"Have you gotten over the fear yet?" said Bogdan. He twisted around on the armchair.

"What fear?" said Roger, when he turned his head the curls whipped about. "The fear that you'll never return my wash-cloth?"

He was by the window peering at the driveway. Noon-day sun beamed down outside. Nathan and his brother Sonny would appear soon, stay less than an hour, after which Lusk would nip off to Venner's place in Belgium to return with real fear nipping at his heels.

"I didn't take your wash-cloth," said Lusk.

"Lies. Afraid of what?"

"Of Thwaite's business," said Bogdan.

Roger sat silent for a minute—mere seconds too long—before then attempting a chuckle, "What is there to fear?"

"The Devil?" probed Bogdan. "Or are you the sort to pretend it's all unreal. That Mr. Thwaite and Venner and all their friendly freaks are only playing pretend while hired guns such as us do all the real work? Like Mr. Big? Give the image of unseen terror and suddenly a bullet seems propelled by more that just expanding chemicals."

"Who's Mr. Big?"

"Doesn't matter—I want to hear your answer though—cause it sure wasn't a bullet that killed Steve, though I guess it could've been expanding chemicals."

"It's got power," this came as a murmur—as though he were afraid to acknowledge it. "Real power. More than I expected. Steve experienced it firsthand—what a fate! I thought you were going to kill him... Not..."

"Not the way things actually went?" said Bogdan with a sneer.

"Yes—it was terrifying, yet thrilling."

"You're new to that angle of Good Faith Securitives?"

Roger sighed, and said, "Yes. I was in Section Two before. Was it that obvious? But I'd only heard rumours about Mr. Agostino. Didn't realize how... Overarching... It all was."

"You were stationed in Rome then?"

"Yes," said Roger.

"What was your duty? The warehouse, the Temple, or the flat?"

"I was only a driver. I only ever really saw the local office and the streets next to the places you mentioned... Through from time to time I was involved in certain matters."

"You saw enough them... The sort of piquant thrills they court tend to travel I've noticed."

"What do you mean?" Bogdan didn't have to look to know Roger was smiling—hoping Lusk was fibbing about.

"I've just been thinking recently... Since I've been near certain things and the precautions one must take about them—that it's all rather like radiation. That's what I've been thinking... Comes in different forms. No taste, or smell, or sensation when it's passing through you... Yet it get's into the flesh. More than you can ever know at the time. Different levels have different effects... With the wrong precautions by those who dabble in its secrets it flows around like radiation too. Seeping everywhere... Into everyone's flesh... Lingering beneath animate dust and shadows and impossible to eradicate..."

"What're you talking about?" said Roger. Trying too hard to sound amused. Trying to hide the fear.

"Nothing," said Bogdan. "Just being a pseud. But listen, if you ever get hit with it in a full blast... Tell me about it will you? The sensations I mean. I'm very curious. But anyway, it's a big step up for you though—congrats. Thwaite promoted you?"

"With Mr. Venner's assent," added Roger cautiously. "But why might I ever get hit with a blast? What makes you say that?

Bogdan ignored the question. "Must have seen some things in your day though... Mr. Agostino is quite a character. Ran into him from time to time when I was Section Two. Never liked him. Annoying."

Roger was silent for a moment, before grinning, "Yea," he chuckled then, "He got up to things when he went out to the nightclubs... Far too fond of having drunken quickie's with strangers in the backseat thinking I won't know just because I can't see. But I can hear... I can smell. If the poor fucker didn't do it just right Agostino would sometimes throw them out the door without even getting me to slow down... Scared me shitless the first time, but the police never came, and you get used to that. It's sort of... empowering... To know sirens won't sound."

"Shows what a charade it all is right?" said Lusk with a smile, "Sirens can be bought by anyone with the balls." But Roger ignored this.

"You were Section Three at the main Lodge before, right?"

"Yes."

"A driver too?

"No." said Bogdan, he gestured at the window with a wave to end the questioning, "They're here."

The Brant's muscle car pulled into the driveway and Roger rose to greet them as Lusk peeked. One lean brown-haired man with a moustache, and a younger version with no moustache and missing a few of the elder's inches.

Bogdan bit his thumb and thought about odds when Roger rose to answer the door. He was sure of his bet now.

The meeting was hard and fast—more so than Lusk predicted. Thwaite descended from the second floor in his red bathrobe, only just bathed. Would've been greasy from breakfast if he hadn't. Sat silently in his bucket chair by the bookshelf, his fat thighs flattening out on the edge.

Explained to Nathan and Sonny—the brothers Brant—that they had a job for tomorrow night. Bogdan would show them a way into the museum—a secret way. Through that they'd creepy-crawl up to where this path intersected with the museum proper and then they'd wait there—no matter what they heard from within. Then someone would come with a chest.

"Yes," Thwaite said—"The chest you missed on Saturday night. However, you will only be able to bring it's contents from the museum. The chest itself will be too difficult to extract and may be discarded once it becomes a liability."

Went on to explain that they may have to wait sometime, and they would certainly hear things that might be upsetting—which they were to ignore—and eventually someone would knock three times upon the secret door.

"The person—or people—who come to the door will be wearing a mask. They will deliver the prize to you. They will remain in the museum and the secret way will be shut behind you. Creepy-crawl back on out of the museum by the way you entered and deliver the chest to a location to be supplied only when Mr. Lusk here show's you the path before entering. You will have a full tank of gas in your car, and you will be certain it is in good enough order to travel."

"That's acceptable," said Nathan Brant. He stroked his moustache as he listened.

"What about pay—?" said Sonny before a slap from Nathan silenced him, and he glared at the floor. Nathan stared at him—waiting for retaliation that never arrived.

Bogdan knew that the location of such mystery would be a certain house near a private airfield—the same one where Thwaite kept his private jet when he was in England.

Only a two-hour drive to the west. Thwaite possessed there a small terminal and hangar all his own. It was always kept it ready to travel. This was connected to the house by a tunnel.

Thwaite's promise to the Brant's was forty ounces of pure gold in return for this service. They accepted readily.

Bogdan departed five minutes after the Brant's did. Drove himself to that same airfield—he had no need of the tunnel—and boarded Thwaite's jet at three in the afternoon.

This took him to a similar airfield in Belgium, this time owned by Mr. Venner. Wasn't more than a long rectangle on the north edge of the Ardennes surrounded by tall brick walls trees peeked over. An almost identical tunnel set up existed here too.

A silhouette awaited Bogdan in the shadow of the hangar—Mr. Joris Venner. Two guards stood deeper in the shadows behind, and with a bag containing the purple hair-brush and belt Bogdan Lusk approached this. Realized he was nervous as he did.

"The true items?" said Venner. He spoke with a thick Dutch accent.

"Yes—does Thwaite suspect the trick?"

"No," said Venner with a grin. "He does suspect something else."

"What?" said Lusk.

Venner only stared and held the smile with incredible stillness. A minute passed by, and not a single part of him twitched until Bogdan spoke.

"I see," Lusk muttered. "He suspects me."

Venner's stillness shattered, "Thwaite will work the spell on what he believes are his problems at noon tomorrow. I advised him to do so—for consideration which to him seemed perfectly reasonable."

"Wise," said Bogdan.

"These two may be real problems though," said his master.

Bogdan raised his eyebrows and stared expectantly, though Venner remained still until Lusk's eyes drifted to the bag, brush and belt, "Ah," Bogdan said.

Venner grinned slightly, "I have taken precautions, and will do what is necessary. That includes giving you a certain address."

"What is it?"

"One of the problems homes."

"Excellent sir. What is the street number?"

"You shall be informed later," said Venner.

"I would prefer..." began Lusk, but Venner froze again. This time there was a menacing glint in his eyes—undisturbed for what seemed an eternity. Bogdan paused, and said, "I thank you for the responsibility."

Venner nodded sharply, and then turned. Handed the canvas bag to a guard and retreated until vanishing entirely into shadow.

Once he was gone one of the ramp crew drove Lusk in a luggage cart across the flat tract of tarmac to one of the out-buildings. There were many to choose from, odd little huts, a rudimentary tower, and other less descript brick structures, but instead the cart stopped before a boarded-up old terminal building.

A sign reading: CONDEMNED was hammered above the door. Bogdan entered, passing through an empty, dust-covered lounge into the kitchen and then the back-store room. Hidden from view by empty shelves were a set of steps down to the cramped concrete basement.

With a heave Bogdan pulled a cupboard within this away to reveal floorless setback behind. A steel ladder leading down into a brick-lined tunnel was bolted there.

Triggered by the movement on his end came the steps of brutal death down below. The dangling beams of the flash-light too, washing across the floor and casting numerous kaleidoscopic shadows down in that pit. And it was from this rabbit-hole that the Husk appeared.

First up the ladder was a suited Section Three man with an Uzi. Nodded at Bogdan, which Lusk returned before letting his hand come to rest on the holstered pistol under his jacket.

The next person up was a hatchet-faced man dressed in an dirty, ill-fitting rugby shirt and jeans. Emerged from the hole like a zombie wandering from the crypt. Halfway across the concrete floor he stopped and stared at the wall, a suitcase dangling in his hand. His only movement from then on was an occasional blink. This was the first of the Husk.

A second man—very similar to him and dressed identically, even down to the orange and blue stripes of the stretched-out shirt—followed. Stopped and stared just as his predecessor had. Then a third man, and then a fourth man.

All dressed the same, and though each face was in some small way different, they all bore a sameness that blurred them into almost one being. The effect was uncanny—they even blinked in unison.

After them came another Section Three with another Uzi who bent at the top of ladder to help up the glowering, almost anorexic-skinny form of Ms. Kaikeyi.

Bogdan did not know her real name—only that she frequently visited Mr. Venner enough to be considered part of the cabal and that she was a doctor. A psychiatrist apparently. Lusk had heard and seen enough to know she was in charge of a little mental asylum that was well within the umbrella of Good Faith Securitives even to the point of being owned by a charitable organization controlled by Venner.

She was Punjabi but spoke perfect English when she chose to speak at all, which seemed rather rare. Bogdan figured she thought it gave her an air of mystery—as Venner seemed to enjoy. But unlike Venner, Lusk could sense it was really to disguise how frequently she missed social ques, judging from they way she bore herself. Lacked a certain self-assurance. Today, like always, she wore extra eye-shadow to make-herself appear even more glowering. In the low-light of the basement it made her eyes vanish into her cheeks.

After climbing up the ladder she lifted the end of a stethoscope from her flat chest and put it against each member of the Husk's chest. Once this was done, she lifted their drooping eyelids with a boney finger and shined a light into each pupil—and then nodded after the last man was checked.

"It's dissociative trance is intact and very deep," she announced over her shoulder. "It will be undisturbed by the flight, though I may need to maintain it somewhat after landing—and during—if there is bad turbulence. I have sedatives and the means to recreate the trance entirely if necessary. I also have it's killswitch, so do not worry. You may rest easy. It will take only an hour or two to input Adrastos's instructions tomorrow. But we may now proceed safely all the same."

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2200 words.

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