The Lost and Found Department

By t connor michael

When Cuddy MacDonell chatted up the slender blonde at the Three Card Monte pub he wasn't expecting to be murdered . . . And he certainly wasn't expecting her to be his killer. Oh, he figured he'd be killed someday. After all, Cuddy's firm, The Lost and Found Department, had irritated many a con man, bunco artist and scammer by exposing their grifts and reclaiming the money they had stolen. But he hadn't reckoned on being killed so that he was available for a job interview where the Powers That Be wanted him to investigate, find, and eliminate a demigod from the ancient Aztec underworld that was intent on reinstituting ritual blood sacrifice. Well, the company motto was You lose it and we'll find it. What was a guy gonna do?

• Language: English
• Publisher: t connor michael
• Release date: Jun 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9780998384955

Book preview

Waking up dead wasn’t anywhere near the experience I expected. Not that I knew for sure what dying would be like because I’d never done it before and didn’t know a soul (pun intended) who had. I wasn’t scuttling along the floor of a tenement apartment so I ruled out reincarnation Hindu style. It wasn’t dark, no stench of sulfur, and Charon and Cerberus were nowhere to be seen. That was a plus if ever there was one; I had no coins on me to pay for my boat trip across the Styx. Yet neither did I hear harp solos or see a gate with Saint Peter in attendance. All I knew was that I was surrounded by a grey mist (but for some strange reason could not feel it). I found myself sitting on the ground, which turned out to be grey linoleum tile. Waving the mist away from my face I attempted to stand, and did.

From the lofty level of 5’9" I was above the fog and could see that I was in a vast room full of row upon row of grey, government-style 4-drawer filing cabinets. The grey perfectly matched the floor tile. A dull pale light issued from a ceiling I could not see. The only other illumination was emanating from a slightly ajar Judas gate fixed in a rollup door at the end of the rows of cabinets about 150 yards away. Having no other pressing business, I reasoned that since the door was open I was meant to go through it. So, I tried my legs and they worked and I started walking. Two steps later I was on my face in the fog; I had tripped on the torn linoleum. I heaved myself up, started to brush myself off and was shocked to find myself starkers. Evidently in this place clothes did not make the man. Embarrassed, but resolute, I headed for the door, and since it became a really long walk, I had plenty of time to think about how I had managed to get here in the first place…

A woman. The last thing I remembered was a woman. That was kinda nice. But the nice feeling didn’t last long as that remembrance triggered others, and still others, and I was able to piece together what was probably the cause of my demise. Her name was Jules and she was a looker. About 5’7", thin but not skinny, built for endurance as opposed to heavy lifting. Blue eyes, natural blonde. I had chatted her up at the Three Card Monte, a trendy boozer a block off the revitalized harbor pier.

We had a laugh and a drink or two and then seemed (at the time) to naturally gravitate to her nearby loft apartment, fourth story, with a view. Lots of glass walls, chromed furniture, and sterile warmth, if you can imagine that dichotomy. She fixed us each a scotch and soda and we migrated into her bedroom. It was much warmer in there, blues and reds predominating. The king bed had a stuffed tiger on it. A nice touch. I should have seen it as a warning or omen, but at that point my interests were elsewhere. Jules turned at the bed, tugged at something behind her back, and her midnight blue dress just slithered off her and puddled at her feet. There was nothing under the dress. I came up to the edge of the bed and Jules started to slip me out of my suit jacket when I swayed a bit, and then swayed some more. I remember my face falling straight in-between her pert breasts. And that was the last thing, or things, I remembered.

As great as that was I have to assume that she slipped me a mickey. What transpired after that is a mystery since my mind is a total blank. I could of course make a guess or two as to what happened next. Maybe the mickey was made of poison. Maybe she strangled me with her nylons. Maybe the stuffed tiger came to life and mauled me to death. I was dead; I sure didn’t have the answer. Having just met Jules she hadn’t had time to build up a grudge. Given time, yeah, but we hadn’t known each other for more than three hours. Logic dictated that it was a put-up job and she had been hired by one of the numerous mugs out there that wasn’t a fan of Cuddy MacDonell. But with no hard evidence I was in the dark, literally and figuratively, as I finally trudged the last few yards to the Judas gate. Illumination, also literally and figuratively, was only a few steps away.

I reached the door and opened it wider, not bothering to knock. A naked man knocking on the door of death just seemed too ludicrous to imagine. The open door revealed a vast room, more like a warehouse really, no mist, and indirect lighting. Instead of row upon row of filing cabinets, there were row upon row of government-issue grey desks, each with a banker’s lamp complete with a green glass shade, and a grayish person (also starkers) at each desk, working diligently on god knows what. At least I hoped it was God’s work.

All the desks were equal . . . but one was more equal than the others since it was on a 6 dais and the lampshade was blue instead of the green that adorned the hundreds of other desks. There were no signs, arrows painted on the floor, or a take-a-number machine to guide poor lost souls so I just walked up and stood at the desk. And waited. Finally, the woman looked up from her ledger, stared at me, and asked: And who would you be?"

I had a bit of trouble assembling words since the woman’s only apparel was a neat blue hat, Robin Hood style, complete with feather. I really didn’t look at the hat but what I could see that was under it was quite nice. And disconcerting. Finally, I managed to cough out my name: Cuddy MacDonell, ma’am, at your service.

She almost smiled as she said: Actually, I am at your service, Mr. MacDonell. Please have a seat. At her words a chair materialized in front of me. Amazed and bewildered, I sat.

My name is Adelaide. My job is to move you up the line with the least amount of red tape possible. No doubt you have numerous questions, questions that will delay the process. But I have found that giving some answers will actually speed us along so I will answer three questions, and three questions only, so make them good. Go ahead.

What would you ask? It was like getting three wishes and being loath to ask for them for fear that they would be the wrong wishes. Not knowing a thing, I asked the first thing that came to me: "I’ve pretty well sussed out that I’m dead so I guess my question would be where the hell am I?"

Adelaide nearly smiled again. Not in Hell, Mr. MacDonell, although I could direct you there if you have a mind to visit. You are on Level II of Central Processing, the place where things are sorted out so to speak, where one gets classified. This is the question that is most asked.

That of course raised more questions in my already clouded mind. I had to waste a question: Am I in heaven?

This actually did make Adelaide smile. Mr. MacDonell, does this look like heaven? This is corporate headquarters and you are nowhere near the executive suites and the rest rooms that need keys for you to enter. Think of this as a waypoint, or even a starting point, although it isn’t a starting point. Level I is where most people start their journey. You were bypassed and sent here because there is a little marker tab on your dossier. Evidently there is a question or two about your life that someone higher up needs to clarify. I’m just middle management and what ultimately happens to you is above my pay grade. As we speak I’m sure someone is already on their way here to collect you.

This of course made little sense to me, and since I had so many questions I just blurted out the next thing that entered my mind: Why is everyone naked?

Why not? asked Adelaide. Do you feel cold? Are your feet sore? Are you in need of a pocket? Riddle me this: How do you feel?

I hadn’t really thought about it, but now that she mentioned it I realized that I felt fine, really fine. No aches, no pains, no nagging migraine. I told her as much.

Really Mr. MacDonell, with your qualifications and background I would expect a bit more in the way of observational skills. Do you not notice that your appendix scar is no more? That the puckered skin from the AK-74 rounds are gone? And that nasty knife scar that skidded across your clavicle has disappeared?

I looked down and around and Adelaide was correct. My body was devoid of any cosmetic damage, including a tattoo on my bicep. Interesting, this.

Mr. MacDonell, your body is now at what was once your peak condition. You now inhabit your 27-year-old self, maximized and stripped of any injury. Lungs, heart, kidneys are all at their physical optimum. Even your vasectomy has been reversed. Look at me. Adelaide stood. I came here at age 76, dead of lung cancer. Now I am as I was in my 20’s. My lungs are perfect, my legs are strong, and my breasts don’t sag. We are all like this here. Look around. Each person here is optimized for want of a better word. When one has been here long enough, shame and lust fade away. We are in our natural state, Mr. MacDonell, and we accept it.

I started to open my mouth but was stopped. That was your third question. Now it is time to get down to business. Let me verify a few facts: Your full name is Cuithbeart Donnchadh MacDonell, yes? Your friends call you Cuddy. Your enemies know you as The Dark Man which is quite apropos since that’s what your given name means in Gaelic. And up to today you were very hard to kill, correct?

Correct, I thought. To the T.

You were in the Royal Regiment of Scots, fought in Afghanistan, and took three 5.43 x 39mm rounds to the thigh and torso. You were deemed medically unfit and mustered out, went to America and bummed around, joined the American Marine Corps and after that started your own free-lance business, that business being part detecting, part securing, and when necessary, revenging actions that you felt were immoral, illegal or just plain wrong. How many people have you killed in this job, Mr. MacDonell?

Talk about being an insect and pinned to a board. I believe four.

Six, Mr. MacDonell. You probably forgot the 12-year-old girl. Repressed the memory no doubt. And you aren’t aware that your reflexes served you well, even in death; as you fell into Jules Cartier you did so with your knife in your hand. She bled out, trapped underneath your body. I see from your face that you now agree my total to be correct.

I wasn’t exactly happy with the news. Sure, Jules took me out but a slow painful death wasn’t something I ever engineered. But by damn she was a looker. Where is she? I asked.

Level I, Mr. MacDonell, being processed in the usual manner I should imagine. You shan’t be seeing her. We make sure that doesn’t happen. Now then, back to basics. I’ll— Adelaide was interrupted by a light that was blinking on her desk. Oh, someone is here to take you farther up the ladder. Ah, here comes someone right now.

Walking our way was an older man, differing in all aspects of those around us seeing as he looked to be in his seventies and was dressed in a blue pinstriped business suit. He came up to Adelaide and kissed her cheek.

You look wonderful today, Adelaide. And doing so well here. I think it is high time we moved you upstairs. Now, could you please give Mr. MacDonell and me a minute?

Adelaide blushed. Thank you, sir. I didn’t know it would be you coming down for Mr. MacDonell here. Please use my desk. I’ll just go have a look and see how some of our new clerks are doing. With that Adelaide quickly drew herself out of earshot.

Good day, Mr. MacDonell. Might I call you Cuddy? Good. We’re rather informal here. I’m Pete. Adelaide is such a treasure, isn’t she? Confidentially, I should have moved her up a while back, but she was doing such a bang up job that I hated to vacate her from the position. And now I’m glad I waited. It was quite serendipitous for her to do the intake on you. She always liked you, you know.

I didn’t know, and said so.

Yes. Quite. You would hardly know her first name. And seeing her now is very different than when she was a teacher, your teacher in fact. You would perhaps remember her as Miss Pringle?

It took a bit of time but the name opened a door and I saw Miss Pringle, middle-aged Miss Pringle with glasses and greying hair, at the front of class talking about the difference between a simile and a metaphor. I opened my mouth to speak but Pete had read my mind, or so it seemed.

Yes, Cuddy, Adelaide in her youth was quite the looker as you say. And a fine teacher. Some of the lessons she taught must have stayed with you. Ethics and right and wrong were high on her list and you my boy carried those ideals into your adult life. Our Adelaide served you well and in doing so served the world at large. But enough of memory lane, lad. Let’s take a walk. Pete waved to Adelaide and we stood.

We started walking the length of the building toward another Judas gate. I was about to ask another question when Pete spoke. "No, I’m not reading your mind, Cuddy. But your face is easy enough to read. It takes a great amount of effort to keep the records straight here on Level II. Everyone working here is summing up life stories, putting them in chronological order, cleaning them up. We are finally joining the digital age up here. All that information is being entered into a database that will make accessing information so much easier. And as they do so they are becoming more at ease with their bodies and the place itself. When their time is due they are summoned and the senior staff reviews their life history, and decisions made.

And you wonder why you aren’t getting ready to take over a desk? Because your history has already been reviewed and there are some questions that need answers and those answers will determine what comes next. Don’t worry, lad. It’s not a test. Just a question of nuance, really. But there is a bit of a time constraint that I won’t go into just now. We reached the gate and stepped through, coming into another warehouse, this one set up like a barracks.

You don’t need sleep here. But it has a regulating effect on everyone and allows people time to talk and reflect. Quite honestly the bunks don’t exist. For that matter neither do the desks. Most everything here is done on a mental level. The rest is just window dressing, normalcy for all. And no, we don’t drug you or hypnotize anyone. It’s just the way the place was conceived and built.

My mind keeps leading me to Dante, I said.

Yes, well, it would, wouldn’t it? But Dante was a writer and poet and they all seem to fly on wings of fancy. There is no level for gluttons, heretics, or traitors. Everyone gets mashed together and we sort them out later. And there is no real punishment going on here. Think more on the lines of Karma if you will. For example, if you beat your wife then I’m sure you will be spending more time typing than if you counted to ten instead of smacking her. Understand?

I did, and it scared me no end. "What about the commandment, I don’t remember what number it is, that says thou shalt not kill?"

"I believe that is number six and it is usually mistranslated or misquoted. It runs more to the belief that one shouldn’t murder another person. It also seems that killing in war is okay, and if one does, they are exempt from blame. We here take each incident in context. Let’s say someone, you for example, kill a Taliban warrior just as he raises up his sniper rifle toward your position.

That’s one thing. But then you run to the apartment building he was shooting from and kill everyone inside. That’s something altogether different. You kill your wife in a car accident--or with a kitchen knife. Different nuances you see. Most of your story has been sorted out, yet there remains a grey area that the council wishes to address. That is where we are headed.

The council?

Pete laughed. The name is more pomposity than purpose, lad. More like a board meeting really. Just a bunch of people gathered together to sort out your story. Nothing to get exercised over.

Well, I was pretty exercised no matter what Pete said. Test or no test, there didn’t seem to be any way to cram for it so I just kept up with his long strides and asked questions. Why are you wearing clothes?

Pete smiled. Everyone does on the upper levels. The naked thing is just another way to humble people initially, get their minds off the fact that they’re dead. Sort of a magician’s sleight of hand. Misdirection and all that.

And me?

Take another look. I did, and found I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that said What Would Bruce Campbell Do? Pete was laughing when I looked up. Believe it or not we do have a sense of humor up here. Clothes will put you more at ease in the meeting so clothes you get. But we might change the shirt before going in; one or two of the people inside think I don’t have the right reverence for our mission.

Pete, why are you spilling all the beans about this place?

"Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because I think you are smart enough to understand the underlying theology of this place without having to use the visual aids. Maybe I like your style. Or perhaps it’s because you might not be here long enough to appreciate all the smoke and mirrors we use to calm the inhabitants.

Ahh, here we are at last. One of these days I’ll have to see about getting a moving sidewalk installed. Or maybe golf carts. By golly wouldn’t they be fun! Pete turned serious: Cuddy, be yourself in here. Tell the truth, explain fully and keep a clear head. But a word of caution: Don’t get mad. Some of these people feed on anger and will use it against you. Count to ten and don’t be afraid to stand behind your actions, okay? Good. And remember above all that the council members were once just people like yourself. Ready? Then in we go.

And in we went.

Chapter 2

The council room, or board room or meeting room, call it what you will, was about as bland as any you could image. There was the standard oval table, seating for a dozen or more, heavy pile sculpted carpet and fluorescent lighting panels in the ceiling. The only things of note were the windows. There were four and each had a different vista, one of a beach with waves breaking, one a towering snow-capped mountain, one a redwood forest, and the last a desert complete with slow-blowing sand and an oasis. The views all seemed real and alive but of course they were examples of Pete’s smoke and mirrors. Still and all a nice humanizing touch.

As we entered everyone inside stood. Since I doubted they were standing for me, then they were standing in respect for Pete. That told me that he was no peon and validated Adelaide’s reaction when she saw him coming to pick me up.

Pete waved the people into their chairs and said: Folks, I’d like you to meet Mister Cuithbeart Donnchadh MacDonell, come to us just this day. I don’t think Mister MacDonell will object, and it certainly would be easier if we called him Cuddy. Cuddy, may I introduce you to the members of the council who are present. As he mentioned each name the person stood, executed a small bow, and sat back down. First here is my brother Andy. Beside him is Jimmy and then John, also brothers. Not to me of course, to each other. Next is Phil, then Mary, Tad, and Matt. Bart is next and beside him is Maggie. We need seven members for a quorum and that we have. Cuddy, take a seat here if you will beside Maggs and we’ll get things started.

I smiled at Maggie as I sat down and she returned the favor. Looking down I saw that I was now wearing a suit that was of Saville Row quality. In the interim small conversations ensued as Pete assembled his papers (and where did they come from?). Maggs politely asked how I was adjusting to everything and I told her I was doing my best to keep up, and my best to keep my sanity. My answer seemed to tickle her and she smiled broadly, patted my hand, and looked to Pete as he cleared his throat for attention.

Ladies and gentlemen, this is for the minutes. We are met today to interview Cuithbeart Donnchadh MacDonell, Cuddy Duncan MacDonell if you will, to see if he is worthy of our trust. Cuddy has been told nothing beforehand so he isn’t tainted or forewarned. He has no idea where he is or what we wish of him. Do take that into account when asking questions. Please remember this is not a trial so I beg you not to act like prosecuting attorneys. We are here for informational purposes only, not as a tribunal. There are no rules of order except those of good taste and decorum. I shall just ask for questions and Cuddy will answer them. Are there any questions about that? Excellent. Then let us proceed. Who would care to start? Ah yes, Tad. Go ahead.

Mr. MacDonell, ah, Cuddy, how old are you? Your origin and year of birth seem to be a tad murky.

Not knowing protocol, I stood before answering. Well, I’m not totally sure myself. My certificate says Whitechapel, England but my first memories are of the Scottish Highlands around Glengarry. All my family spoke Gaelic along with English. Looking at myself right now I’d guess that I’m about 27 or 28. By my certificate I’m 36.

Well now, that’s interesting because your enrollment into the Scots Royal Regiment shows you enlisting at the age of 18. The numbers are a tad off, are they not?

Yes, they were. Crafty fellow. And smart. Sir, at that time I lied about my age so that I could enter the regiment at 16. I was big for my age.

So, you started your military career with a lie, then? That’s a tad off the mark for honorable service, isn’t it? asked Tad.

I was beginning to see why he was named Tad. Sir, there was a war going on in Afghanistan and I wanted to do my duty.

Before Tad could reply Jim spoke up: Duty? Or just blood lust? Can you really define your motives from so long ago?

I started to stand again, but Peter advised that pogoing up and down at each question wasn’t necessary and to just speak from my chair. Sir, the Scots have a long history of believing in freedom. It was drilled into me at home. I saw and read what the Taliban was doing to its citizenry, to anyone that opposed their way of life, and I wanted to help stop it.

Sounds a tad like he wanted to be a modern William Wallace, piped in Tad.

That sort of got to me and I stood. And what is wrong with emulating Wallace? Freedom is always worth fighting for! As I looked at the gleam in Tad’s eyes I felt Pete’s restraining hand on my shoulder, and sat back down. I had been forewarned and still I rose to the bait. I vowed to myself that it wouldn’t happen again.

I counted to fifteen just to be sure and said: Tad, Jim, the people in Afghanistan have nothing. Yet the Taliban wanted to take even more from them. They took their self-respect, turned neighbor against neighbor, and forced a doctrine on them that would make a rock cry out in pain. All this I saw and tried to ease.

So, you thought by murdering the Taliban you could save the people? queried Jim.

I counted to five this time before answering: Sir, it is hardly murder to kill a man who has just fired an RPG into a village you are patrolling, a rocket, by the way, that missed my squad and impacted a home, killing a midwife and a woman in labor. The Taliban have no respect for life, only doctrine. They want a world that lives in the 9th century and have no qualms about taking their countrymen, kicking and screaming, with them.

So, they should be exterminated? That’s a tad extreme. After all, they pray to God too, said Tad.

I took ten seconds this time. Sir, they believe in doctrine, not God. But someone, somewhere, has to tell them that if they want to live like slaves, slaves to their beliefs, they can. But they also need to let everyone else make up their own minds, without coercion. If it takes an outside force to accomplish that I’m all for it, then and now.

A well-taken point, Cuddy. said Jim. That’s all I have on this topic. Tad however, looked dissatisfied. But across the table Mary gave me a covert okay sign of approval.

Let’s move on, shall we? asked Pete. Affirmative nods from everyone but Tad.

I have a few questions, Pete, stated Matt. Pete nodded assent.

Ah, Cuddy, how long were you in hospital?

In and out, about 20 months.

And how did you come out in the end?

Beat up enough that I was given a medical and sent packing, I said with the bitterness showing all too clearly.

You wanted to return to active duty, even after almost being KIA?

That’s what soldiers do, Sir. We serve, we fight, we get hit and come back.

But you were denied this, yes?

Yes. Lack of total physical mobility in the right leg is what the report stated.

Did you appeal?

Of course. And of course return to combat duty was denied. And yes, I wasn’t happy with the decision.

So, you were planning to make the military your career?

No sir. I just wanted to serve the missions that were on line at the time, make a direct difference in someone’s life. Pushing paper like those poor souls on your second level was not what I envisioned when I signed on.

So, you are saying that you could have stayed in the service but not in a combat role?

That’s correct. They offered me a sit-down job and computer training. I felt I was physically capable of carrying out the mission of an infantryman. They didn’t. So, I was mustered out with a 25% disability.

If you were fully recovered, say as you are now before us, would you return to the army?

It seemed like every person there leaned forward a bit awaiting my answer. I’d look over the mission board first before I jumped in, Sir. If my regiment was engaged in some sad-ass peacekeeping mission, I would beg out. Nobody wins missions like that—but too many servicemen get killed for nothing.

So, it is active engagement with the enemy that you seek? asked Matt.

Active engagement against an enemy that has evil as its core value, then yes. I answered.

Thank you, Cuddy. I’m done, Pete.

I still have one question on this matter, Pete, said Mary. Pete nodded.

Cuddy, who decides who is an evil enemy and who is not?

I had to think about this before I answered. Ma’am, I think evil speaks for itself and doesn’t need an interpreter. It crosses religion, and color, and political boundaries. You didn’t have to think twice that Idi Amin was evil. Or Papa Doc Duvalier and his Tonton Macoute. Evil doesn’t need to advertise; its actions communicate it to all sane people. No one ever said that the Gestapo was made up of misguided youths. As Justice Stewart stated in Jacobellis versus Ohio: I know it when I see it.

Mary smiled serenely and stated she was satisfied with my answer. Pete called for a ten-minute break and pulled me aside. Cuddy my boy, you are doing just fine. Ol’ Tad tried to get you worked up, and he did, but you got back control. Well done.

Thank you, sir. I appreciate the confidence. Have we much longer to go? I asked.

Pete smiled. Somewhere else you have to be, lad? A hot date perhaps? No, I guess not. This could take just minutes more . . . or days on end. Your answers will determine the length of this meeting. Take deep breaths, think good thoughts and we shall be out of here in good time. Now walk around a bit, loosen those new muscles, and air out your mind. Talk to Maggs. I think she’s in your corner. With that Pete turned to speak to Tad who was waiting impatiently, tugging at Pete’s elbow, frowning at me.

I did as instructed: I stretched, I did a few deep knee bends, and drifted over to where Maggie was, alone, still sitting in her seat. I had no idea what to say to her but she saved me the embarrassment by speaking first: Well, Cuddy, you certainly handle yourself well under pressure. Were you like this in combat too?

I laughed. Combat was much easier—I usually knew who my enemies were. This made Maggie laugh out loud and she quickly covered her mouth in embarrassment. "Well said, sir. Well said. This panel is supposed