“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 ?"