Griffin's Blade

         Did you ever start at sight of something at the corner of your eye, something that, looked for, wasn’t there? Did you feel the fear, the chill up your spine, the rush of heat at the back of your neck? Why? Nothing was there… was it?
         Those chills are provided courtesy of a million or so years of evolution. We’re too sophisticated to believe in monsters, demons, and creatures from beyond anymore, but our genes remember what goes bump in the night. The fear is baked into us, and for good reason. They view our world as a hunting ground, and in a way, our very sophistication makes it easier for them.
         But they haven’t won yet...

Part I

         Rick Borden turned into the doorway of the rundown hotel off West Fillmore, hands stuffed deep into the pockets of his heavy coat. Winter in Chicago was never any joke, especially not with the Hawk blowing in off the lake making the block walk from the bus stop to the hotel door an exercise in agony. Stopping on the sheet just inside the door, he stomped the slush off his boots and unzipped his coat, shaking the wetness from his shoulders and hood.
         "Good afternoon, Mr. Borden," the concierge, Mrs. Parrish, a birdlike woman in her sixties, greeted him from behind the front counter. "How's the day been treating you?"
         "About like it appears," he replied, brushing the last of the moisture off his sleeves. "Can't wait for spring. How about yourself?"
          "Oh, one day's just like another in this job. You know, Howard and I were just talking about you."
          I'll just bet you were, he thought as he stepped up to the desk while she got his key from the pigeonhole.
          "Oh?"
          "Yes. We were just hoping something would turn out right for you for a change. You're about due for a break. I remember that you almost couldn't make the rent last month."
          "Don't you worry about that, Mildred. I may have to skip a few meals, but I'm not about to move outdoors in the wintertime. Anyway, I'm sure McDonald's will need a manager just any time now."
          "Well, let us hope," she said, handing him his room key.
          "Let us hope."
          Borden slogged up the ancient, creaking stairs to the second floor of the old three-story. Room twenty-four, front of the building, overlooking the street. He felt fortunate; the odd-numbered rooms overlooked the rear parking lot the hotel shared with the greasy spoon and the honky-tonk on the next street over. At least he was spared the nightly commotion.
          He was fortunate as well to have a room with a rudimentary kitchen. Opening the decades-old refrigerator, he took out a TV dinner, poked a hole in the film, and slid it into the microwave with a setting for four minutes. He'd eaten so many of these that he didn't have to read the instructions any more.
          Four minutes on high, stir, recover, and two more minutes. Remove film and enjoy your gourmet meal. Be careful, it's hot!
          As the dinner began to cook he turned on his laptop, allowing the startup procedure to begin, and switched on his small TV. The afternoon news was covering congress in one of their endless shouting matches over bullshit while the country was drowning in life-and-death issues.
          If pro is the opposite of con, is congress the opposite of progress?
          Snorting in derision, he turned it back off.
          "Damned sure is," he muttered. He stirred the reddish glop in the plastic tray and started the second phase of cooking his dinner. YouTube looked like a better bet tonight.
          The computer screen displayed his homepage, and the little red block on the toolbar told him he had six new e-mails. No hurry. Dinner was ready. He peeled the top off his spaghetti with meat sauce tray, took it to the table, and got out some flatware. Sitting down at the table, he clicked on the button.
          "Refresh your summer wardrobe," the first subject line screamed, attached to a clothing company with a hip name and an Asian address. "You're pre-approved for a gold MasterCard." "Would you like to have larger breasts?" "Saw your resume on Monster."
          What?
          Borden froze with a fork of spaghetti halfway to his mouth. He put it back down and with a shaking hand, clicked on the address, The Akuma Agency.
          "Dear Mr. Borden," the missive read, "we read with interest your resume on monster.com, and would like to discuss the possibility of placing you in a position with our firm. Please call [phone] at your earliest opportunity, should you still be interested, and speak to Ms. Grace McFarlane."
          Hands still shaking, he pulled out his phone and switched it on. 3:57 PM. Where was the 619 area code? He had no idea, but it was coming up on the hour, and people might still be in the office. He punched in the numbers and listened to the phone ring once, twice, three times. Thinking he must have missed them, he started to put the phone down.
          "Akuma Investigations, may I help you?" a voice came from the speaker.
          "Good afternoon," Borden said, heart pounding. "This is Rick Borden. I have an email here to call you."
          "Good afternoon, Mr. Borden. My name is Parker Mason. I manage the office here. I'm not involved with your case, so does the email give you any instructions?"
          "Yes. I'm to speak with a Grace McFarlane concerning a job opportunity."
          "Oh, yes, Mr. Borden. My apologies, I should have recognized your name. We've been extra busy this past week, and I'm a bit disorganized."
          "That's quite all right."
          "Well, I do like to be more on top of things than this. Look, Miss McFarlane read your resume. She liked what she saw, and got our director's approval to interview you. I have authorization..." Borden heard paper shuffling and a distinct thump in the background. "Sorry about that. Like I was saying, I have authorization to provide round-trip air fare and accommodation while you're here if you could come in for an interview."
          "Air fare? Where are you?"
          "El Cajon." He pronounced it Ka-hone. "It's a suburb of San Diego, California."
          "San... You want to fly me out to the west coast and put me up in a hotel so I can have an interview? Are you sure? What does Ms. McFarlane say about this? Is she available?"
          "It's just a Motel 6, and she's out on a case and I don't know whether to expect her back in the office today. But she was quite explicit in her instructions. If you're interested in this job, I'm to offer you every assistance in coming out for a meeting."
          "What kind of job is this? Or I guess I should ask, what sort of firm are you?"
          "We're a private detective agency."
          "That's it? And there's no one local you can hire?"
          "The cases we handle are, well, let's say they're sensitive, Mr. Borden, and Miss McFarlane feels that you're the best candidate among all the prospects we've seen. So, would you like to take the red-eye, or shall I get you on a flight first thing in the morning?"
          "You know I'm an ex-cop, right?"
          "That's one of the reasons that Miss McFarlane is interested in you."
          "Then if you could hear the alarm bells going off in my head right now, you'd most likely be frightened by their intensity."
          "I understand there are a lot of scammers out there, Mr. Borden," Mason said with a smile in his voice, "but I assure you, we are not among them. We know that you are a former detective with the Chicago Police Department who recently lost his position to the current recession. We know that you are working the early day shift at the McDonald's on West Allison Avenue, and that you intensely dislike taking orders from your nineteen-year-old shift manager. We know that you are having difficulty making ends meet, and would dearly love to get back into investigative work. With the recommendation your former lieutenant would probably give you, that is most unlikely to happen, except that our lead investigator thinks you are just the man she's looking for. This offer would seem to be the answer to a prayer, Mr. Borden, so I'll ask you again, red-eye, or first thing tomorrow?"
          "Better make it tomorrow," Borden said, head spinning. "That will give me a chance to clean up and pack a bag."
          "A wise choice, sir. Watch for my email. It will have the confirmation numbers for your flight, and directions for your driver when you arrive in San Diego. Have a good evening, sir."

To be continued...