mice were around, and the querulous comment of a small owl.  Far off, a dog barked twice.

His dinner had been simple fare - bread, sausage, cheese, and fresh fruit.  All of it was excellent, but if the sausage might be spoken of, one might say it had too much fennel.

The night was cool, but not uncomfortable, and he was able to sleep easily.  This time the nightmares stayed at bay, or if he had any, he did not recall them.  He awoke at dawn to the rumbling of a Ford truck coming along the dusty track to the airfield, bearing tanks of petrol.  Behind the wheel was a tiny nun who was 80 if she was a day, and looked to be made of walnut and steel springs, with beady little eyes.  She addressed him in Spanish; then in Latin; and finally in English, a stilted, heavily accented English.  "You are the Jack hombre," she said. "I bring for the plane. The angel whisper, you are here."

McCurdy touched the brim of his hat in greeting, but didn’t remove it.  “Nice of them angels to let you know.  I hope they spoke highly of me.”  He was smiling slightly and he looked at the barrels of fuel.  “Reckon I’ll be taking care of the refueling,” he said as he started to remove his coat.  “Plane’s, yonder way.  And what should I call you, ma’am?”

The little old nun frowned at him, but observed that the plane was where he indicated.  "I am Sister Rosa," she said in her heavily accented English, and drove the truck over there.  She did not speak again while he refueled, and brought out a parcel of waxed paper to give to him.  Inside was warm tortillas wrapped around scrambled eggs, cheese and bacon, and some fresh tomatoes.

Once he had coiled the hoses up in the truck bed again, she made the sign of the cross.  "Go with God," was the only other words, and she hopped into the truck again.

“Thank you for the food,” he said to her as he wiped his hands with a rag.  “And the fuel.”  Very efficient organization they have.  “And may the angels watch the road ahead of you,” he added as an afterthought.

He studied her as he finished wiping his hands, wondering what it was that was so important that they would go to all of this trouble for him.  The bone in the bottle, the food, the petrol waiting for him at every stop... the sheer magnitude of organizing the web of communication involved in following his every move.  There was more to this than recovering a simple artifact.

He decided to see if she had anything to tell him.  “Do you know why you are helping me?” he said.

Sister Rosa looked at him, beady eyes glittering in her wrinkled brown face, her expression the same unreadable, severe visage as ever. "Yes, you have a mighty task," she said, and nodded once, put the truck into gear and bounced off the dirt road back the way she had come.

Then McCurdy heard a rooster crowing, a big black one that had fluttered to the cowling of his plane; it announced the day in loud tones, and hopped to the ground to begin scavenging his breakfast crumbs.

What's so mighty about recovering a cross, he thought for a moment then just as swiftly dismissed it.  "Because you ain't just recoverin' a cross, Jack ol' boy."

There was definitely something more to this that he hadn't been told, he mused as he prepped the plane to get airborne again.  He would be there soon and maybe convince someone to level with him...

The rooster flapped to the ground with a disgruntled squawk as he spun the propeller.  A cool wind was rising from the east, and lifted the plane up easily enough.  Soon he was passing over fields, scrub country, pastureland, and farmland, and saw the town of Perfection below.  There was a flat patch of ground not far from Town Centre (which was two houses and a general store).

McCurdy circled his Jenny once around the two houses and the general store and then again, looking for anyone he could spy before leveling off and dipping his wings once to let anyone down below know he was fixin’ to land.  He aimed his nose for the flat patch and watched for anything that might be in his way...

McCurdy set down on the flat ground, kicking up a cloud of dust.  An old hound dog walked out of the general store with arthritic slowness, woofed once at him and then settled down on the porch with an attitude of 'job well done'.  No one bothered to look out to see who was there, and the dog seemed as threatening as a stuffed animal.

McCurdy lifted his goggles and eased out of the seat, resting on the fuselage, looking out over the wing at the landscape. It looked as deserted as it sounded. He smiled at the dog, despite himself, and slowly slid to the ground. He arched his back and stretched his cramped muscles. That was a good bit of flying. And it felt as refreshing as always.

He kicked some dust onto his shoes as he walked so he wouldn't look too out of place in the tiny dustbowl and headed toward the store and his one canine welcoming committee. He stopped and rested a foot on the first step, looking the dog in the eye.

“Nice to meet ya, friend. Almighty relaxin' day, ain't it.”

The grey-muzzled dog flopped over onto her back so that her belly could be rubbed, her tail raising up some dust from the general store's porch, with a gentle wag.  A short man in a white apron appeared at the door, still polishing a glass with a blue-checked rag.  The man was Oriental in appearance, but the accent was pure Texan, and spoken with a gentle smile.  "Hey, there," he said, "That your plane ?  You willin' to take a passenger, for cash ?"

McCurdy obliged the dog for a moment and then looked at the Texan, squinting a bit in the sunlight.  He pulled his hat off his head and took his coat off in the heat, draping it over his arm.  Then he turned back to the man.  “Does a body have time for a cup of coffee afore he's gotta leave again?”  He smiled crookedly and tapped a Camel from his pack, slipping it between his lips, and struck a match.

“Who's this passenger?  You?”

"Me," came another voice, a slightly nasal one from within the general store.  A lean young man stepped out onto the sunlight porch, the sun rendering the white collar of his black shirt brilliantly.  Keen grey eyes met Curdy's in a direct gaze, over a hooked Roman nose.  The hair was cut short, and was a sun-bleached brown. The rest of the outfit didn't seem to look like a clergyman's rig; khaki trousers and high leather boots, laced to the knee, but a rosary and crucifix hung off his belt.  "I can pay you in cash."

"Yes, yes, I have some coffee; I also have a fountain, if you want,"  the little Oriental man said, with a smile.  The dog grunted as McCurdy left off the belly-rub, yawned, and settled down into a snooze.

Inside the general store was cool and well-appointed; the Oriental man moved behind the counter and set up a sparkling white mug with coffee for McCurdy.  The young man in the mixed clothes had a soda; it looked like a malted.

Mccurdy sipped of his coffee and smiled his thanks at the chinaman.  He thought about sitting down to a spot of lunch and wondered aloud if they had any pie by chance.  He grinned crookedly at the chinaman again, and then looked at the boy needing the ride.  He was a fashion store with every deparment walking the runway.  He must have been raised an orphan because somebody sure didn't teach him what color went with what.  Should have stuck to grey.

Not one for saying too much about his own business if it wasn't needed, McCurdy sort of turned toward the boy and said, “Where ya goin' and how much of a hurry are ya in ta get there?”

The boy, barely 17 but with an older air about him, surveyed McCurdy for a few seconds before responding.  "I'm going South,"  he said, and McCurdy picked up a crispness to the words that implied English origin, or good elocution lessons.  "And I'm in a great hurry indeed.  Will you accept gold ?  Or emeralds ?"  He went to pick up a canvas vest, sewn with plenty of pockets and even gun-holsters...four of them... and began to rifle in one of the pockets.

The Chinaman was quietly polishing glasses that didn't really need polishing, and McCurdy could smell a very delicious roasting aroma creeping from the back room, where a slight rustling could be heard, as if someone was cooking back there.

McCurdy eyed the vest – and the holsters – with a cocked eyebrow, and then flicked that eye at the boy.  “If yur in that much of a hurry, I reckon you'll need to find another plane passin' through.  Or wait a bit.”  He eyed the rosary on the boys belt again and added, “You like emeralds do ya?”

The steely grey eyes did not flicker.  "Emeralds have their uses," the young man replied, in that crisp accent. "I can wait a while, but not for too long.  Time is not at my advantage, today.  Chang -" this was addressed rather briskly to the smiling Oriental man "-my supplies, if you will."  He had pulled a leather bag from the vest and was rummaging in it, and pulled out a selection of odd-looking coins - most were not really round, and looked mashed more than minted, but they were all rich yellow gold.  These he set on the counter with dull plunks, as the Oriental placed a canvas sack on the counter.

McCurdy shook his head at the boy's attitude as if silently chuckling, and turned back to the man he heard called Chang.  “Father Dean?  Know where I can find him?”

The oriental man, addressed as Chang, nodded, with the merry smile.  "Go down the road about a half-mile, you'll see the steeple.  He's probably out in the garden."

The boy seemed unmoved by McCurdy's response to his arrogance, and sipped the malted, sliding onto a stool at the soda fountain with a patient air.

McCurdy set out at an easy pace, the day being pleasant, and soon saw a church down the road.  There was indeed a steeple, and around the back, a garden, where a balding man in coveralls was tending to a plot of peas.  He straightened up, with a grimace and a hand on his back, as he got to the end of a row, and leaned on the hoe he had been using.  "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't see you there." he said, with a twangy Boston accent.  "How may I help you ?  I'm Father Dean."    Then the watery eyes took in the appearance of McCurdy.

"Oh," the priest said, "You must be Jack McCurdy.  How was the trip down ?"

McCurdy smiled and held out his hand for a shake.  “Long and noisy,” he said.  “But I didn't lack for anything thanks to your friends.  Y'all really know how to take care of a person.  Much obliged.”  He took off his hat and ran his hand through his short hair, then kept the Fedora in his hands.  “Did ya get a look at the young kid in town?  The one with the mismatched outfit and the hunter's vest?”

A shadow seemed to pass over the watery blue eyes, but the priest had a good poker face.  "Mmmmhmmm..." was the noncommital reply. "I daresay he wants to go south.  Look, I do want to tell you about the fellow who has the Lupino Cross...he's a preacher.  He's got Faith, but I'm very concerned that he might not be able to deal with the problems he'll soon be facing.  The Cross must not fall into the wrong hands."  The grubby hands tightened on the hoe handle, showing white about the knuckles.
This message was last edited by the GM at 00:05, Tue 03 May 2005.

McCurdy just stared at the man.  "So where's the preacher and who's got the wrong hands?  That fella goin' south?"

"That man has no interest in the Cross," the priest said, which was odd, for the fellow was just a boy to look at him.  "There's a lot more to the story, but I don't know if I can explain it to...you..."  the man's face went pale, and he gripped his chest, suddenly unable to speak...

...and fell down at McCurdy's feet, gasping for air, and a rooster crowed.  Up on the church, by the cross, a black rooster was flapping its wings.

McCurdy reacted by reflex, reaching out and catching the priest before he completely hit the ground, easing him onto his back.  he loosened the collar of his shirt and quickly checked the heartbeat in his neck.

Heart attack?  If it was, maybe he had a heart condition.  If he did, maybe he had nitro for it.  "What's got ya?" he said quickly.  "You takin' any pills or anything?"  He patted his coveralls and pockets looking for a pill box or something....

McCurdy rushed to help the priest, looking in the pockets for a vial of nitroglycerine pills or anything else.  The priest, his face mottled red and white, now clutched his throat, and fell limp in McCurdy's grasp, his pale eyes staring.  A shadow fell over them, a huge shadow, though there was nothing to cast it but that infernal noisy rooster and the sun was at the wrong angle besides.  McCurdy had the sense of being stalked, the feeling raising alarms in his thoughts and the hair on the back of his neck.

McCurdy whipped his head around.  Something had raised that shadow, yet there was nothing there to have done it.  He could see nothing flying across the path of the sun, no clouds to obscure it for even that brief moment.  He looked at the priest in his arms again and sighed.  He knew death when he saw it.  He had seen enough of it to never forget.  McCurdy felt an involuntary chill.

So sudden ... so mysterious.  He reached up and eased Father Dean's staring eyes closed.  “Hope you find peace in your next life, padre.”  He eased him the rest of the way to the ground and looked around for a vehicle of some sort he could get him to town with.  He stood above the fallen preacher, looking at him and wondering what he had gotten himself into.  Whatever it was, he was in it for the long haul now.  And it was time to start doing his job.

McCurdy's square jaw set in a solid line and his mind started to work.  First thing to do was check the dead man's pockets for anything that might help.

Next would be his house and chapel....

McCurdy became aware of two things - the temperature dropping like a stone, and the sound of feet moving very quickly down the road that led from Perfection to the church and beyond.  The shadow was now falling across him as he bent over Father Dean, rifling the man's pockets for clues; but he looked up in the darkening haze to see the boy from Chang's running, pulling two pistols from his strangely made canvas vest, and firing them at the black rooster...

...which was growing, seething as if full of snakes, and changing its form to something utterly alien and horrible, full of fangs, glowing eyes and viciousness.

The bullets ripped into the flesh of the monster, splattering a sizzling green gore onto the steeple of the church.  The monstrosity swelled and suddenly burst, splashing the building with foul ichor and sending a smell of carrion and brimstone into the air.

"Time to go,"  the boy snapped, handguns smoking in his hands, "You can't do anything for the priest, and the demons know about you now !"

McCurdy had snapped upright like a spring-loaded trap at the sight of the monstrosity, and if he'd had a cigarette between his lips at that moment it would have fallen to the ground in a burst of fiery ash.  Needless to say, his face was as ashen as the cigarette would have been.

“What the hell was that?” he breathed, rising from his knees, still staring at the carnage on the steeple – the carnage of something that wasn't a rooster!  He turned to look at the boy and saw the fire and urgency in his eyes, the fire of someone that did not seem surprised by what he had just seen.  Father Dean had been right -- this was no boy.

“And what the hell are you talking about?”  He was quickly recovering from the initial shock.  His years in the war left little in the world that surprised him, but something told him this wasn't part of his world.  Still, old habits died hard.

McCurdy started moving toward the boy.  His grey eyes were hard.  His hands balled into fists, powerful fists, fists used to hitting jaws of stone and muscles of thick leather.

It was beginning to settle in: Father Dean's death....

The boy sidestepped, moving adroitly, eyes narrowed.  If this was a 17 year old, he had seen a lot of hard schooling.   "I could have taken your flying machine, but I thought we were on the same side,"  he snapped, still holding the pistols but unwilling - at the moment - to aim them at McCurdy.  "It's time to go - it will be back.  They always come back !"

“And if you were still wonderin' about that I reckon you'd be firin' them pistols again and takin' my plane anyway,” McCurdy said flatly, the words dropping like rocks from a tin bucket, but he relaxed just the same, getting hold of himself.  “It ain't goin' nowhere without petrol anyhow.”

McCurdy picked up the hat he'd dropped and slapped the dust from it as if he hadn't a care in the world – as if a seething, fanged monster hadn't appeared atop a church steeple not twenty steps from where he stood.  He had gotten his senses back and regained his usually calm demeanor.  He looked at the boy from beneath the brim of his hat and squinted.  Nothing was going to phase him again.  Not after what he'd just seen.

“Help me with the padre,” he said bending over to heft the old man.  “I ain't leavin him behind.  I don't leave nobody behind no more....”

The boy, if he could be called that, assumed a nonplussed expression and stood there for a moment as if considering the wellbeing of a corpse was something he didn't really comprehend.  Then he went to pick up the priest's feet, to help McCurdy carry him into the Church.  "I -do- mean it," he said, with that crisp accent. "They come back.  You are travelling on stranger tides, Yankee.  The old rules do not apply." The lad smirked then, as if he was speaking of some private joke.

McCurdy glanced sideways at the gun-toting kid, wondering if he was talking to him or just talking to hear himself.  It seemed his jokes were for someone else too.

"Let'em come," McCurdy said as they carried the priest inside.  McCurdy said something about the altar and they put him there, the shamus setting the old man's hands on his chest and generally making him comfortable even though he couldn't feel anything any longer.  He knew it was a time for words, but he didn't have any words.  He just turned from the priest and looked at the boy.

"Are they here yet?"

McCurdy glanced sideways at the gun-toting kid, wondering if he was talking to him or just talking to hear himself.  It seemed his jokes were for someone else too.

"Let'em come," McCurdy said as they carried the priest inside.  McCurdy said something about the altar and they put him there, the shamus setting the old man's hands on his chest and generally making him comfortable even though he couldn't feel anything any longer.  He knew it was a time for words, but he didn't have any words.  He just turned from the priest and looked at the boy.

"Are they here yet?"

The strange youth gave him a steely look.  "You'll know when something tries to rip off your head, Yankee," he said.  "Shall we go ?  I only have so much shot." It was an odd thing to call bullets.   And a dead priest didn't have any bearing on the matter, it seemed.

“You know, you sure are liberal with that word: Yankee,” McCurdy said as he started to walk from the chapel.  “Haven’t heard that since the war.  And it came from the mouth of a friend of mine.  Yank, he used to call me.  He was English.  British English.”  McCurdy looked at the lad sideways, his curiosity beginning to get the better of him.

Jack McCurdy wasn’t an idiot; there were even those that would boast that he could put two and two together and come up with something besides four — and it would be right.  And he was beginning to put something together now.

“Of course, there are those from north of the Dixie line that are real liberal with that word too.  But you don’t quite fit their tone...”  His tone indicated that he was really asking a question.

The lad smirked again, eyes much too hard for his age narrowing down.  Surprisingly, he gave a slight bow.  "My name is Sebastian Hawksmoore.  I am English."  And that was all the boy was going to say, it seemed, besides, "Shall we go now ?"  He trotted to the door and looked around, a handgun already in his grip, and then out of the church, looking around with the handgun ready to fire at anything. The coast seemed to be clear, at the moment.
This message was last edited by the GM at 12:08, Sun 22 May 2005.

McCurdy walked after him, staring hard at his back, hard enough that the vagabond should have felt hot pokers burning through his shirt and into his skin.

A name.  It was a start.  Hawksmoore...  McCurdy hadn’t heard the name before.  Not even during the war.  And he had been around many Brits during the war.  One even became a real good friend.

McCurdy stepped out into the light, not the least bit concerned about looking around for any of his escort’s dangers.  The brit was doing that just fine.  He had something else to worry about anyway.  McCurdy had a feeling, one of those nagging feelings that tugged at your guts like a twisted torture device, a feeling that told him he had something dangerous closer to him than any demons.  The feeling told him he was about to be traveling with a boy that bothered him more than anything from another world.

McCurdy had an imagination, he always had.  It kept him going during long summer days working the fields with his pa; boring farm work that he learned to hate more than the freeloading Easley clan that bothered them all of the time, hitting pa up for money, food, whatever he was willing to give.  No account good-for-nothings that lived off the people around them like parasites.

And McCurdy’s imagination was kicking him like a mule about now as he followed behind the boy, trotting back to town.  A boy that was not a boy; a boy that looked, acted, and talked like someone from another time...

Yeah, McCurdy’s imagination was grinding the gears ... demons ... time travel....  What was next?

The boy, if indeed he could be called that, was remarkably fit, and set a pace that had McCurdy somewhat breathless by the time they were back in Perfection.  Sebastian Hawksmoore did not seem remotely bothered by the scrutiny McCurdy was offering, either, and had put the handgun away as there was nothing for him to shoot at.  The weapons he had were the same as McCurdy's, back at the plane; army Colts, M1911a's, and he seemed very familiar with them.

All seemed well here; the dog was out on the porch and offered up a few wags of her tail, but did not rise from her patch of sunlight.  Hawksmoore stopped and surveyed the aircraft with a dubious look, as if not entirely convinced that this conveyance was safe, then looked back at McCurdy. "Where shall I take a seat ?"  he asked, and fetched a pack from the side of the porch.

McCurdy used the man’s fetching of the pack to take a moment and catch his breath.  He was still not entirely sure he wanted the man with him, but he might be his only lead to the cross.  The crucifix on his belt, the talk of emeralds, Father Dean knowing him....  It was thin, but it was all McCurdy had to grab onto right then.

McCurdy checked his pistols in their cubby under his seat while the “boy” was away and ensured the plane had not been tampered with, walking around it, checking the fuselage, knocking on the fuel tank, ensuring the engine hadn’t been poked or prodded by anyone with sticky fingers or malice on the mind.  McCurdy was normally a trusting soul, but recent events swept that away like a tornado sweeping the front porch of a straw house.

McCurdy worked at removing the cover over the passenger seat and cleared the cubby of his satchel.  He transferred that to the wing supports, tying it securely against the wind that would be trying to rip it loose.  “There’s a seat for you now,” he said to Hawkesmoore.  “Unless you want to ride on the wing.  I’ve carried people that way before.  Jenny’s come with two seats, but there were times I had to carry more than one.  Up to you.”

McCurdy made no move to get inside the Jenny; instead he carefully lit up a Camel and leaned on the plane.  “Won’t have time to talk without yelling once we’re up there and I like my voice the way it is.  So how about you give me a bit of background on this flight.  You can start with how that padre knew who you were and why he had a low opinion of you.”

The boy Hawksmoore observed these actions with a thoughtful look on his face, the sharp eyes noting each move.  Once the seat was cleared for him, he nodded.  "Shan't want to cling to it, it's still quite a ways south."  he said.  "I cannot speak for why the priest didn't like me, unless it was my costume down south."  He unfurled part of the wrappings of his gear, to reveal black fabric, yards of it, which formed some sort of long vest, or more properly, vestments.  Once the vest was put on, Hawksmoore could pass for a black-clad priest, and it covered the strange gun-carrying harness and trousers quite well. "I certainly don't recall ever meeting him, and I have an eye for faces.  Why he knew of me, I imagine it is because I know about the last time the Cross was used."  The gaze that met McCurdy's eyes was direct and calm, but then McCurdy had the distinct sense that it would be dangerous to play poker with this lad.

And, even clad in sweeping skirts of a robe, he nimbly climbed into the plane.

McCurdy just stared at the lad and tipped his hat back on his head, dragging on his cigarette.  “This just gets better and better,” he mumbled.  “Okay, yur flyin south.  I got that part.”  He reached into the cockpit and started fumbling with the choke and throttle controls, setting them just right for a single-starter.  “I reckon you have some idea of why I am here now too, since you so easily talk of the cross, and since you saw me at Father’s Dean’s.  So my next question is what are we going south for?”  McCurdy backed away from the plane and looked at him, waiting for the answer so he could go around and turn the prop.

"You came to speak to that priest, and I found you at Chang's, so you're after the Cross," the boy said, the level gaze fixed on McCurdy. "And I shan't ask your business, if you don't ask mine; I'll even tell you what I know, if you will contain your curiousity.  The cross is a relic that enables the wielder to force demons to their bidding.  I call them demons, for that is what they appear to be.  And they are quite dangerous, even to me."  Then he shut up again.

McCurdy just stared at him for a moment.  Unblinking.  “Aha...” he finally mumbled.  “I guess yur after the cross then.  And you must know where it is if yur wantin to get South so quick.”  He was doing well to contain the questions beating at the door in his head, surprising even himself. Every time the fella opened his mouth it only sparked more questions in McCurdy’s head.

But instead, he started to move around to the front of the plane, and then stopped himself, turning back toward Hawksmoore.  “Are we going anywhere in particular down South...?”

"I have no use for the Lupino Cross," Hawksmoore replied, the sharp eyes fixed on McCurdy's.  He seemed miffed at having to answer more questions, but was responding to them anyway. "You may go wherever you wish down South; I have my destination already."  The frosty scowl added, 'and I'm not wanting to tell you more.'

"I see."  McCurdy stripped off his coat, stepped up to reach under his seat, and pulled out his brace of pistols.  He slipped the shoulder holsters over his back and arms and situated the Colts where they needed to rest, one under each arm.  Then he slid back into his coat and adjusted his hat in the afternoon sun.  After all that he suggested Hawksmoore might want to get out of the plane.

"If you ain’t after the Cross then I can’t leave yet.  And I may not be going the same direction as you when I find out what I need to know before I can leave.  I have prior commitments that I need to honor before I can take on yours.”  He stopped there and waited for the boy’s move.  He didn’t figure he’d get out and he sure felt the boy would try to steal his plane now.  But McCurdy lost his lead on Brother Clary and he needed to find another one or else he was dead in the air.

Hawksmoore glared at him, with eyes that seemed so much older than a stripling's eyes should be.  At last, he spoke. "Very well," he said, in reluctant defeat, in a resigned and level tone. "I know where you want to go, and I will assist you in finding the Cross, and in return I want passage to Brazil.  My Spanish is excellent, and I speak four native tongues, as well as Portugee.  You shall have need of that."

“Brazil!”  McCurdy moved the hat back on his head again and set his hands on his hips.  “I’ve been many places, but I haven’t been to Brazil.”  He shook his head.  “Don’t mind takin you there, that’s for sure.  But it’ll be expensive ... petrol and such.  Of course, you don’t act like money is much of a concern.”

He waved his hand as if that wasn’t an issue anyway and frowned in thought.  “And I don’t want anyone thinkin I’m pressin ’em into anything.  If you can get me to the next leg of where the man I’m lookin’ for is headed then I won’t hold you to helpin me find the cross.  That fella will lead me to it.  Father Dean was my lead to him and with him dead, I need another.  If you can be that lead until I find another, that’ll be great.  And I’ll still get you to Brazil with no questions about why.”

He started walking toward the prop to give it a spin.  “So where do I need to point the compass?”

Sebastian Hawksmoore stifled a sigh with effort, clearly believing that he was being pressed into service, and making him look like a sullen teenager in admittedly strange costume.  "I can handle expenses well enough, I should think."  he said. "There are very few places where the man who has the Cross might be, so I will escort you thither."  Thither...he actually said thither, and meant it.

"South." was the disgruntled, but still civil reply, as to direction.  Hawksmoore watched keenly as McCurdy spun the prop, to start the engine, then to jump into the cockpit to get to the controls.  The Jenny taxied easily along the road, raising a huge cloud of Texas dust, and soared up into the blue sky.

The Jenny moved along well enough, buffetted now and then by a cross wind, which McCurdy's passenger was taking easily enough.  The sun was lowering into the west side of the sky as they proceeded south, toward the Gulf of Mexico.  There were storm clouds building down here, grey and white clumps that promised a thunderstorm.  (McCurdy, roll v. flying, % dice !)

McCurdy didn’t like the look of the storm clouds.  “We’ll need to set down if those clouds get any darker and it gets too dangerous to fly,” he yelled over the sound of the engine and the wind.  “Don’t want to risk not making it.”  He canted the wing slightly, adjusting his heading a bit to skirt the building storm and descended some one hundred feet.  He wouldn’t get caught flying too high this time...

The plane shivered and shifted with the turbulence, but the only response from his passenger was a grim, watchful look.  McCurdy dropped the plane down, feeling the winds kicking up, and then saw birds fluttering strangely out of the dark clouds...more like bats than birds.

Then one landed on the cowling, bat-wings flapping madly, clawed hands clinging to the canopy as its mad little red eyes glared at McCurdy and it hissed - it was a cat-sized monster, a gargoyle, or....a gremlin.  The claws dug in, sending up splinters, then Hawksmoore drew one of his pistols and shot it, splashing purple ichor all over them. More were flitting down to the plane, with an unearthly chittering sound.  McCurdy was fighting to control the plane.

There were too many; they were all over the plane, pulling Hawksmoore's hair and scratching him, flapping in McCurdy's face, and clawing at the plane, chewing on the cables.  Suddenly the Jenny's engine quit, and two more came clawing out of the engine housing, joining the swarm on the rest of the plane.

The Jenny was falling like a stone...and she was going down over water.

There wasn't much for McCurdy to do except try to keep the plane from hitting the water nose first.  Through the purple ichor on his goggles and the flapping bats, he looked for any sign of a beach or land.  If he could glide her down on her belly, especially near some type of land, they would be much better off.

Struggling with the stick, more intent on it than on the bats, he did all he could - using every ounce of his skill and his muscle - to keep his plane from killing the both of them....

McCurdy guided the plane down, fighting the sluggish controls, and the impact was horrendous.  His forehead hit the cowling, and the blackness sucked him down for a few seconds, then he came to.   The left wing was torn halfway off, and the plane began to sink.  His passenger unconcernedly shot more of the creatures, and then they suddenly scattered, flapping off back into the sky.  The first drops of heavy rain began to fall.

Water was coming in, soaking McCurdy's feet.  "Look - there - "  he heard Hawksmoore say, and then he saw a sight that was familiar enough - a Junker.  He hadn't seen one since the war.

A Junker was indeed headed their way, with pontoons on it - a seaplane.  Sure, it had been painted over in red and white, but it was still a German plane.  The water was up to their hips now, and Hawksmoore was unbuckling his harness, ready to abandon the plane.  The Junker set down, splashing in a genteel fashion, and taxied close, and the pilot called out in German; then in English, "You are OK ?"

McCurdy waved at the man -- an odd sight indeed to find a german junker and an american jenny in the same patch of air without trying to shoot each other.  He started to get up and a bolt of pain hit his head.  He gritted his teeth against the pain and carried on, grabbing his small satchel from beneath the seat and ensuring he still had his pistols.

Lost my damn plane! he thought as he raised to sit on the fuselage.  McCurdy sat and shook his head, checking his forehead for blood.  Then he looked at the other pilot and waved his hand again.  "Sure could use a tug," he said through a smile, despite the situation.

McCurdy's forehead at the hairline was sticky with blood, but nothing seemed to be too deep or requiring stitches.  His passenger was gathering up his gear, ready to depart already. The Jenny was indeed going down.  The Hun, a lanky blonde with a mild expression, eyed this development with a dubious look, though he had smiled when McCurdy did.

"Dot I don't think will be possible, she is sinking," the German said, his thick accent further reminding McCurdy of The War. "But to hitch-hike, that I can give you."  He caught the bundle of gear that Hawksmoore chucked at him, with another few rapid words in German.

The junker was being used as a cargo plane, to judge from the crates and the ropes and netting; the only seats were the pilot's and co-pilots, the co-pilot's seat being currently occupied by a very large, handsome snake sunning itself.  "I was going North," the Hun added, after getting the two men safely aboard.
"I will pay you to go South," Hawksmoore said in English, then spoke in German, pulling the bag he'd used to pay with at Chang's from his pocket.

McCurdy watched chunks of green rock change hands...the Hun's eyebrows lifting up in surprise, then watched as the last of the fusilage of his beloved plane sank below the water.

McCurdy turned his eyes from the emeralds and stared at the sinking plane beneath him.  A plane that had been with him for many years — even through part of the war.  He sat silently, somberly as the water started rising toward his knees; witnessing the slow death of a friend.

He did not want to abandon her, but he knew when to retreat.

Hawksmoore surveyed the sinking aircraft, and flicked his steely gaze back to McCurdy, then reached out his hand to help McCurdy aboard the Hun's Junker.  "You seek something important," he said, in tones that almost sounded as if he might actually be human, after all. "Although you have not kept your end of the bargain, you intended to do so, and we had an Accord.  Come along.  I will see you safely on your journey."

The German had the grace to say, "I'm sorry," in a suitably sympathetic tone, and then went to tend to his flying.  The Junker rose smoothly from the spray of bubbles that was all that remained of McCurdy's beloved Jenny....

....and landed well, causing some concern among the boat-going locals and clipping some leaves off the trees, on the mighty Amazon herself.  It was clear that the Hun had been a fighter pilot, and McCurdy knew where to look to figure out what Jasta...the Second, from the markings on the man's jacket.  This fellow had flown with some seriously good pilots.

 The docks were full of fishing boats, and the German taxied up to an empty spot to let off the travellers.  Hawksmoore hopped out quickly, with his gear, and bade the German a lengthy farewell, in German; then he waited for McCurdy to disembark. The city had a decidedly Spanish flavour to it; the buildings, and the language that drifted on the late afternoon breezes.  And he couldn't help but wonder that Hawksmoore was as alert as could be.

McCurdy nodded at the pilot, his respect for the man apparent, and then turned to Hawksmoore.  He watched him for a moment before turning his eyes to the city and wondered if his spotty Spanish would help him here.  He decided he’d wait to see.

Speaking to the locals was not foremost on his mind though, and it showed in the frown he wore.  He was wet, he was tired, and he had lost his plane.  All three combined to make him feel quite irritated.  He cut his eyes at Hawksmoore again.

“Do you know the man that has the cross,” he asked abruptly.  “Brother Clary he’s called.  You tell me you know where the cross is.  Let’s get it all out in the open if you don’t mind.”

Sebastian Hawksmoore drew up short, his eyes hardening again, and focused his attention on McCurdy. It was rather like having a bird of prey sizing you up as dinner.

"I am not yours to command, Yankee," he said in short, crisp tones. "I know not more than what Chang spake of him - a description and a destination.  I avowed to take you thither."  Again with the odd words.  Then he set down his pack, pulled out a black cowl, which completed a monklike look to the youth, hiding his face.  He slung the pack back over his shoulder, effortlessly, and set off along the planking, the hobnails in his boots striking a spark off a nailhead set in the wood.

"Come along," he said, over his shoulder, "There's one place I know of where someone keeps close watch."  He then led the way off into the city, striding with a strong pace.  The warehouses and docks gave way to homes, some shabby, some not so shabby, and continued on to grander buildings that seemed to be leading to the centre of town.

McCurdy glared at Hawksmoore’s back as he followed.  His irritation had increased to mild anger at the rebuff from the “boy.”  This adventure is getting really complicated, he grumbled inside of his head as Hawksmoore led him deeper into the city.  Too many secrets.  Much too many secrets.

McCurdy didn’t like being dependent on anyone for anything if he didn’t need to be.  And he didn’t need to be dependent on Hawksmoore.  But for some reason, the boy thought he needed to keep McCurdy in the dark.  And McCurdy wanted to know why.

That was the only reason he bit his tongue and marched on behind the fake priest, his eyes boring holes into his back, his frown drawing furrows in his brow like a plow in soft dirt.  He wanted to know why...

McCurdy's guide seemed to know exactly where he was going, leading on into the centre of town, and was probably the most prickly individual McCurdy had seen in a long time - out of keeping with the youthful appearance, to be sure.

It was at an old, cracked building, many times patched, where the shade of a tree kept a person on a chair in shadows, that the boy stopped at last.  The person on the chair was a little old lady, wisps of white hair peeking from the wrap on her head, her brown face a network of crinkles as she smiled at Sebastian Hawksmoore. A heavy serape was wrapped around her, even in the heat, and a faded skirt covered her legs, though McCurdy could see bony ankles and feet clad in a leather moccasins.  There was a glint of gold at her throat, and she seemed happy.

Hawksmoore stopped, and knelt down on one knee, and reached out to hold the old woman's hands, in the most human and gentle gesture that McCurdy had ever seen.  She spoke Spanish, rapidly, beaming at him with a nigh toothless smile, and he responded.  McCurdy caught a few words; "it is good to see you again", "sweetheart", "have you seen," the last two phrases coming from Hawksmoore.

She spoke then, close to his ear, still smiling, and finally she sat back and touched his face with her crooked hand, and said in Spanish, "Farewell, my dear one."

Hawksmoore rose, kissing the hand he still held, and backed a few paces away.  The little old lady was holding the leather pouch now, the one that held the gold and the emeralds.  When he turned back toward McCurdy, there were tears on the sharp planes of his cheeks. "He was here yesterday, with Hornsby.  Hornsby travels our path and left from Manaus only this morning.  They can be overtaken.   There is only matter more I must attend, and then I will go."

He flipped the hood lower over his face and headed off into the market, striding rapidly, not waiting for McCurdy to follow, or speak, or anything.  The next place he was headed was a beautiful old Spanish Church.  He stopped cold when he reached the entrance, standing there still as death, looking within at something or someone, spoke something McCurdy could not hear, and then stepped aside and back a few paces, reaching for something in his shoulder pack.

Mysteries were in McCurdy’s blood.  Always had been.  It was why he chose to be a cop, it was why he chose to quit to start his own business.  McCurdy was fairly good at solving those that came his way too.  And Hawksmoore had come his way.

McCurdy had nodded politely at the old woman as he passed away from her to follow the mysterious boy, looking at her carefully, memorizing her face, her features, her manner.  Too affectionate to be his mother.  Much too affectionate.  And calling her sweetheart....

McCurdy blinked as his thoughts returned to the present and he moved to the side to get out of the direct line of the dark doorway.  He did not like the exposure he was feeling.  His hands idly rose toward his shoulder holsters as he kept one eye on Hawksmoore and the other on the church entrance.