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wyntir_knightI finally got the next chapter of RtD complete. It seemed like it would never be where I wanted it, but I think it's okay now. If anyone is reading this here, previous chapters can be found by checking the tag.
Chapter 4: Looking Down the Rabbit Hole
We got home later that night and were lucky enough to sneak in past Leo. Had I been alone, I wouldn’t have been able to manage it, but Raph had been doing this for years and knew all the ins and outs of the lair. I quickly headed back to my room and got my virus checker working on the disk. There was no way I was going to trust the thing just because Grace and Etienne claimed to be on our side.
“So, what’s on it?” Raph asked, coming up to stand behind me.
“I have no idea yet, but whatever it is it’s huge. My virus checker should be able to handle a gig of info in no time but it’s estimating almost an hour to check it all. Even if the press clippings are jaypegs there must be hundreds of them. This could take a long time to go over,” I replied.
“Right …,” Raph said as if I had grown a second head.
I sighed inwardly. I hated when my brothers acted like I was speaking Greek. “I’ll let you know once I’ve gotten something,” I said quietly, turning back to my computer.
As soon as I heard Raph leave the room I picked up The Great Gatsby and began reading. I sat in silence for a long time; the only sound was the soft hum of my computer. I had just gotten to the part where Daisy runs Myrtle down with Jay’s car when my computer beeped. I looked up and saw a message flashing on the screen. OperaMan was trying to contact me.
“Good evening OperaMan,” I typed.
“Yo, NonFinito. It hurts man, it really hurts,” he said
“What? And why should I care?” I asked.
“Dude! And here I thought we were friends, but you had to go an sick your thug on me,” he said.
“You thought wrong. Friend implies trust and it implies that I know with whom I’m talking,” I sent back.
“Aw, man, don’t take the Mister and Missus too seriously,” he said. “They mean well, but they’re not big on trusting short green dudes.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Did you take a look at the disk?” he asked.
“Checking it,” I replied.
“Your virus checking? Dude that hurts worse than the broken arm your thug gave me. You’d think you didn’t trust us,” he said.
“Whatever would give you that idea?” I typed back.
“Whatever, dude. Look, run all the checks you like, then get back to me when you’re satisfied that we’re the good guys. No rush. It’s not like the world’s in danger. … Oh, wait, it is,” he said, then immediately logged off.
“I never broke his arm,” Raph said from behind me.
I think I nearly hit the ceiling I jumped so high.
“Raph! Jesus Christ! Don’t sneak up on me!” I whispered harshly.
Raph chuckled darkly, “Don’t let Leo hear you talk like that. He’ll have you sparin’ blindfolded until ya become ‘aware of your surroundings’.” He held out a plate of pizza for me. “I thought you might need this. An’ after that jump I’m glad I didn’t bring th’ coffee too,” he added with a chuckle.
He opened a bottle of beer and sat down next to me.
“It’s about halfway done with the virus check … mind you, if OperaMan came up with something new, then all the checking in the world won’t help,” I said, poking at the pizza.
“Then why’re you doing it? I’d think it’d just be a huge waste o’ time. After all, if these guys wanted us, they could come get us at any time they like. Why bother messin’ with yer computer?” Raph asked. He took a long swig of his beer.
“Call it healthy paranoia,” I replied. I put the pizza down and turned to face Raph. “Did you break his arm?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Mighta pulled a muscle or a tendon, but I didn’t break it. He’d’ve known if I had. … Mind you, he’s probably not gonna be friendly with Mr. Happy fer a while,” Raph chuckled.
I turned back to the computer, trying to ignore Raph’s crass comment. I ate my pizza in silence and watched the progress bar on the virus checker slowly climb towards 100 percent complete.
Raph stretched out next to me and we sat in companionable silence. It’s surprising that we don’t find ourselves spending more time together. I think we have more in common than either of us realize; like the joy of silence. Mikey always fills the quiet with mindless babble. It’s as if he can’t stand to be alone with his own thoughts. I remember that even when we were little and were doing quiet things he’d be humming or singing to himself. And Leo makes the silence oppressive, like he’s waiting for an answer that you can never successfully give. Both Raph and I enjoyed silence for what it was. Solitude.
Finally my system beeped that it was done and I opened the folder. I was not disappointed by what I found inside, though I have to admit that I was a little confused. Everything was neatly organized in separate folders, some marked as press clippings, some identified as primary and secondary sources, some were specific to the building, and others specific to the Metropolitan Club. There were hundreds of images, sound files, and documents of every designation imaginable.
“This could take a while,” Raph muttered, looking over my shoulder at the monitor.
٭٭٭
The next morning both Raph and I were exhausted. The normal routine began, but this time, Splinter never came out of his room and Raph and Leo’s fight came to blows before Mikey and I could tear them apart. Our katas ended early and we all went our separate ways, leaving an oppressive silence hanging over the lair.
I headed back to my room to continue my examination of the disk and wasn’t surprised to find that Raph had followed me in.
“Mind if I hang out here?” he asked, throwing himself on my bed before waiting for my reply.
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” I replied, distracted by an article on my screen.
“I swear one of these days he’s gonna push me to far!” Raph growled.
“Which one? Leo or Mikey?” I asked, not looking away from the map that had popped up.
“Hmph. Either. Both. … Probably both,” Raph said. I guess he must have noticed my distraction because I suddenly found him leaning over my shoulder.
“What is that?” he asked. “Is that New York?”
“Yeah,” I replied slowly. “It’s New York in the 30s. More specifically, it’s Harlem in 1932. See these red dots?” I asked, pointed to 10 well placed dots on the map.
“Yeah,” Raph replied. “An’ I see the blue one too. What are they?”
“The red ones represent specific murder victims found that year. The blue dot is the Vopelhart building,”
“Okay, so? Ten murders in Harlem sounds pretty normal,” Raph said.
“It would be pretty much normal then too, especially considering all the speakeasies and the racial tensions,” I said. “But it seems that these murders were unusual enough to make the papers. Mind you, they were buried in the back and the story is blaming the alcohol, jazz, and the black population, but….” I felt Raph place his hands on my shoulders and press down.
“Is there a point, Donnie?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah, sorry,” I stammered. “The murders seem to have been ritualistic. And if you connect the locations, you get a pentagram with the Vopelhart building in the dead center.”
“Some strange murders in the thirties isn’t exactly somethin’ t’ go on, Donnie,” he said. He still hadn’t taken his hands off my shoulders.
“The same murders occur again in 1962, and in the 1992. And there’s some stories here of similar murders in 1902, 1872, 1842 … every thirty years.” As I spoke new maps overlaid the first. The ten red dots on each map remained consistently in place. “All the older stories say is that the deaths seemed ritualized. But in the cases in ’92 the cops did a more thorough investigation and then just stopped after the eighth body showed up,” I said, trying to twist around and look up at him for a reaction, but Raph held me in place, his hands tightening on my shoulders.
He leaned forward as he looked at the PDF of the police file.
“They were all homeless, so the cops just didn’t care,” he muttered darkly. “… Okay, so it’s more than coincidence, but what’s it got to do with the building and the Metro Club?”
“I’m still not sure,” I sighed. “There’s just too much information here. It’s like … it’s like overload.”
Raph moved away from me and threw himself back on the bed. He placed his hands behind his head and just stared at the ceiling. I watched him for a moment and then turned back to the computer. Studying the building itself was obviously getting us nowhere. We already knew that there was something unbelievably evil inside it and whatever it was had been there since the place was built. When it came down to usable facts, OperaMan had actually provided very little.
I decided that it was time to change my tack, and look instead at the Metropolitan Club itself. The newspaper articles provided were less than helpful. They described the stellar achievements of and charitable endeavours of the club. There were videos of the gala openings of soup kitchens and food banks where celebrities dished out plates of turkey and stuffing. Magazine stories revolving around interviews with the CEO and President, a humble, and, frankly, good-looking young man named Kamen al-Anhur. All my reading lead back to the same place; the Metropolitain Club was populated by saints. Finally, in frustration, I violently pushed my chair away from the terminal.
“This is ridiculous!” I cried. “There’s nothing here that I didn’t already know. What the hell am I supposed to find?”
Raphael sat up and looked at me in silence for a long time. “Fine, so all this got us nothing. All we know is that there are probably going to be more murders in …2022. Great. I’m goin’ t’ bed … Leo should be off his rampage by now.”
“Fine, whatever,” I muttered.
Raph got up to leave, but suddenly stopped and stared at my monitor. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at the picture displayed.
“Hmm? Oh, that’s Kamen al-Anhur. He’s the head of the Metropolitan Club,” I said.
“No, I mean behind him. In that crowd in the background.” Raph pointed at a spot behind al-Anhur.
I moved in closer and looked. I felt a cold spot in the pit of my stomach, and quickly magnified the image.
“It can’t be him … He’s dead …” I whispered.
“Yeah, and so was the Shredder … Any chance it’s an old photo?” Raph asked.
“No. It was taken at the gala opening a few nights ago,” I replied.
“Well, then, I think we just found us a reason to go look into the Metro Club a bit closer,” Raph said, moving toward the door. “You coming?”
“Yeah, I probably should,” I replied. I followed Raph from the room, but not before taking a last, long look at the photo. Standing behind al-Anhur was CF Vopelhart, looking very much alive.
Chapter 4: Looking Down the Rabbit Hole
We got home later that night and were lucky enough to sneak in past Leo. Had I been alone, I wouldn’t have been able to manage it, but Raph had been doing this for years and knew all the ins and outs of the lair. I quickly headed back to my room and got my virus checker working on the disk. There was no way I was going to trust the thing just because Grace and Etienne claimed to be on our side.
“So, what’s on it?” Raph asked, coming up to stand behind me.
“I have no idea yet, but whatever it is it’s huge. My virus checker should be able to handle a gig of info in no time but it’s estimating almost an hour to check it all. Even if the press clippings are jaypegs there must be hundreds of them. This could take a long time to go over,” I replied.
“Right …,” Raph said as if I had grown a second head.
I sighed inwardly. I hated when my brothers acted like I was speaking Greek. “I’ll let you know once I’ve gotten something,” I said quietly, turning back to my computer.
As soon as I heard Raph leave the room I picked up The Great Gatsby and began reading. I sat in silence for a long time; the only sound was the soft hum of my computer. I had just gotten to the part where Daisy runs Myrtle down with Jay’s car when my computer beeped. I looked up and saw a message flashing on the screen. OperaMan was trying to contact me.
“Good evening OperaMan,” I typed.
“Yo, NonFinito. It hurts man, it really hurts,” he said
“What? And why should I care?” I asked.
“Dude! And here I thought we were friends, but you had to go an sick your thug on me,” he said.
“You thought wrong. Friend implies trust and it implies that I know with whom I’m talking,” I sent back.
“Aw, man, don’t take the Mister and Missus too seriously,” he said. “They mean well, but they’re not big on trusting short green dudes.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Did you take a look at the disk?” he asked.
“Checking it,” I replied.
“Your virus checking? Dude that hurts worse than the broken arm your thug gave me. You’d think you didn’t trust us,” he said.
“Whatever would give you that idea?” I typed back.
“Whatever, dude. Look, run all the checks you like, then get back to me when you’re satisfied that we’re the good guys. No rush. It’s not like the world’s in danger. … Oh, wait, it is,” he said, then immediately logged off.
“I never broke his arm,” Raph said from behind me.
I think I nearly hit the ceiling I jumped so high.
“Raph! Jesus Christ! Don’t sneak up on me!” I whispered harshly.
Raph chuckled darkly, “Don’t let Leo hear you talk like that. He’ll have you sparin’ blindfolded until ya become ‘aware of your surroundings’.” He held out a plate of pizza for me. “I thought you might need this. An’ after that jump I’m glad I didn’t bring th’ coffee too,” he added with a chuckle.
He opened a bottle of beer and sat down next to me.
“It’s about halfway done with the virus check … mind you, if OperaMan came up with something new, then all the checking in the world won’t help,” I said, poking at the pizza.
“Then why’re you doing it? I’d think it’d just be a huge waste o’ time. After all, if these guys wanted us, they could come get us at any time they like. Why bother messin’ with yer computer?” Raph asked. He took a long swig of his beer.
“Call it healthy paranoia,” I replied. I put the pizza down and turned to face Raph. “Did you break his arm?” I asked.
“Nope,” he said. “Mighta pulled a muscle or a tendon, but I didn’t break it. He’d’ve known if I had. … Mind you, he’s probably not gonna be friendly with Mr. Happy fer a while,” Raph chuckled.
I turned back to the computer, trying to ignore Raph’s crass comment. I ate my pizza in silence and watched the progress bar on the virus checker slowly climb towards 100 percent complete.
Raph stretched out next to me and we sat in companionable silence. It’s surprising that we don’t find ourselves spending more time together. I think we have more in common than either of us realize; like the joy of silence. Mikey always fills the quiet with mindless babble. It’s as if he can’t stand to be alone with his own thoughts. I remember that even when we were little and were doing quiet things he’d be humming or singing to himself. And Leo makes the silence oppressive, like he’s waiting for an answer that you can never successfully give. Both Raph and I enjoyed silence for what it was. Solitude.
Finally my system beeped that it was done and I opened the folder. I was not disappointed by what I found inside, though I have to admit that I was a little confused. Everything was neatly organized in separate folders, some marked as press clippings, some identified as primary and secondary sources, some were specific to the building, and others specific to the Metropolitan Club. There were hundreds of images, sound files, and documents of every designation imaginable.
“This could take a while,” Raph muttered, looking over my shoulder at the monitor.
٭٭٭
The next morning both Raph and I were exhausted. The normal routine began, but this time, Splinter never came out of his room and Raph and Leo’s fight came to blows before Mikey and I could tear them apart. Our katas ended early and we all went our separate ways, leaving an oppressive silence hanging over the lair.
I headed back to my room to continue my examination of the disk and wasn’t surprised to find that Raph had followed me in.
“Mind if I hang out here?” he asked, throwing himself on my bed before waiting for my reply.
“Yeah, sure, no problem,” I replied, distracted by an article on my screen.
“I swear one of these days he’s gonna push me to far!” Raph growled.
“Which one? Leo or Mikey?” I asked, not looking away from the map that had popped up.
“Hmph. Either. Both. … Probably both,” Raph said. I guess he must have noticed my distraction because I suddenly found him leaning over my shoulder.
“What is that?” he asked. “Is that New York?”
“Yeah,” I replied slowly. “It’s New York in the 30s. More specifically, it’s Harlem in 1932. See these red dots?” I asked, pointed to 10 well placed dots on the map.
“Yeah,” Raph replied. “An’ I see the blue one too. What are they?”
“The red ones represent specific murder victims found that year. The blue dot is the Vopelhart building,”
“Okay, so? Ten murders in Harlem sounds pretty normal,” Raph said.
“It would be pretty much normal then too, especially considering all the speakeasies and the racial tensions,” I said. “But it seems that these murders were unusual enough to make the papers. Mind you, they were buried in the back and the story is blaming the alcohol, jazz, and the black population, but….” I felt Raph place his hands on my shoulders and press down.
“Is there a point, Donnie?” he asked.
“Uh, yeah, sorry,” I stammered. “The murders seem to have been ritualistic. And if you connect the locations, you get a pentagram with the Vopelhart building in the dead center.”
“Some strange murders in the thirties isn’t exactly somethin’ t’ go on, Donnie,” he said. He still hadn’t taken his hands off my shoulders.
“The same murders occur again in 1962, and in the 1992. And there’s some stories here of similar murders in 1902, 1872, 1842 … every thirty years.” As I spoke new maps overlaid the first. The ten red dots on each map remained consistently in place. “All the older stories say is that the deaths seemed ritualized. But in the cases in ’92 the cops did a more thorough investigation and then just stopped after the eighth body showed up,” I said, trying to twist around and look up at him for a reaction, but Raph held me in place, his hands tightening on my shoulders.
He leaned forward as he looked at the PDF of the police file.
“They were all homeless, so the cops just didn’t care,” he muttered darkly. “… Okay, so it’s more than coincidence, but what’s it got to do with the building and the Metro Club?”
“I’m still not sure,” I sighed. “There’s just too much information here. It’s like … it’s like overload.”
Raph moved away from me and threw himself back on the bed. He placed his hands behind his head and just stared at the ceiling. I watched him for a moment and then turned back to the computer. Studying the building itself was obviously getting us nowhere. We already knew that there was something unbelievably evil inside it and whatever it was had been there since the place was built. When it came down to usable facts, OperaMan had actually provided very little.
I decided that it was time to change my tack, and look instead at the Metropolitan Club itself. The newspaper articles provided were less than helpful. They described the stellar achievements of and charitable endeavours of the club. There were videos of the gala openings of soup kitchens and food banks where celebrities dished out plates of turkey and stuffing. Magazine stories revolving around interviews with the CEO and President, a humble, and, frankly, good-looking young man named Kamen al-Anhur. All my reading lead back to the same place; the Metropolitain Club was populated by saints. Finally, in frustration, I violently pushed my chair away from the terminal.
“This is ridiculous!” I cried. “There’s nothing here that I didn’t already know. What the hell am I supposed to find?”
Raphael sat up and looked at me in silence for a long time. “Fine, so all this got us nothing. All we know is that there are probably going to be more murders in …2022. Great. I’m goin’ t’ bed … Leo should be off his rampage by now.”
“Fine, whatever,” I muttered.
Raph got up to leave, but suddenly stopped and stared at my monitor. “Who’s that?” he asked, pointing at the picture displayed.
“Hmm? Oh, that’s Kamen al-Anhur. He’s the head of the Metropolitan Club,” I said.
“No, I mean behind him. In that crowd in the background.” Raph pointed at a spot behind al-Anhur.
I moved in closer and looked. I felt a cold spot in the pit of my stomach, and quickly magnified the image.
“It can’t be him … He’s dead …” I whispered.
“Yeah, and so was the Shredder … Any chance it’s an old photo?” Raph asked.
“No. It was taken at the gala opening a few nights ago,” I replied.
“Well, then, I think we just found us a reason to go look into the Metro Club a bit closer,” Raph said, moving toward the door. “You coming?”
“Yeah, I probably should,” I replied. I followed Raph from the room, but not before taking a last, long look at the photo. Standing behind al-Anhur was CF Vopelhart, looking very much alive.