Skull Hunter, 3 ’Tis the Season by S. Michael Leier	Table of Contents
Part 1 of 2 Audio version

I like to wake up to fresh snow on an early Chicago morning. I especially like it when the winter dumps several feet of snow all at once. Like a pure white blanket, it covers the dirt and the grime of the city. Most people hate it, but I like the fact that the city seems to stop as people go about digging themselves out. The streets and sidewalks look clean and clear. It almost seems like a deserted world, empty of corruption, lies, and deceit. By mid-morning, the sun shines down making the snow crystals glitter like little lights. The buildings shine in the brilliant sun. The air is crisp and quiet.

Yeah it sounds corny, but I like that time of year. It was late in December, the night before Christmas. I had just spent another lonely evening in a grease-pit diner eating stale turkey sandwiches with a side of runny corn meal dressing. It was tasteless, but the upside was, it was bad, too. Just me and some old fry cook who couldn’t give a digger’s damn about the upcoming holiday.

“What you lookin’ so down about?” the cook sneered as he wiped off the speckled linoleum countertop. “You and me got it made, mister. I mean think of all those poor, lousy slobs who work all year just to travel with some loudmouth kids somewhere they don’t wanna go. When they get there, they’re eatin’ food they hate with people they don’t like, and there ain’t a damn thing they can do about it, because if they complain some old battle-ax of a wife nags them into the ground. Pennies to dollars they’d all change places with you right now.”

I looked at the haggard old man with thin white hair, grease stained t-shirt, and a three-day growth on his face. I looked into those hollow eyes and said, “I’d let them.” Then threw my money on the counter and walked out.

I walked around the city most the night, worried that I was becoming like that sad cook, all alone and liking it. What had I done in my life? Who out there really gave a damn about me. Then my mind went back a few months to a woman and her young daughter in Wisconsin. I saw their faces when I closed my eyes every night. I heard her voice in my dreams laughing as we sat at the old wooden table she had made, eating supper. It made me feel warm and safe. In the morning I’d wake up right back in this pile of horseshit I’d been calling a life.

“Some day... when you’re ready,” she had said to me just before I left them standing on a broken-down porch.

“Well what’s wrong with today?” I cried out to the dark winter sky above me. “I mean, don’t I deserve some happiness in my life? Look at me. Look at...”

I stopped when I realized that in the snow behind me were two sets of footprints. The snow was fresh and I thought I had been the only one walking in it, but behind me were two sets of fresh prints leading to the spot where I was standing. I looked ahead of me but there were no prints.

I spun around, but I was all alone. “Who’s there?” I asked to the air as the hairs on the back of my neck began to rise. “If someone is there, show yourself.”

I kept turning thinking that at any moment a vision would appear in front of me in the falling snow, but nothing happened. “I must be getting tired.” I said. “Standing in a snow storm talking to myself.”

I snugged up the scarf around my neck and headed for my office, which had also been my temporary home for the last few months. On the way, I began to realize that the weather had turned decidedly worse. It was bitterly cold and the wind was inescapable. Chicago had always had a breeze running through it, but this was strong and steadily increasing. The snow was pouring from the sky. It felt like needles when it hit the skin. I finally made it to my office building and struggled to get the door open, pushing snow and fighting wind.

Sam, the night watchman, greeted me and helped me close the door. “Hell of night, eh Mr. Vargo?” he said wiping the snow from his hair.

“You might say that,” I replied as I pulled my snow-soaked hat from my head and loosened my coat.

“I’ve been listening to the radio and they’re saying that some weird cold front has parked itself right over our fair city,” added Sam.

“Is that right?”

“Yep,” Sam laughed. “They say that they haven’t seen the like before. It just sort of come up all the sudden and is circling the city.”

“That is strange,” I answered.

“Yes sir it sure is. ’Course, my pa told me a long time ago, he said ‘Son, there’s two things in this world you can’t get away from; taxes and the weather.” Sam chucked. “‘And you can’t do a thing about either of ‘em’. That’s what he'd say.”

“Your Pa sounds like a pretty smart fellow.”

“I don’t know about that now, he wasn’t what you might call an educated man, but he worked hard all his life. We never had much, but we were never hungry. He put six kids all the way through high school. He may not have had an education, but he made damn sure we did. Every Christmas he would gather us for church and pray, oh how he’d pray, and give thanks for every blessing we had. He taught me that every day on this earth is a blessing that we must share with others. Every day alone is a wasted day.”

I stood and looked at Sam with his brown eyes twinkling, a smile blazed across his face. I could tell that the memories of his father were rushing through his mind, making him feel happy, snug, and secure. It was like a fire that burned deep within him lighting his face with a warm glow. I envied him at that moment. I wanted those memories, those thoughts, and feelings. All I could do was turn away and head up the wooden staircase towards my office.

“Good night, Sam,” I said finally.

“Goodnight, Mr. Vargo,” Sam answered. I heard him whistling below as he went about his business.

I made my way to the third floor and my office door. It had the letters SKULL HUNTER INVESTIGATIONS in big black letters on the opaque glass window. In my mind, I kept hearing Sam’s voice saying “Every day alone is wasted day” over and over again in my head.

I tried to shake off the words as I unlocked the door and stepped inside. The room was bathed in an eerie blue glow that came from snow reflecting light through the window behind my desk. I stood there for a moment, looking at the sum total of my life. Books and files scattered about the floor. Piles of trash that had accumulated from weeks of neglect filled the corners. Along the far wall was an old broken-down couch with a pillow and a torn blanket. This was my life. Everything I owned, everything that I had accomplished in thirty-seven years of living was in that room.

I balled the hat in my hands and threw it across the room. I stared at my faint reflection in the window. “What a loser,” I said to the reflection. “What a no good, rotten, dirty loser.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” said a voice from the shadows.

I swung quickly towards the voice, fumbling in my coat pocket until I realized I hadn’t taken my gun with me that night. It was a holiday. What could happen on a holiday?

“Who’s there?” I called out as I slowly made my way to the desk and clicked on the lamp. The lamp replaced the blue with dim, amber light from the sixty-watt bulb. I saw the figure of a man sitting in a chair against the wall near the bathroom. “I warn you I have a gun.” I lied.

“No you don’t,” the voice snickered.

“Okay I don’t,” I said as my mind turned options in my head. “Who are you and how did you get in here?” I moved cautiously towards the phone on my desk and quietly lifted the receiver and set it down on the desk. Without looking down, my fingers dialed the two number extension to Sam’s phone in the lobby.

“There’s no need to be alarmed,” said the man.

“No, no reason at all,” I said as I picked up the envelope opener off the desk. “I come into my locked office and find you in here, in the dark. Why should I be alarmed?”

“Mr. Vargo...” “Okay you know my name, now who are you?”

“My name is Dudley, and what I have to tell you is of vital importance,” said the man as he got up from the chair. When he came into the light, I could make out his salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed to the right. He was wearing what looked like an expensive business suit. He wore no coat or hat and his shoes were perfectly shined. He obviously had not been walking in the wet snow recently. His face was smooth-shaven; his features were strong, yet not threatening. I relaxed somewhat until I heard a loud knock on the office door.

“Mister Vargo, are you all right in there?” called Sam. “Mister Vargo, open the door.”

“Stay right there,” I said to the strange man as I quickly opened the office door. Sam burst through with gun drawn and eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?” asked Sam excitedly.

“How did that guy get in here?” I said pointing to where Dudley was standing.

“Who?” asked Sam stretching his neck, looking around the room puzzled.

“What do you mean who? That guy right...” I turned but there was nobody. “There was a guy here just a second ago.”

“Stand back I’ll check the other room,” said Sam as he carefully walked to the bathroom and turned on the light. “Nobody in here.”

“Well he couldn’t have just...” I said as the realization hit me. “Never mind Sam, it’s all right.” “But...”

“I must have dozed off for a minute and dreamt the whole thing.”

“Dreamt...but how did you dial the phone... I mean?” asked Sam confused.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as I guided a bewildered Sam to the door. “I’m very sorry for bothering you.”

“But...”

“Have a good night,” I said as I closed the door. I waited until I saw the shadow of Sam leave and then turned back to the empty room. “Okay whoever you are, or whatever you are, you can come back now.”

“Thank you,” the man’s voice came from the empty air as he faded back into view.

“Okay, so you’re a ghost. Great. A ghost named Dudley,” I said as I put the envelope opener back on the desk. “I’m tired tonight, couldn’t you haunt me in the morning?”

“Oh I’m no ghost, Mr. Vargo,” he said smiling with bright perfect teeth.

“Really? You just vanish and appear in thin air but you’re not a ghost,” I said as I took off my coat and hung it on a nail.

“No I’m not,” Dudley said as he picked up my balled-up hat and handed it to me.

“All right, I give, what are you?” I said sitting down behind my desk putting up my tired feet.

“I’m an angel.”

My feet dropped from the desk with a thud. “You’re a what?”

“You do believe in angels, don’t you, Mr. Vargo?”

“Sure right along with the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy,” I smirked.

“It is not important that you believe in me. However it is of utmost importance that you believe what I am about to tell you,” said Dudley as he sat on the edge of my desk.

I wiped the tiredness from my face and saw the seriousness in Dudley’s eyes. “Okay Mr. Angel, what is so important that you came all the way from heaven to tell me?”

“The name is Dudley. I didn’t come from heaven. Well, not directly, anyway, I came from Boston, and I need your help.”

“Dudley, I’m tired, very tired. It’s been a long year so far. My immediate plan is to sleep the rest of this year away and hope the next one is better.”

“I do not believe you are grasping the situation.”

“Oh, I grasp, I grasp,” I said, leaning back. “An angel named Dudley has come from Boston to get my help.”

“Yes,” said Dudley, nodding.

“Goodnight, Dudley,” I said, closing my eyes.

Dudley stood up from the desk, straightened his coat, and stared at me for a minute. He cocked his head as though his gaze could somehow wedge its way through my closed eyelids. “There’s a 6-year old girl whose parents were killed in an accident this morning,” he stated firmly.

“That’s rough,” I said with my eyes still closed, “but I can’t bring them back. That’s kind of your department isn’t it?”

Suddenly the desk was torn from under my feet and flung across the room. I lurched forward stunned as Dudley stared me straight in the eyes. “This girl is important to me, understand,” he said with a dead coldness in his voice. “She is under my care and I take her well-being very seriously, as should you.”

“Okay,” I said as his look froze me, “you got my attention.”

“Good.” Dudley stood back up and relaxed his stance. “Now this storm that is hovering over your city, anything about it seem strange to you?”

“I’m not a weatherman,” I answered. “What has that got to do with this girl you were talking about?”

“Her name is Cindy Glance. She is currently residing at The Chicago Nursery and Half-Orphan Asylum. You know where that is.”

“How would I...” I said as Dudley cocked his head. In my mind a vision of a brick building flashed. “Yeah, I guess I do, but I’ll have to drive there and this weather...”

“You’ll be fine,” said Dudley, smiling.

“But... oh yeah. Angel. I forgot.”

“You must understand that Cindy is not any ordinary girl.”

Proceed to part 2...

Copyright © 2006 by S. Michael Leier