Running Wilde

By August Hahn

Kevin Wilde, a down-on-his-luck Private Investigator, receives the biggest case of his lackluster career - a request to investigate a
murder in one of the richest parts of New York City. Things go from strange to terrifying as he digs deeper into the case, its twists and
turns bringing him face to face with a dark conspiracy that has been lurking in the shadows of Manhattan for generations. With nothing more than a name, an address and a couple of unlikely allies, Kevin has to seek out the truth behind one murder while trying desperately not to become the next victim.

Even worse, he has to do all this completely sober...

• Language: English
• Publisher: August Hahn
• Release date: Jan 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301867950

August Hahn

August Hahn is an American (mostly) writer of science fiction, fantasy and roleplaying materials. Between his work with the RPGA (Roleplaying Gaming Association) and multiple personal campaigns, he has been roleplaying for very nearly three decades and is both proud and profoundly depressed by that fact. Born in 1971, his military family moved around a great deal, affording him the chaos and blessing of life in dozens of different countries. This has provided him with a montage of an accent, hesitation at spelling words like valor/valour and a fondness for cities like Chicago, London and New York (more confused whirlpools of cultures do not exist on this or any other planet). His first major fantasy novel, Rise of the Agarashi - Glory and Greed, was published a few years ago. The second book in the series, Sand and Sorrow, is done and currently awaiting publication. He is actively working on Books 3 of the novel series and the first novel of a new series. Running Wilde, his first eBook offering, is out now and ready to be devoured. He hopes the taste agrees with people.

Book preview

Running Wilde

By August Hahn

Text copyright © 2012 August Hahn

Smashwords Edition

All Rights Reserved

Dedication

To D.

The door is always open.

The light is always on.

Foreword

"There are cases that pay the bills, the ones that involve a simple question, some simple research and a simple check at the end. I’d even go so far as to say these are the vast majority of the cases that come through a private detective’s door. A missing person here, a peeping tom there, romantic complications – the kinds of things that people need handled without the police involved.

"Day in and night out, that’s the sort of thing that happens to a PI. Detectives spend their whole career chasing down lost puppies and misbehaving pool boys. Most do, anyway. Then there’s me. I put up a ‘For Hire, No Case Refused’ sign and it was like the Universe took it as a challenge.

"I wanted something different. Everything normal had turned to ashes and all I wanted was a change. Leave the old life behind and embrace the new, you know? Well, I got it. I got it in spades.

"Delia asked me to keep this diary for her. She said it would let her catch up on everything she’s missed while she’s away. Of course, that was three years ago. There’s no telling if she’s coming back. But I made a promise and like it or not, I keep my promises. So here it is, my journal. I hope she doesn’t mind but I’m going to skip the usual stuff, the boring day-to-day garbage like dental visits and getting my car impounded. Well, there was that one time where getting towed led me to…

"No, that’s skipping ahead. I’m going to start this where I should have to begin with – the night after Delia left for her ‘sabbatical’. That’s when all this began anyway so it’s as good a place as any. Forgive me if the writing rambles here and there. I spent a lot of the last three years wounded, insane, bleeding, feral, half-dead or in someone else’s body.

"That takes a toll on the narrative, you know?"

Chapter One – Ghosts of the Past

I didn't want to wake. Truth told, I didn't even want to open my eyes. I had a bottle on the desk beside my head and even sitting up seemed like too much effort to make. My back hurt, my head hurt and ignoring the ceaseless pounding of someone's unwanted fist on my office door sounded like a solid plan.

The Scotch fairy had toiled so very hard to put me down for the count. Why waste all her work now?

Unfortunately my resolve and lethargy could not ward off the constant pounding at the door. Someone wanted my attention more than I wanted to go back to sleep. I actually considered that math debatable as I made myself stand. I really wanted to go back to sleep. My desire to stagger off to bed was mythic in its proportions. It was, however, dwarfed by the thunder resounding through the room. There would be no sleep while that sound persisted.

Reluctantly I convinced my feet to start moving. As impressed as I was by how well they were raising and lowering in sequence, I doubted anyone watching me would offer any praise. I knew how drunk I was right now. I was not walking so much as improvising a new kind of dance that could justifiably be called the ‘Pachinko.’

I somehow made it to the door just in time for the knocking to finally stop. Hello? I asked as loud as my headache would allow. Though I had hoped the sudden silence meant the caller had gone away, I have never been that lucky. As soon as I spoke, someone tried the handle.

Hang on a second. I have to unlock it. In hindsight I doubt my words were at all understandable but as I would find out later, sometimes voice has very little to do with communication.

Unlocking the door, I stepped back to let my new guest open it. A few seconds became a minute. Maybe it stretched into more; I don’t rightly know. I might have been standing there a long time. I may not have been very clear on this point but I was quite drunk that night. I know I’ve been subtle about it but my state of self-hammered becomes relevant pretty quick here so I wanted it stated for the record.

After the total lack of response from the door, I did what anyone in my position would do. I staggered back to my desk and passed out again. I am sure a sober person would have opened the door and checked the hall outside. Note that I said someone ‘in my position’, my position being three sheets and a J.C. Penney’s white sale to the wind.

I do not think I was out for very long that time. No sooner did my head hit my desk blotter than a wave of utter cold passed over me. It was like sticking your head into the freezer if your freezer was set to ‘Save the Ice Caps’ temperature. I felt the chill all the way to my bones.

In a flash I was awake, shivering violently enough to almost fall out of my chair. Considering the smear of booze-scented spit I’d left on the calendar under my face and the ink streaked across my wet chin, that might have been more dignified. As it was, I was sitting bolt upright, eyes wide and frozen brain full-on sober, staring at a woman in front of my desk.

I pride myself on being a quick thinker and a smooth talker. Even in a situation like this, I managed to open my mouth and pour forth eloquently, Saa… amma, hee. Whaaa?

She was tall, dressed in a designer blouse and skirt in colors that were probably also the names of expensive foods. Pretty enough to be beautiful, there was a shadow around her eyes that suggested she was about as acquainted with sleep as I was. Dark brown hair framed her face and covered one shoulder as she asked with a vague smile on sweetly kissed lips, Do you need a moment to collect yourself, Mister Wilde?

I shook my head, Nah. I’m all out of packs and I can never find the Sobriety chase card anyway.

She tilted her head, curiosity in those sad green eyes. Excuse me?

You’re excused, no worries.

That actually made the smile a little more real. I think we are having two very different conversations. I wish I had time for them both but I am in a hurry.

I took a deep breath to steady my nerves and take stock of everything. As drunk as I was, that was all gone. The slur in my speech had passed. My headache was just a painful memory, gone as well. I felt completely clear and awake, a sensation I had taken great chemical pains to avoid for weeks now.

Sorry. I’m being rude. Or at least I’m being confusing. Let’s start again. I stood up, offering my hand. I’m Kev…

Kevin Wilde, I know, she answered, sitting down without taking my hand. And you run Wilde Nights, a Private Investigation service with a name far better suited to an escort company. I know quite a bit about you already.

I sat back down, resting both hands on my desk as casually as I could manage. Yeah. The name did belong to an escort service. That’s why I got the building so cheap. Only had to stick an ‘e’ on the door. I did that bit myself.

Trust me. I can tell.

I winced. Did my brother send you? Some kind of professional ego-stomp?

She sighed, folding her hands into her lap. Forgive me, Mister Wilde. It has been a difficult night and I am as out of sorts as you are. Let’s take that starting over offer you made. All right?

Sure. I reached out again.

She smiled at my hand politely but still didn’t take it. I’m Alyssa Barton, sir, and I really am pleased to make your acquaintance. I wish it could be under better circumstances.

My hand went back to my desk, trying not to feel offended on my behalf. And under just what circumstances are we meeting, Miss Barton?

I’m here to hire you. You come highly recommended.

I scoffed. Me? Miss Barton, I’ve been in business as a PI for six months and had four cases. I had to let my secretary go. I… lost… my partner and the only reason I haven’t been evicted is because we’re so deep in the slums here my landlord can’t find the place.

Alyssa smiled again, the sort of expression one might give a child who is stubbornly refusing to go to sleep. Nonetheless, Mister Wilde, you come very highly recommended. Please help me?

Well, I’m not going to turn down paying work. I hope that doesn’t sound too mercenary?

Not at all. The honesty’s refreshing. She pointed to the drop slot in my door. There is a large stack of twenty dollar bills in the box there, enough to total one thousand dollars. That should cover your retainer, I hope, and buy a few days of investigation?

My surprised blink seemed enough of an answer for her to continue.

Forgive me for not putting it all in a check or envelope. My options have been limited.

That’s okay. Cash is fine. I just don’t usually see that much at once. My mind was racing to keep up with current events. It seemed to be something about a gorgeous brunette wanting to pay me a thousand bucks in twenties for an undisclosed job.

Undisclosed! That was the part I was tripping on now.

But before I can take the case, I need…

You need to know exactly what I’m asking you to investigate? Her smile was still there, though it had softened into that distracted, almost perfunctory expression from before.

Do you enjoy being three steps ahead of the conversation, Miss Barton?

She nodded honestly. Oh yes. But I should stop. There’s no time for it. The investigation involves murder, sir. I know that’s usually a matter for the police but…

My turn to interrupt her. Oh no; that’s fine. I am with N.W.A. on this one. Go on.

She tilted her head again but continued. The murder took place at midnight, a little more than seven hours ago, in Manhattan. This wasn’t the first murder there and it won’t be the last unless you can find them and stop them.

Manhattan? Them? I… that might put this square in the financial district, miss. I don’t know if I can poke around there without sticking out like a sore thumb. I’ll need most of that retainer just to buy a real suit.

Do what you must. When this is over, you’ll be well paid. Just don’t let them kill again next month.

She sounded so earnest. Any reservations I had about taking this job burned away with that. I never could say no to someone who sounded like they were in trouble, especially a woman. That was how I’d gotten into this whole detective thing in the first place. Now here was another one, pleading for help. Sometimes there’s no running from ghosts of the past.

All right, Alyssa. All right. I’ll help you. Just tell me all you know.

She shook her head. I wish I could. I really do. I don’t know their names. I couldn’t see their faces. Even telling you it was in Manhattan is stretching the rules but it’s all I have. Please, my address is 200 E. Water Street, apartment 2140. Everything you need to get you started is there. I’d tell you more but it’s almost dawn.

I watched her face fall, despair erasing what little smile she had been able to keep. Please, Mister Wilde. One of my friends could be next. You have to stop these people.

I caught myself nodding, reaching out to touch her hand and offer comfort. It’s okay, Alyssa. Just tell me about the victim. I’ll take the case. You’ve got my…

And then my hand passed right through her, my skin feeling like I had just plunged it into a tub full of ice cubes and rubbing alcohol. She shivered as well, looking up at me with her sad, dark eyes. She opened her mouth to speak but there was no sound. She was already fading away, disappearing into the shadows of my unlit room.

Later on, when the shock wore off, I would understand what was going on. Alyssa didn’t have to tell me about the victim. She was the victim.

I had just been hired by a woman to solve her own murder.

Chapter Two – Uncomfortable Choices

There is no easy way to come to terms with the supernatural when it’s thrown into your face. Assuming you survive the experience, there’s an understandable period of adjustment. Of course, by now? I have long since gotten over the pants-wetting, knees-failing, gibbering wreck phase. These days, it’s hard to know which side of the Curtain I’m on most of the time. I just sort of roll with the punches and duck incoming fireballs.

But meeting Alyssa’s ghost in that office, dawn breaking through my window as she disappeared? That was what we call the ‘cathartic moment’. It hits everyone in different ways. Some break and never recover. You can meet them in places like a padded cell at Bellevue or working the counter at Burger Slave. They have the hollow voices and empty eyes of people who fell headlong into the hidden world and never climbed back out.

Others, like me, find a way to cope. My way was way too complicated and professional to recount here but suffice to say? Much wetting of the pants and knee-based failures occurred. Spontaneous prayer may even have happened after I curled up under my desk and tanked my last bottle of Scotch until I was sucking on fumes.

Like I said; pure class.

Somewhere between lamenting the end of my bottle, trying to forget those hauntingly beautiful eyes and mangling the verses of ‘Hail Mary, Mother of Grace’, something inside me just snapped. Later on, I found out that was the moment when everyone breaks. Some break left, others right. Left means the padded walls and menus with clowns on them. The right way, my way, helps people deal with the Curtain and everything behind it.

More on that later, I promise. For now, I am going to skip ahead past changing my clothes and making the strongest pot of coffee I have ever had, then or since.

My particular break allows me to consider the supernatural in rational terms. So there I was, sitting beside the table in my office’s squalid little kitchen with a steaming mug in my hands and a thousand yard stare of my own. I imagined my eyes looked a little like hers, open and echoing. I was trying to make sense of it all. I needed an answer, any answer, for what had just happened. Was she real, this Alyssa Barton? Was she really dead? Was she really reaching out from beyond the grave to get me to solve her own murder?

And most importantly, was I finally so poor I no longer qualified for eccentric and would have to settle for bat-shit crazy like my father?

At least on that last one, like the 8-Ball says, all signs pointed to yes.

Or did that? I was a detective, damn it, and if I was finally losing it, I was going down my way. As