A whistled tune carried me past the tombstone line of teletype machines. Blood-warm coffee splashed a cup and a tossed hat missed a peg to roll on the office floor. No time to chase it, a story burned in my brain.

Threading paper into my typewriter, I recalled all the times I'd come up short. This story would be different. This time I had the proof.

Typed words intensified emotions as I relived the story. Fear, courage, guilt, frustration, pride and soon...joyous vindication.

Focused on my story I failed to notice how the bustling of the news day changed into a darker, vulnerable, after-hours feel. Time stopped, air stifled and my blood froze. In a dark corner something moved. Had slain foes come back to life? I was too scared to look.

My God, It's here!

My flailing arms fought sweat-damp sheets. The blackness had swallowed my yell and left only my pulse thumping in my ears. Reality returned and brought relief. My heart slowed.

This recurring nightmare always crossed my emotions. Terrifying yet exhilarating—a herald of unusual happenings.

Strange events, wonderful and frightening would soon enter my life.

Kolchak: The Night Stalker

Noche de Temida Sanguijuelas

(Night of the Dreaded Leeches)

by

Dink Martini

June 19th, 11:20 P.M., Mokena, Illinois.

Racing Dog Transporter, Marco Balderama was fighting fatigue and a vicious Midwest downpour. In a hurry to deliver, he'd been driving without sleep. He'd made many trips from Mexico to America but never this far and never with instructions to not feed the dogs or even look in the cages. Disturbing too was his drop-off destination. Instead of a race track, the manifest read "Prof. Reinhard Wruck, University of Chicago, Hyde Park, Illinois".

His cargo had been unusually quiet. Barks and yaps replaced with soft chatterings and low hoots. This strange atmosphere was made worse by the odor. Mr. Balderama had experienced the smells a dog makes on a long haul but the choking stench on this trip was a first.

The torrent of rain became a white out. Wipers were overdue to be replaced and Mr. Balderama was overdue for his audience with the inevitable. When the Highway Patrol arrived, they found his truck crumpled against a pole and his body crushed behind the wheel.

Empty cages were littered at the scene.

June 20th, Daybreak, Tinley Park, Illinois.

Erin Lauf, work-at-home text book editor and mother of one, stood on the back steps of her home calling for the family dog. Sundance, their German Shepherd, had jumped the fence many times but always returned faithfully when called to breakfast.

Sundance would not be having breakfast that morning. Or the next. Or ever again.

The nightmare had set my mind racing, making further sleep impossible. I drove downtown intending to knock out some copy before breakfast. Lake Shore Drive was several blocks out of the way but at three in the morning a fast car creates its own breeze—a breeze to counteract one of the hottest Junes in Chicago's history.

Entering the INS offices gave me a shudder. The similarity to my dream unnerved me. A dozen desks from the dark reporter pool watched my movements.

The glow of my desk lamp rallied my courage. I leafed through stacks on the Bulgari shooting and reviewed phone messages searching for what had triggered my dream. A wayward ember of uncanny origin had flitted past my eyes, unnoticed, and landed secretly in my subconscious. Nested there among the tinder of imagination, it waited for a night breeze to blow on it and cause it to flare.

An hour of digging brought no results. The eastern sky showed color and my grumbling stomach convinced me to eat. Passing a runner at the door, I snatched a morning newspaper destined for Tony's office.

The elevator was out as usual. Skimming down the stairwell I scanned the front page. Light feet turned to lead and echoing whistles died below the fold. "Pet Plague Stumps County Health Officials, page 5". I'd heard this yesterday but had forgotten. Sitting down on the stairs I read the article. "Anemic", "multiple animal deaths", "unexplained disappearances". The bristling hairs on my neck confirmed that these were the events that inspired my nightmare.

I wasn't hungry any more but experience taught me to stay fueled during these "episodes". Bursts of energy can save lives. On my way to the cafe I composed a pitch to get my story assignment changed. Tony wouldn't mind.

"No, Carl!" Tony's face had flushed to a crimson reserved exclusively for me. "That story is Nemecek's! See her name there? That's what we call a 'byline'."

The roaring of a train outside Tony's window delayed my pleading. Trains blasted the INS offices every seven and a half minutes. We suspended our lives for the duration and anticipated when to resume.

Noise faded. "Tony, I can feel it. There is something strange going on. This might be big."

"Big? What's so important about a few dead cats in Crestwood?" he asked.

"Oak Forrest, Tony, and it's more than a few, it's dozens, cats and dogs. One of them was a German Shepherd for crying out loud."

"What is it with you, Kolchak? A gangster of no small renown is gunned down but you want to find out why Lassie is in the well."

"Timmy," I corrected him.

"What?"

"Timmy is in the well. Lassie leads June Lockhart to - -"

"Carl, what are you talking about?"

"Santo Bulgari was ninety-three years old. Why would the mob want to kill a man who couldn't even stir his own oatmeal? That story is more Updyke's speed. I want in on the unexplained animal disappearances!"

"No, Carl! You're on the Bulgari Murder and that's it! I want it on my desk tomorrow. Leave the dead animal story to..."

"Sharon Edwyna Nemecek?"

—was the type of reporter that believed middle names belong in bylines. Twenty something, she'd been at INS long enough to have the journalism dreck she'd learned at college knocked out of her. She turned a fair sentence but disillusionment was setting in. Her relegation to page five and beyond felt permanent.

"What do you want, Kolchak?" she asked. Her wrinkled sneer was a daunting first defense.

"Well, I had something for you but if you aren't interested in a murder..." I feigned leaving.

"That depends. Who do you want me to kill?" she asked.

"Oh, no," I chuckled, "they're already dead. I need you to assist me on the story."

"You need me? C'mon, Kolchak, what's goin' on?"

"No, really, Mr. Vincenzo asked the senior reporters to groom promising young talent at INS for bigger and better reportage. Your name is at the top of the list here." I slipped the folded cafe flier into my jacket before she could get a closer look. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. The kid was tougher than I'd anticipated.

"Who's the stiff?" she asked.

My nervous looks around the office spiced the confidence. "Santo 'The Shovel' Bulgari," I said.

"Santo Bulgari? He's the last of Capone's crew. That's headline news!"

"You bet it is. I said you were top of the list, didn't I? Now, here's what I need you to do."

"What about the story I'm on? Who's gonna follow up on this?" she asked, gesturing to her notes.

"Dead animals? C'mon, Nemecek, think big—be big! Give me your file and I'll hand it off to someone better suited for that drivel."

The lure dangled and my fish poised to strike. After a tense moment, the indecision broke. Her frantic hands raked papers together into a manilla folder.

There was a glaring contrast between our story files. Slapped down next to her pristine and paper clipped folder was my dog-eared, coffee-stained bundle. A tiny, age-yellowed napkin with a bold scrawl on it had escaped my batch. Nemecek held it up. "What's this?" she asked.

"It's nothing. Bulgari's caregiver handed it to me after an interview. I can't even read it. Toss it."

Instead, she drew a paper clip from her drawer and attached it to the top of the unruly thicket. I hid my amusement at her actions. She belonged in a typing pool somewhere—not in the fast-paced world of front-line journalism.

I gave her instructions on who to contact about the case, told her to deal only with me and cautioned that secrecy was the soul of a winning story.

A twinge of guilt needled me and as I sneaked glances at her file, I vowed to make it up to her. Part of that sympathy evaporated when she donned her hat. Who wears a beret in the summer?

"Go get 'em, kid."

Engrossed in Nemecek's surprisingly thorough notes, I failed to notice the hubbub at Miss Emily's desk.

"Hola, El Calega!" she hailed as I passed.

"Huh? What's that, Miss Emily?" Our Octogenarian's hose-wrinkled legs shuffled a wobbly dance. Glassy eyes shined from under her floppy sombrero brim. Ron, caught up in the festivities, displayed horrible timing on a pair of maracas.

"Hola! That means 'hello' in Spanish," she said.

"Hola, Miss Emily," I said. "To what do we owe the gayness of this...hat dance?"

Ron's enthusiasm halted mid-twirl when he saw Tony observing him from his office door. A maraca slipped Ron's grasp and clattered under his desk. Red faced, he submerged to retrieve it.

"I'm making this week's crossword in Spanish for our Hispanic readers!" exclaimed Miss Emily.

"Is that so?" I asked.

"Si, Amigo!" She clapped her hands smartly and threw her head back which slipped the glasses off her nose and nearly threw the sombrero from her head. I offered a hand while she fumbled with her accoutrements.

"You speak Spanish?" I asked.

"Well, no," Miss Emily said, "but I have these translation dictionaries and Ron tells me he speaks it fluently. Don't you, Ron?"

Tony's merciful intervention cut short Ron's ill-pronounce, high-school Spanish deluge. "Carl? Isn't it about time for the Police to make their statement on the Bulgari shooting? Hadn't you better hurry?"

"You're right, Tony! You're right!" I said. With camera and recorder slung over my shoulder and Nemecek's leads held out of Tony's sight, I brushed past his imposing bulk and intimidating stare.

Unable to help myself, I paused at the door, flourished my coat jacket and struck my proudest matador pose. "Toro!" I yelled, shaking my coat at Tony.

Fixing me with his bloodshots, he tossed his beet-red head and I swear he kicked at the floor. Thwarting his charge I tossed an "Ole!" over my shoulder and slipped out the door.

June 22nd, 2:00 A.M., Oak Forest, Illinois.

Movie Theater Manager, Barbra Mikol arrived at home after work. Her cat, "Hopper", failed to greet her. Instead she was met by a vile odor. Across the street, several pairs of eyes watched from the shadows. Bright and too large for cat's eyes, they disappeared, leaving a soft hooting noise to trail off in the breeze.

Uneased by the thought of searching for her cat in the dark, she postponed until morning. She never did find her cat.

I contacted Gordy at the County Morgue to see if he knew anyone at Animal Control who handled animal cadavers. His fuzzy memory sharpened once I agreed to buy two numbers in his "limbless" lottery. I couldn't decide which was more gruesome, Gordy's lottery or the fraternity shared among those that wrangle the dead for a living.

"Aliza Devin" was printed on her Cook County name tag and she was much younger than I had pictured. Wide hips tested her coveralls as she leaned a filthy mop against the wall. She gave no notice to the muck smeared on her rubber gloves. My stomach flopped when she used a gloved finger to push her horn rims up.

Yapping dogs drowned out my questions. I kept leaning in farther across the counter to yell louder into the disgusting glove she'd cupped behind her ear. Giving up, she waved me off and closed the door to the noisy kennel. The muffled din now allowed conversation. "There!" she said, "Sick, missing or dead?"

"What?"

"Is your animal sick, missing or dead?"

"Oh, you've got me wrong." I leaned in. "Gordy told me you might be able to give me some information."

Her face brightened. "Gordy! How's he doin'?"

"Better and better, every time he sees my face." I imagined the greedy little leprechaun laughing over my retirement dollars stacked on a cold cadaver.

"Aw, it's nice that you're friends." she said.

"Yeah, nice for him. Can you tell me about animals that are brought in dead?"

"Sure! Compared to what I usually handle around here, getting a stiff is a refreshing break." She laughed and jabbed again at the bridge of her glasses.

"Seen anything...unusual lately?" I asked.

Miss Devin sized me up and slapped her gloved hands down on the counter. She leaned in. "Maybe..."

My questioning stare and up-turned hand held for a long time before the realization set in. Turning away to hide my modest wad of bills from her seeking eyes, I separated out a wrinkled five and presented it with an endearing smile.

Ten seconds tocked off the wall clock while fluorescent lights buzzed. Eliza Devin twitched not a muscle. Digging into my pocket again, I grumbled, "What's your lottery called?"

"It's called the 'College-Is-Expensive' lottery. Everyone's a winner."

This time the bill, a twenty, caught Miss Devin's eye. Exposed motivations killed pretense. "What have you got?" I asked.

She thrust her hand across the counter and swiped the twenty from my clutch. Who would think she could move that fast anchored by those hips? "We've been gettin' lots of dead cats and dogs. More than usual." She brandished the twenty, beaming and I got the feeling she believed my money was spent on those few words.

Refusing to be short-changed, I bellied up to the counter and snatched the twenty back. "I already know that. Everybody who reads knows that." I taunted her with the note, now held away at my arm's reach. "I repeat, what have you got?"

If I thought she'd moved quickly before, I was wrong. In a blur, she'd relieved me of the bill again. She took a step back from the counter waving her prize. "They all had the blood drained from them."

Again, this was information that had already been printed. Afraid she would clam up or ask for more dough, I nearly toppled over the counter lunging for and swiping the twenty back from her astonished grip. To ensure it stayed where it belonged, I retreated from the counter. "Drained? Drained how?" I asked from a safe distance.

Distressed at her loss she spilled information. "From the neck! The blood was drained from a puncture in the neck!" One filthy glove pointed at her jugular while the other stretched out begging for the twenty.

Intrigued I stepped in but kept the bait out of her formidable reach. "No dice, sister. I've been down the Transylvania Turnpike before—more than once. Two round puncture wounds I suppose, from fangs?"

"No. Only one wound." Now it was her turn to ensure we were alone. In a whisper she continued, "A triangle-shaped incision. Clean, surgical and exactly on the artery. Whoever is doing this knows their anatomy."

Her confidence drew me closer. My bunched brow tried to make sense of what she'd said. Busy piecing it together I barely noticed when she slid the twenty out of my slack fingers.

She could show me no physical evidence of her extraordinary claims. Animal Control Procedures Manual, Item 124, sub section C, "After processing, deceased animals exhibiting unusual and/or potentially dangerous medical characteristics shall be expeditiously incinerated as a public safety measure."

I left my number and the promise of another round of who's-got-the-twenty should another unfortunate creature bearing "the mark" be brought in.

Head down and mulling over my hard-won clues, I bumped into a man outside the Animal Control building. Glasses fell from his bald head to his nose and he fumble-dropped a large cage.

"Pardon me," I said, tweaking my hat brim.

Retrieving his cage, the rumpled and sweaty man wide-eyed my camera and recorder. He took to the grass to give me a wide berth. Locking eyes on me, he fumbled the door open and backed into the building.

"Heat stroke," I muttered to myself getting into my car.

A strange feeling of being observed came over me. A sideways look revealed a huge black sedan idling next to me. The black-tinted window powered down. My eyes locked with mirrored sunglasses under slicked-back hair. Neither of us moved. Did I hear Mariachi music? The window powered up and left me staring at my own reflection.

"Yep, it's the heat," I assured myself.

I needed to get back to INS to see if Nemecek had called in. Any problems she might be having could get bumped up to Tony, blowing my scheme.

Traffic slowed and killed any wind generated by motion. The trickle became stop-and-go. Tempers flared in the heat and angry horns chorused.

My police band cut through the blaring horns. "Proceed to 3743 West 140th Place in Robbins. Resident reports wild animals in yard last night."

With hat waving, hand signals and angry horn blowing of my own I got free of the jam, down an off-ramp and sped on my way to Robbins.

Wild animals!

"Yes? What is it?" Thinning white hair topped baggy eyes that surveyed me through the security chain.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. I'm Carl Kolchak from - -"

"Animal Control? Already? My, that was fast."

I held up my press credentials. "I'm with the INS and I'm following up on - -"

"As long as you aren't from the press. I don't want to be labeled as some kind of kook."

I quickly pocketed my credentials. "Oh, no, Ma'am, we wouldn't want that. Can you tell me what you saw?"

She directed me to the back of her home. Trying to play it straight I dove right in. "Over there, by the swimming pool you say? How many racoons were there?"

"Racoons? Who said anything about racoons? They were kangaroos."

"Kangaroos? Are you sure?" I asked.

"Yes, hunched over, hopping about and hooting."

"Hooting?"

"Yes. I didn't know they hooted, did you? I knew they were from the circus because they had collars and one of them wore a belt with a light on it."

"A belt? How many were there?"

"Seven, eight, maybe more. Didn't the police tell you all this?"

I'd over-stayed my cover so I thanked her and turned to leave. My nervous feet kicked a cat dish filled with spoiled food. Swatting at the stink as much as the flies, I pressed my luck with one more question. "Is your cat missing?"

"Yes, but I told all that to the Police. Who are you? Bill, come out here! There's a strange man in the yard!"

"I'm not a strange man. I'm...I'm leaving, that's who I am!"

In my haste to escape, I rounded the corner of the house and collided full-on with the same bald man I'd bumped into at Animal Control. My hat and Sweaty Man's dog cage flew in opposite directions.

"You again? Who are you?" I demanded after we'd chased down our belongings.

"Were they here?" he asked with round, panicked eyes. His shirt was drenched and what hair he had on the sides of his head was matted down with perspiration. A mess of perpetual motion, he shifted the cage back and forth between his hands. "Did they see them?"

"See what, the kangaroos?" I asked.

"Kangaroos?" he said then laughed. His laughter became maniacal and uncontrolled.

"I think you've been in the sun too long, Friend." I said, "We need to get you inside. Where's your car?" I needed to find out what this guy knew. Taking him by the arm I lead him to the end of the driveway.

At the end of the street a long black car rounded the corner. I recognized it as the one parked next to me while at Animal Control. Sweaty Man broke from my grasp. "Oh, no. It's them. Don't let them get me!" he yelled and took off running in the opposite direction. The car sensed the fleeing prey and roared with acceleration. As it whizzed past me I once again heard music. Flamenco?

The flat tire I discovered on my car killed the motor chase before it began. A brief inspection revealed my tire had been slashed. I bit back my curse when I noticed a boy watching from the sidewalk. Astride a bicycle, he had a placid, blank expression. He didn't impress me as the vandalizing kind.

"Did you see who did this?" I asked.

Pointing in the direction of the black car's exit, he said, "One of those Mexican guys did it." His laconic speech was measured for a kid his age which I estimated as twelve.

"Mexican? How do you know they're Mexican?"

"They used 'ustedes' instead of 'vosotoros'," he replied.

"They what instead of what?"

"Yeah, when they conjugated their verbs."

This exchange created a prolonged stare down. I broke the awkward silence by leaning into my car and jerking the keys from the ignition. No self-respecting reporter would be caught without a reliable spare. After the literal close shave I'd had in Fall River, I'd made it a point to check mine religiously.

As the tire swap progressed, my annoyance with Bicycle Boy's ramblings turned to admiration for his in-depth knowledge on off-beat topics. He was different from other twelve-year-olds I'd encountered. From Massachusetts, he was staying with relatives in Orland Park. His "interests" made him an outsider at school. I advised that school would end one day and to stick with it. When asked if he had siblings, a strange look came over him and he quieted. Handing me the lug nuts, he muttered something about having to leave and mounted his bike. I stood to acknowledge his departure. "Thanks for the help. Maybe we'll meet again some day," I said

"I'd say that's a safe bet. We're both looking for the same thing."

"Same thing? What do you mean?" I asked.

"Hooting kangaroos."

The lug wrench slipped my grip and clattered on the street. "What do you know about hooting kangaroos? Wait! Wait, what do you know?"

Foot pursuit was useless. I cursed my car for being jacked. I cupped my hands and yelled after him, "What's your name?"

I resigned to my task and chuckled. "That's weird," I muttered to myself, "I'd swear he said his name was 'Mildew'."

Miss Emily rolled her eyes as Ron hovered over her Spanish dictionary. I passed the crossword board filled with "Helado, Pabellon, Gallo, etc." and had nearly made it to my desk before Tony's booming voice spun me around. "Kolchak, get in here!"

Leaned back in his chair with hands laced across his belly, Tony cocked his head and gave me a grim stare. Blue light from a portable television on his desk reflected in his eyes. His confident demeanor held me up at the door in case I needed to escape. Crossing my arms to guard against verbal body blows, I put on my most innocent smile. "Yeah, Tony?"

"How did the Bulgari briefing go? Get any info?" he asked.

His sarcastic phrasing set off my alarms. "Oh, sure. You know, time of death, witnesses, motives—all that jazz," I said.

"Uh huh, did you get any questions in?"

"Sure, sure. I made us proud." With a salute, I slipped out, thankful for the train that shook the windows to cover my retreat.

After the roar subsided, Tony called again, "Carl, get back in here! Where were you all day?"

"At the briefing and following up on leads."

"You weren't at the briefing," Tony said.

"I wasn't?"

He shook his head.

My scheme teetered. Fearing further self-incrimination, I chose my next words with care. "What makes you think that?" I asked.

"Because I'm watching the briefing right now on live television and guess who I see standing in the crowd right behind the Chief of Police?"

"His...wife?"

Tony's face blossomed purple in the television's blue light. "No, Carl! I see Nemecek, Sharon Nemecek. What's she doing there? I gave that story to you!"

"Alright, Tony, I've been at Animal Control and to Robbins. There's something strange going on th - -"

"Robbins? What could possibly be going on there that is more important than the Bulgari story?"

Now that they had to be spoken out loud, my facts softened and became questionable—even to me. "There's this lady and she said there were some...kangaroos in her back yard...wearing collars. There's been all those animal disappearances. I figured one might be related to the other. So I...went to..."

My story trailed off under Tony's hateful stare. I'd been there before and knew that lumps were headed my way. I resigned myself to the lash.

"Kangaroos, you say?" asked Tony.

I nodded sheepishly.

"Instead of the organized crime scoop of the year you're giving me the ramblings of some drunk who saw pink elephants in her back yard?" he asked.

"I don't think she was drunk," I muttered.

Tony's eyes reddened and sizzled. "Dingos wearing tutus, hell and gone in Willmett."

" 'Collars' and it was Robbins, not Willmett. You see, one of them had a belt that lit up." The sound of my own words made me bite my lip.

Tony bored a hateful stare right through my eyes and out the back of my skull. "Knowing you, Kolchak, I must now assume that Bigfoot is involved."

I raised an angry finger in protest but Tony's clenched jaw and blistering stare silenced me.

"Why do I keep putting up with your nonsense?" he asked. "You are now responsible for both of those stories, Bulgari and the collared wallabies. They'd better be on time or so help me I'll put a flashing collar on you!"

I tried to walk casually leaving his office. A difficult task, knowing his hate lasers focused on me the whole way. Silent stares from the entire reporter pool confronted me as I emerged. Ron asked Miss Emily, loud enough for the whole office to hear, "What's Spanish for 'berated'?"

Miss Emily had braved my huff to slip me a pair of phone messages as I stomped out. I read them in snatches while weaving through traffic.

I clucked my tongue at the first, concerning Ms. Nemecek. I cringed to imagine what wild tangents she was off to on the Bulgari story. Even this phone message read like a cheap, pulp whodunit sporting decades-old hit contracts, tell-all books and vendettas reborn.

The second message grabbed hold of me. Ms. Devin of Cook County Animal Control called to solicit college funds.

Upon arrival I found her less than helpful. She had locked the door and refused to open it. I fumbled in my pocket for my Andrew Jackson key. The crack under the door inhaled the twenty. Grinning I awaited entry. All I got was her filth-streaked rubber glove poking through the blind to flip a sign to "CLOSED".

"Hey, c'mon," I yelled, pounding the door, "at least give me a lottery number!"

"Eighty-six!" she replied through the door.

"Devin, what's going on? I thought we had a deal?"

Two gloves thrust through the blind, spreading it wide to reveal her frightened face. "Yea, that was before the Mexican Mafia came to town. I've got a lot to live for, Kolchak. Go away."

No amount of pleading or bribery would gain me entry. When I had retreated to a safe distance, Ms. Devin popped the door open and screamed, "Don't think I don't know who stole our reports! I gave your name to the cops!"

"What reports?" I asked the slamming door. On the way to my car I schemed ways to expense my lost twenty to INS.

Bicycle Boy leaned against my trunk, flipping through a stack of papers. A quick glance up was the only acknowledgment he offered.

"Hello again, Young Man. Say, what's your part in all this?" I asked.

His eyes brightened and he stopped shuffling the papers. Handing them to me, he poked a finger at the top one. Scampering to his bike, he mounted and made an exit. My questions only sped him on.

"That boy's quick, like a f - -" I was startled to discover that Bicycle Boy had slipped me Miss Devin's missing reports. After verifying that nobody saw me with the contraband, I looked them over. The top one referenced a pack of kangaroos sighted on the property of a Mr. Nomdrole.

"They didn't chase it so much as hunt it," Nomdrole informed me as he tightened the belt on his plaid robe.

"What's the difference?" I asked, dodging moths that orbited the porch light.

"They hunted like a pack of wolves. They didn't run much and seemed to know what the dog would do before it tried to do it. They kept closing in and the dog just...gave up."

"Then what?" I asked.

"Well, I felt sorry for the dog so I came out on the back porch and yelled to scare them away. While their attention was on me, the dog up and run off."

"Did they chase after it?"

"Nope. But they did take an interest in me. I got a strange feelin', lookin' in their glowin' eyes so I high-tailed it inside. When I checked out the window they were gone."

"Uh huh, and you said reflective eyes," I clarified.

"No, I said they glowed."

"Glowed? What does that mean?" I asked.

He became irritated. "I thought you were a reporter. 'Glowed' as in 'emitted light'."

"Emitted? Wait a minute, let's start over." I said.

"Now, Look here, Mister. I've told this story to the Cops, Animal Control, A gaggle of Spanish Businessmen and even a boy not ten minutes ago! I'm not repeating it again so the two of you can just shove off!" He slammed his door and the porch light went out.

"The 'two' of us?" I asked. When I turned to leave I figured out what he meant as, once again, I bumped into Sweaty Man who stood directly behind me. My startled yelp put him back on his heels. He dropped a cage which pinwheeled onto the yard.

Picking it up, he grasped the cage with both hands and held it between us as a shield. "Stay back!" he said.

"Who the heck are you and how do you fit in to all this?"

"I heard you. You said you were from INS." His eyes darted around seeking hidden foes.

"Yeah, so?"

"You guys wrote that hit piece on me. All lies and I'm gonna prove it. I'll prove it to you all!"

He was in rough shape. Pale as if he hadn't eaten, swollen puffy eyes from lack of sleep. His air told me he hadn't bathed in days. "You need some rest, Friend. Let's get you home," I said. The cage drooped slightly as my words softened his guard. "At least let me buy you something to eat," I said.

His defenses firmed and he jabbed the cage at me. "Get back! I've got to find them, don't you see? I'm going to catch one. When I do, you won't be laughing any more. Then you'll all be sorry!"

Ignoring my pleas he ran around the corner of the house. From the darkness the sound of crashing garbage cans mixed with a cat's scream.

The next morning was spent chasing down dead-end leads. Before lunch I harvested the only useful bit of information the morning offered—According to several books in the Chicago Library, kangaroos do not hoot. They hiss, grunt, click and even stamp their feet to communicate...but no hooting.

One bowl of chili later, I was back in the hunt.

Your standard Chicagoan-on-the-street won't make eye contact let alone change for a dollar. Slightly less irritating are the drug store cashier's rolling eyes when you buy a pack of gum with a ten and ask for your change in quarters. Such are the trials of a newshound who needs to make a call.

It was time to activate my inside agent. From a phone booth I dialed. A couple rings rewarded me with her unmistakable voice, "Hello, INS, Ms. Cowles speaking."

"Hola, Senora."

"Oh-law who? What? Who am I speaking with, please?"

"Miss Emily? It's me, Carl. How's the puzzle coming?"

Miss Emily hissed her response, "I'll be glad when this week is over. Ron has commandeered my board and his Spanish is terrible."

"So is his English. Have you read his column?" We shared a chuckle at Ron's expense. "Miss Emily, will you check with sales and see if any circuses are buying advertising now or in the last few weeks?"

"Circuses? Are you planning to run away with one?" she asked.

"No, but maybe they'll take Ron. You can never have too many clowns jumping out of a car."

Miss Emily stifled a guilty snort and promised to look into it. I liked that old gal, an able info-hound and savvy for her years.

My grin dissolved when I stepped out of the booth and was confronted by four men. A slightly different shade of gray distinguished each suit. Slicked back, coal-black hair, mirrored sunglasses and thin mustaches. Bolos for ties. The look was familiar from the day before outside Animal Control.

They had formed a human enclosure with no way around. "Excusa" was among the few Spanish words I knew and I was certain I pronounced it wrong. Putting my head down to squeeze through I noticed they wore cowboy boots. Instead of giving way, they tightened their defenses.

"A dónde vas, Amigo? Quédate y habla," spoke Clone Number Two.

"I'm sorry, Fellas, I don't speak Spanish," I apologized.

The clone on the right inserted a tooth pick under his thin mustache. With a slight accent he said, "He wants to know if there's a tire store nearby." A chuckle from the far left clone was cut short by stares from the other three. He cleared his throat and the human wall re-solidified.

Mustering bravado, I tossed it off that there must be a service station nearby.

"Bueno, then you won't have far to go," said Toothpick.

The human wall split in two giving me a view of my car. The flats barely kept the rims off the pavement. "Again with the tires?" I asked. I moved to check the tires on the other side but before I escaped their perimeter, Toothpick grabbed me under the arm and jerked me back. The other three bellied in on me from all sides, jostling my hat from my head.

His toothpick tickled the inside of my ear canal as he hissed, "Mantenerse al margen, Reportero. Stay out of it, Kolchak."

A black sedan screeched on the sidewalk and the huddle broke. Two into the car which disappeared in traffic and the other two in different directions on foot. Their evaporation disoriented me and I was spun around in the vacuum.

A cowboy boot had mashed my hat.

A tow and four tires later I was on my way to Chicago Stadium to check a visiting circus about kangaroos they may have lost.

Gone were the days of big tops and midways. Replaced by sports arenas and convention centers, much of the mystique had faded. Circus Vargas was trying to create a resurgence in the business and it's tour had brought it, that steamy June, to the Windy City. Miss Emily's lead had brought me to them.

Asking around for the manager, I was directed to a practice area off the main floor. When I approached a man to ask the whereabouts of the manager, my inquiry interrupted him in the act of throwing.

"What's the matter with you, Mister? Can't you see what I'm doing here?" He stuck a fan of daggers held like playing cards under my nose. "Someone could get hurt," he said. " 'Impaling Arts' is just a figure of speech, ok?"

The chatter around the practice area stopped. Clowns, musicians and roustabouts stopped to stare at me.

"Oh, I see. I'm looking for a Ms. Vera Groos."

With a sly smile he said, "She's at the Devil's Door."

"I'm sorry, where?"

His finger pointed to an attractive, dark haired woman at the far end of the room. She was spread-eagle against a circular wooden target with a half dozen daggers outlining her figure.

As I approached her, a knife cartwheeled past my ear and thunked between her knees. I veered out of the line of fire and approached my prospective source from a safer angle. "Are you the manager? Ms. Groos?" I asked.

whip whip whip Whip Whip THUNK!

A dagger stuck to the target nearly grazing her attractive waist. "Yes, I am," she answered, showing no concern about how close the projectile had landed.

"I'm Carl Kolchak with - -"

whip whip Whip Whip Whip THUNK!

Another dagger nested between her neck and left arm. I winced and continued. "...with INS." I produced my credentials.

"Oh, God dammit!" She flared. "When will you people leave us alone? We got rid of the cats and now you're after the horses? They're all we've got left as a draw."

WHIP WHIP WHIP WHIP WHIP THUNK!

That dagger was either wildly off target or meant to send me a message. I took a step back. "No, Ma'am, I'm a reporter with the Independent News Service. See, INS? I have a couple questions is all."

"Oh, a reporter," she said. "It's okay, Pierce, he's with the press." The knife-thrower waved an acknowledgment.

"Have you recently lost any of your kangaroos?" I asked.

Ms. Groos tittered into her hand, juggler's pins clattered to the ground and a dagger sailed over the target. The whole room broke into laughter.

"What? What is it?" I asked.

A giggling dwarf with slicked mustache and red tails spoke, "Mister, there isn't a circus or sideshow on the planet with kangaroos. They're mean and stubborn, impossible to train." Then he spoke to the room, "Kangaroos, he says!". The laughter exploded. Clowns took exaggerated rolls on the floor and a tuba gave me the raspberry. Embarrassed, I turned to leave.

"Mr. Kolchak?" Ms. Groos called me as she stepped back onto the target.

"Yes, Ma'am?"

"Do me a favor before you go?" she asked.

"What's that?"

"Spin me."

Not unlike the jugglers I'd just left behind I had too many balls in the air at the same time. My story was holding its secrets which was starting to frustrate me. Not only did the pieces not fit, I got the feeling they all came from different puzzles.

Throw in the scorching heatwave and I was in no mood for Nemecek's enthusiasm. As she rambled, my heart sank. I'd created a monster and it had broke loose on a rampage. She was out of control with fantastic tales of mob hits and Al Capone's handwriting. She was still yammering away as I hung up the pay phone. I could only hope that Tony or another safeguard would intercept her before anything went out on the wire.

Having the top down offered no relief from the heat. In the sputtering light of a failing flashlight I tried to pinpoint my location on a street map. After shaking and slapping I gave up on it and drew my lighter from my pocket. Experience taught me to keep a reliable light source on hand.

Recalling Nemecek's notes and adding what few clues I'd tracked down, a time line emerged on the map. Mokena, Tinley Park, Oak Forest, Robbins. Next would be...

"Merrionette Park," shot a voice from the dark.

I yelped and dropped my lighter. A bright light blazed from the dark, hitting me in the face. Having no other defense I hunkered down behind my crumpled street map. "Who's there?" I asked.

A turn of handlebars removed the light from my eyes and revealed Bicycle Boy. "Oh, it's you. What are you doing out this late?" I asked.

"Hoot, hoot," he replied.

"I thought so. What do you now about this kangaroo business?"

"About kangaroos? Nothing. I know you're wasting your time here. They move each night." He switched off the light, stashed his bike in a hedge and fished a book from the bike's basket. He flopped in the passenger seat uninvited. "Our best bet is Merrionette Park."

"Our best bet?" I asked.

He stared at me without answering. I started the car.

It was time for answers. "Ok, Kid, What's your name?" I needed my story but he was under age and child endangerment carries stiff penalties. Anyway, it did in Washington State—a place I'll visit again when the warrant lapses. He remained silent so I pulled over. "That stonewalling you're using right now? I invented that," I said.

After a showdown of several silent minutes he produced a pair of sunglasses. Even though it was dark he slipped them on. "My name is Fox. Can we go now?"

I doubted this was true but at least it was something to go on. Pulling away from the curb, I challenged him. "Right, and I'm Brer Rabbit." This put a smile on his face.

Waiting at a light I asked him about his book. He expounded on its subject of UFOs as we canvassed the streets and back alleys of Merrionette Park. He was especially well-informed on a phenomenon he called "abduction". Interesting but I needed to steer the conversation to my story. After beating around bushes I confronted him. "What's going on, Brer Fox? Why are kangaroos killing animals in Chicago?"

"They aren't kangaroos. They're..."

If he finished his answer, I didn't hear it. I slammed the brakes and stared at one of the strangest sights I'll ever see. Hopping in pursuit of a cat was a pack of what appeared to be kangaroos. As they passed through the headlights I studied each successive one.

They hopped on long hind legs and balanced with their tails but that's where the similarities ended. They were not kangaroos.

Instead of furry marsupials, these creatures were reptilian with gray scaly skin. Heights ranged from three to four feet. Spikes ran to the tips of thick tails. Under-developed arms ended in three, clawed fingers. Each creature was collared and had sunken eyes glowing from deep sockets. Their foul odor stung the nose.

Distracted by our lights, the pack slowed and stopped. They strained their necks and squinted through the headlight glare. In response to a chittering from the back, the front rank parted and one of the creatures hopped through. It wore a belt with pouches and a flashing light. From this belt, the creature extracted a long tube-like device. Low hoots bubbled across the pack. The hooting unified into a rhythm and they advanced.

Sitting on my seat-back, I clicked photos over the top of the windshield. The situation hit home and I lowered the camera to stare at the closing creatures. The hooting rose, fanged mouths gnashed, eye-glow intensified.

Instead of frightening, their gaze calmed me. I had no desire to escape. "Forget your pictures. Let's get out of here!" yelled Fox. He shifted the car to reverse.

Far from wanting to leave, I instead wanted to meet these strangers. A euphoria was on me. Standing in the seat I spread my arms wide in greeting.

Fox swept my legs out from under me. My rear hit the seat and my foot landed full on the gas pedal. A jack rabbit reverse flopped us forward like rag dolls. Hitting my head on the steering wheel knocked me out of my mesmerized state. The welcome committee transformed into a frenzied pack of assailants. A wave of fear slammed into me.

Driving in reverse is difficult. The car whipped side to side trying to swipe other cars parked along the street. When Fox informed me that the pack was gaining, I dared a quick look forward and verified that our friends were closing the distance.

Looking backwards again to steer I was startled by Sweaty Man lit up by the backing lights. It was too late for him to run. All he could do was clamp his eyes shut. A thumping impact flipped him onto the back of the car. Two cages flew forward and bounced off the hood.

Desperate to escape the pursuers I backed through the red light of an intersection. In our wake the cross-traffic collided. Crashing impacts, horns, lights, yelling people.

Our pursuers had vanished.

Sweaty Man was in grim shape, appendages twisted and broken. His agitated mental state and physical exhaustion had prepared him poorly for the impact. I put my ear to his lips to hear his repeated words, "Ellos han estado, Son, Ellos estarán." Miss Emily's Spanish dictionary would later translate these to their ominous English counterparts: "They have been, They are, They will be."

As the sirens approached, Fox became anxious to leave. "Wait, we need to make a report!" I yelled after him, "They won't believe me!" Sweaty Man's injuries kept me from chasing Fox. In desperation I called, "At least tell me your name!" Sirens and squealing tires drowned out his reply. I'd swear he said his name was "Maudlin".

The Chicago P. D. slogan is "We Serve and Protect." It's plastered on every squad car in the county. Those that have suffered that "service and protection" are fully aware of the unprinted, second half of the slogan—"When We Feel Like It." It took most of the night, Tony's influence and an enormous bail bond to get me out of the clutches of the authorities.

Tony stomped off in disgust when he heard where my reptile-car-chase-in-reverse explanation was going. Laughing at his untucked pajama tail didn't endear me. Under all that bluster hides a good man but a sense of humor eludes. Pastrami and pickles are not the culprits for his gastric distress, it's all that laughter he holds inside.

I admit to some cruelty in how I needle Tony. He holds sway over my day-to-day but big picture, he can't get rid of me and we both know it. New York bound us to each other with chains that can never be broken. Chains that each of us used to drag the other across the nation. When one got fired it meant relocation for both. A new city and a new rag but our ties continued to fetter us like bickering conjoined twins. The routine has staled but the show goes on. Smith and Dale, Crosby and Hope, Martin and Lewis...

Vincenzo and Kolchak.

By the time I retrieved my car from the county pound, the Sun was coming up. Camera and recorder had, once again, been emptied of proof. Fox's UFO book was in the passenger seat. Sunglasses held it open to a chapter entitled "Coyame Incident".

Sunlight flashed between train cars. A thunderous blast suspended our argument. Tony held his expression of disbelief waiting for the train to pass. His slack jaw hung so low I could see egg salad.

After the roar, he spoke. "Carl, that is the dumbest thing I've ever heard from you and that's saying something."

"Tony, I'm telling you it happened. The plane crash is documented, I verified it. The flying saucer part is being covered up by both governments. It's all right here." I thumped my finger on Fox's UFO book.

Tony closed his eyes and shook his head. "What have I done to bring this upon myself?"

Referencing the book, I pressed my point. "In August of last year, a UFO, clocked by American radar at incredible speeds, collided with a civilian plane outside a Mexican town called Coyame. The American Military offered to assist at the crash site but was denied by the Mexican Government. Hours later, a Mexican radio message was intercepted claiming their recovery team had gone silent. The Americans scrambled a team of men and helicopters to the crash site where they found a damaged disc of unknown origin. It had no occupants. Strewn around the site were the dead bodies of the Mexican soldiers. They had strange incisions on their necks and their sidearms were still holstered."

"Great, 'Vampires from Outer Space,' The kids will love it at the matinee," muttered Tony, rolling his eyes.

"Will you Listen?" I asked. "The Americans receive word from their base that Mexican aircraft were in-bound so the Americans pick up the disc with a helicopter and fly it to a war ship in the gulf. Who knows where it ended up?"

"Have you checked the Transylvania Space Port?" he asked.

Ignoring his bait I continued, "The American Military took statements from everyone involved. Several soldiers reported that as the helicopters left, A pack of kangaroos were observed hopping from the crash site. Kangaroos are not indigenous to Mexico, I looked it up."

Unimpressed, Tony shoved his last potato chip in his mouth and crunched it loudly.

"Now, here's the clincher from an article written right here at INS," I continued. " 'University of Chicago Professor, Reinhard Wruck, was denied tenure for submitting a paper to the scientific community citing a UFO incident from Coyame, Mexico.' University of Chicago records, that I saw with my own eyes, state that he was on an exchange program with a Mexican university and doing research in Chihuahua, Mexico at the time of the crash."

Tony smacked his lips and looked bored.

It was time for the coup de grace. With as much drama as could be mustered I produced a paper from my jacket pocket. "I submit to you, Sir, last night's accident report which identifies the injured man as none other than University of Chicago Professor, Reinhard Wruck." I spun the report like an oak leaf onto Tony's desk with a flourish. Hands on hips, I beamed with satisfaction.

My face fell when I saw the look on Tony's. Heavy lidded he stifled a belch and fisted his chest. His wadded sandwich wrapper thunked into the trash bin. "That's great, Carl, fascinating. Will there be any proof in your story or should we just send it off to the Enquirer as is?"

You can lead an editor to water but you can't make him think. I repeated my case, "The kangaroos? The incision on the neck? The professor who I have literally bumped into three times and ran over once while investigating this story? Add those to what happened to me last night. What does it mean to you, Tony?"

After a pause, he said, "Now that I think about it, maybe it does mean something."

"Yeah?" I brightened.

"Sure, I think I can come to a conclusion on this."

"You mean it, Tony?"

"I do. The take-away here is that I'm not going to get either of my stories because you've lost your mind!"

I made a firm stand. "I demand that this story go out on the wire."

Now that there was no food to distract him, Tony was free to focus on the engagement. He stood and bellowed, "The only story that is likely to escape this news agency today will be about how an editor strangled his lead reporter! Now, get out of here, Kolchak! Get out!"

The door I slammed echoed in the reporter pool. Eye contact was avoided all around. Miss Emily scrambled to reference her Spanish Dictionary. Ron covered a smirk with his hand.

Two paper plates had been stapled together in a disc shape and left on my chair. Snickers lead to outright guffaws from the far-corner-philistines that I was forced to call co-workers.

If all this wasn't enough, Nemecek called. She wanted to know how to format a two-person byline on a shared story. I declined, telling her I wouldn't feel right about hogging in on the hard work she'd done. In truth, I wanted to abandon the sinking ship. Her drafts had come to some far-out conclusions not to mention the hefty bill for hand-writing analysis. Imagining Tony's blow-back made me grit my teeth.

Minutes later I was brooding and trying to ignore the incessant paper airplane barrage when I overheard Miss Emily on a call. "Why, yes, he's sitting right here next to me. May I give him your name, please? I'm sorry, could you say it again? One moment please." She parked the call and informed me that Brer Fox was on the line.

I snatched up my phone. "Brer Rabbit here."

"How'd it go with the cops?" Fox asked through the phone.

"Not good. Your testimony is sorely needed. The cops lose their sense of humor when a pedestrian gets struck by a car going in reverse. Without your story to back me I had to leave out most of what happened last night."

"I'm sorry but I can't get involved with the authorities on this," Fox said. "Why don't you just show them the pictures?"

"Why don't they show them to me since they've got my film? Who are you, Mr. Brer Fox and why have little gray men come to Chicago to dine on pets, reporters and boys?"

"My name is Fox M - -" A passing train drowned him out. Did he say his last name was 'Murder'?

Before I could clarify, a paper airplane whizzed past my head and a monotone jeered, "take-me-to-your-leader."

Fox said, "Sounds like you did your homework. Here's what I've pieced together. The Mexican Government captured our friends near a crash site last year. A Chicago Professor, working with the local Mexican University at the time, was involved in the initial handling of the 'subjects' but was later cut out of the deal and discredited to silence him. To get back at them, the Professor hired somebody to steal the little beasts and sneak them out of Mexico. During transport to Chicago University, an accident in Mokena allowed them to escape. Mexico sent a team to retrieve their 'property' and tie up the loose ends. We need to be careful."

"You're tellin' me? I've met the Tijuana Contingency."

Fox said, "I've got a plan."

"What do you mean 'a plan'? You're twelve."

"Thirteen and I've got a plan to get your evidence. Bring my sunglasses and get a pair for yourself."

As agreed I waited for Fox that night in Southside. There would be no sneaking up on me this time. I heard him from blocks away. The donk-donk noise explained itself when Fox walked under a streetlight. He held a rope that was tied around a goat's neck. The goat's bell swayed back and forth ringing with each step.

A fox, a goat and a rabbit cruised the streets of Southside. At a red light, curiosity overpowered the silence.

"Where'd you get the goat?" I asked.

"You don't want to know," Fox replied.

The light turned green and it was left at that.

Humidity and mosquitoes were merciless. Fox had tied the goat off to a jungle gym in a secluded park. With my camera at the ready, we hid behind shrubs in the back yard of an abandoned house. The muggy night dragged on to early morning. There was no relief from the insect onslaught.

Watching Fox swat at his antagonists, the fantastic nature of what we were doing became realized. Who was this kid? Why was he involved? He was engaged but without the innocent enthusiasm of a child. He was serious and driven. In a low voice, I question him, "I do this for a living, Kid. What are you here for?"

After a thoughtful pause he replied, "I'm looking for the truth."

What a strange statement for a twelve year old. "Be careful," I said. "That monster is more dangerous than the ones we're after right now."

"Besides," he said, "you're doing more than just a job. I've watched you. You aren't much different from me." His gaze returned to the park.

He was right. Until now I had avoided defining my interest in him. We were much alike and I saw my younger self in him. It gave me a sort of comfort to imagine that a kindred soul existed. For a time, Carl Kolchak wasn't alone, fighting for what was right. It was Carl and a boy called Fox.

Fox drew something from his pocket and handed it to me. "I was wondering if you'd keep an eye out," he said. "You're the kind of person that could bump into her one day."

My lighter revealed a dog-eared photo of a young girl. The resemblance was evident. "Your sister?" I asked. He looked away and invented an interest in our goat trap. He'd shared everything I would get on the subject.

When I tried to give it back, he refused. "You keep it," he said.

"It's too precious to give away," I said. "Besides, how could I forget a pretty face like that?" Fox smiled at me. I wanted to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder but I was unaccustomed.

He shook his head when I offered the photo again. With care I inserted it into my wallet, then wallet to coat pocket and patted to show it was safe.

A dink from the goat's bell relieved the awkward tension and gave us an excuse to break the unspoken between us. We returned to our vigil. For my part, the bug swarm had somehow thinned and the darkness was maybe a bit brighter.

Minutes later, a familiar foul stench wafted in. Fox's hand clamped down on my arm. Across the park a crowd of glowing eyes formed. Soft chittering and a single hoot were held down by the thick, hot air.

The goat sensed their presence and issued a string of staccato bleats. It tried to flee but was held by the rope. When the creature pack dared leave the shadows, the goat panicked. It's bell rattled with donkity dinks and it's bawling climbed an octave.

The crouched, hopping pack of reptoids advanced cautiously on their prey. Belt Wearer took the lead bringing out the hose device.

As they encircled the goat, the hooting commenced and the intensity of their glowing eyes increased. Their eyes illuminated the goat with a light that calmed my nerves. Again the euphoria was on me and a strange urge to expose my presence to the creatures was building.

Fox's insistent jerks on my sleeve broke through. He pointed at the sunglasses he wore and motioned for me to put mine on. The instant I did, cold-water fear crashed onto my spine. The sunglasses blocked the creature's hypnotic eye-glow.

The goat had ceased it's hollering and calmed so much that even the bell around it's neck had quieted. The hoots were now much louder and rhythmic. The pack swayed with the tempo. Belt Wearer ran it's clawed hand over the goat's neck. It found the desired spot and jabbed a tube end into the goat's flesh. The other end spurted blood into Belt Wearer's mouth. A scuffle between two pack members that each claimed the right of succession was resolved and the pack passed the tube among themselves.

Again I felt a pull on my sleeve. Fox flexed his index fingers in a pantomime of taking pictures. The flash had been disabled and I was careful to time the clicks of my shutter to the rhythm of the hooting.

As more of them became satiated, the hooting subsided. Failing to consider this, I dared a last shot. The shutter click carried through the now-quiet night. Creatures whirled to look in my direction. Instinctively I crouched and reached to pull Fox down with me. My hand raked the air. He was nowhere to be felt.

A chittering alert raised among the pack. The creatures scanned my hiding spot and approached. It was time to go.

As I turned to run I collided with something large and warm in the dark. A startled yell escaped me as hands grabbed at my coat and arms. The sunglasses were blocking my view and I tore them from my face.

Toothpick had me by the arm and his cadre was with him. Caught between two menaces, I didn't know which direction to be frightened in the most.

Toothpick's crew had grown in number and suits crashed out of the foliage behind him. The number of people facing them halted the creature pack. A chattered order turned them around to hop away. A few stole backward glances before vaulting over a chain-link fence.

"There they go!" I yelled. "Aren't you going to do something? Catch one?"

"Good idea, Mr. Kolchak," said Toothpick. Turning to the others he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. "Amigos, coger uno."

Instead of chase the creatures, they apprehended...me.

"Oh, now, wait a minute! I'm an American here!"

The hulks I was sandwiched between took more room than they needed on purpose. From the front passenger seat, Toothpick stink-eyed me from a visor mirror. Mexican covers of awful American pop songs blared from the sound system.

The windows were tinted, including the windshield. Without the aid of landmarks I tried to keep track of where we were but the erratic ride dragged on for so long that I became lost.

I spoke up about needing to be at work the next day and how they could drop me off anywhere. Toothpick applied an icy stare. The brutes next to me expanded their chests, digging their elbows deeper into my sides.

Spanish exchanged among my captors. It was mostly incomprehensible to me but I did notice a phrase they kept repeating. It sounded something like "choop uh doopy" or "choop uh chopa". To remember it, I spoke it quietly into my recorder. Left Side Ape gave me a sharp elbow that knocked the wind out of me. Right Side Ape snatched my recorder and unspooled the magnetic tape out the window.

After untraceable meandering, the car screeched to a halt. There was a frantic in-and-out of bodies and we were underway again.

Toothpick now sat to my right and someone new sat in the front passenger seat. He wore a hat and smoked. After quick conversation among themselves in Spanish, The Smoker flipped the visor down to look at me in the mirror. Dark eyes squinted to keep out the smoke. He had a ceremonial, cupped-hand way of holding his cigarette.

Words mixed with smoke, "Vamos a tenerlo," said The Smoker. On command, Toothpick removed the film cassette from my camera and handed it forward with my wallet. My protests earned me another shot to the ribs.

"Mr. Kolchak, you are meddling in matters you can't understand," said The Smoker as he searched my wallet.

"Suppose you explain it to me," I said. "What are those creatures and why are they here? Who are you and why the goons?"

This time the elbow was to my face. Lights exploded and I tasted blood.

"Tómalo con calma," said The Smoker to my attacker. "Mr. Kolchak is only doing his job." He turned and handed me a handkerchief from his pocket. He was Caucasian with a tight hair cut, my age or younger. His dapper suit looked a decade or two behind the times, especially his narrow tie.

I twisted a corner of his handkerchief and stuffed it in my nose to stop the flow of blood. Letters monogrammed the silk "C.B.G."

"You think, because you've encountered a few anomalies in your life that you've got it all figured out?" he asked. "The Universe isn't as ordered as everyone wants to believe. It's chaotic and some of it has come visiting."

"Those things are dangerous." I said, "They don't care what they get their claws on—even people! They drink the blood of the living. What are you going to do about that?" I poked the bloody handkerchief at him to punctuate my question.

"Let's not be rude, Mr. Kolchak. It's customary to offer refreshment to guests who come calling." He turned away and settled in his seat.

In the hopes he'd reject a bloodied handkerchief I picked a fresh corner to foul. A monogrammed hanky wasn't rock-solid evidence, but it was better than nothing. "I get it," I said, "Feed them and they'll hang around awhile. What do you get out of keeping them here?"

In response The Smoker flipped the mirrored visor, breaking eye contact. He answered no more questions but the thorough search of my wallet continued. After counting my money he slipped something into his jacket pocket.

"Fixing alien invasions doesn't pay well?" I asked. Elbows from both sides answered. My ribs were now on fire. I couldn't suppress a groan.

The Smoker chained one cigarette after another. After awhile the smoke became so thick, it turned my stomach. Finally he spoke, "You'd be wise to forget what you've seen and heard, Mr. Kolchak." He handed me my wallet. "Don't try to print any of this."

"Esto es bueno," he said to the driver. The car pulled over and The Smoker exited. Toothpick powered down the window when The Smoker tapped. Bending down to make eye contact, The Smoker sucked down, in one massive pull, the last half of a cigarette then flicked away the filter.

Smoke exhaled with each word he spoke. "One more thing, Mr. Kolchak, stop letting that boy lead you around by the nose." With a sharp yank, he relieved my crusty nostril of his blood-stained handkerchief.

"He's troubled," he said and walked into the night.

What they lacked in social skills, they made up for in brutality. The efficiency of the Nuremberg executions paled in comparison. A quick extraction, two to hold, one to administer—a guy who knew what he was doing and liked his work. The sharp shock of the first punch dulled the rest. They thudded home on my already stunned torso. I'd have fallen if they'd just let go but as a final measure they threw me to the ground.

My hat and jeering laughter were tossed from the back window as the car sped away.

When my eyes stopped watering, I found myself on the curb outside the INS offices. The message was hackneyed but effective—"We know where you live."

My body flooded my mind with "stay down" signals but my hat was in danger. The whirling brushes of an early-morning street cleaner bore down on it.

My film? Take it. My Pride? If you have to. But my Hat? Never. At the last possible moment I snatched it to safety.

Taking a tentative inventory I found that the Mexigoons had stopped short of breaking bones but their gut punches were unpacking and promising to stay for awhile. Holding my throbbing belly I remembered something a mentor had told me—"If you've been roughed up, you're on the right track".

Later that day, Miss Emily noticed how tenderly I took my seat. "Carl, are you well? You look green around the gills. Was it something you ate?"

"Yeah, Mexican Knuckle Sandwiches." I muttered.

"Oh, 'sandwich'," She exclaimed. "That's a good one. Ron what's Spanish for 'sandwich'?"

Watching her squeeze "emparedado" between other Spanish words on her puzzle board jogged my memory. "Miss Emily, do you know a Spanish word 'chuppa doopa' or 'chupa kida,' 'choopa'...something?" I tried to remember the phrase my captors had bandied.

Miss Emily frowned and shook her head. That's when it came back to me. "Chupacabra!" I yelled. Ron sputtered into laughter. "What's so funny, Uptight?" I asked.

"Updyke," Ron corrected. "Your Spanish is no better than your English. 'Chupacabra' means 'goat sucker'."

"Goat sucker?" The gleam in my eye was interrupted by the ringing of my phone. "INS, Carl Kolchak," I answered.

"Mr. Kolchak, It's Fox."

"That's three times you've disappeared on me. 'Fox' is the right name for someone so sly and crafty."

"Sorry about that. I don't have much time, I'm leaving for Massachusetts."

"When?" I asked.

"They're waiting for me right now. There's something I've got to tell you. I know where our friends are headed. They'll drain anything that's alive but they prefer livestock, especially goats."

"Chupacabra?" I offered.

"Si, chupacabra." repeated Fox with a laugh in his voice. We shared a moment of mutual admiration before he continued. "Goats must resemble something they eat from...wherever they're from. I don't know how they sense it but they've been on a straight line to the Chicago Stock Yards."

"Fox, The stock yards have been closed for years."

"All but one. There's a facility that handles goats and other animals allowed by Kashrut."

"Cash what?" I asked.

"Kashrut. It's a set of rules that outlines what can and cannot be eaten in the Jewish faith. Look for a place called the Rotem Slaughterhouse. They provide Kosher meats to delicatessens around the city. It's where the goat came from. He's okay, by the way. They were interrupted before draining him completely."

"Lucky goat," I said.

Fox's voice turned serious, "I don't think they will stop with the animals. We saw them come after us. It won't take them long to move on to a more abundant food source."

"Smart kid," I thought to myself. His candor inspired a warning from me. Massaging my sore spots I cautioned him, "Listen, Fox, there are some heavy hitters on this thing and they know about you. You're in over your head. I'm glad you're gettin' out."

"Out? Who wants out?" asked Fox. "If you see him again, tell Mr. Morley that I'm ready whenever he is."

So, a history did exist between Fox and The Smoker and Fox knew I'd met him. Now it felt like I was the one in over my head. Fox's courage and resourcefulness multiplied my admiration for him. Now was my chance to give back. "He smokes Morley cigarettes, alright, but I took his initials as C.B.G." Fox's silence confused me. Was this information known to him or a revelation?

Speaking of The Smoker reminded me of the wallet incident. I'd discovered that it wasn't money he'd taken but the photo of Fox's sister instead. I spared Fox this fact, there was no use in adding to his grief. Besides, it didn't matter. As I'd said to Fox, his sister was indeed too pretty to forget. This would be proven a decade later when I saw her in person. That, however, is a story for another time.

A car horn from the back of Fox's call snapped me back to the moment. The tooted summons felt final.

"I hate to see you go, kid. You've been a big help," I told him.

The call got quiet but what did I expect a 13-year-old to say? I took advantage of the lull to swallow down the lump in my throat.

The impatient horn blared again.

"I gotta go, Mr. Kolchak."

"Stay in touch, Brer Fox."

"I will."

"Hey! What is your name by the w - -"

Fox had hung up. The dial tone lingered like something he'd left behind. I held on the line in case he came back for it.

He didn't.

Outside the drug store I peeled the wrapping from a fresh cassette of film. Chucking the balled foil to the sidewalk, I reflected on my situation.

There were too many for me to deal with by myself. Fox's exit left me short-handed. What I needed was undeniable proof. I needed photographs.

I shoved the film cassette into my camera and slapped the door shut. Evil from beyond was at work in Chicago. It was up to me to stop them.

June 25th, 10:15 P.M., Rotem Slaughterhouse, Chicago, Illinois.

I'd parked a couple blocks away and followed my nose to the abattoir. Once the center of the meat-packing world, Chicago's Union Stock Yards had been reduced to a half block of mish-mash pens surrounding a solitary old barn. Progress had erased what Vanderbilt built. The whole lot was out of place, nested between urban buildings with Chicago's night skyline behind it. Except for a few cows in one pen, the yard was empty and dark.

I climbed a fence and navigated the maze of pens to the barn where I hoped to find goats. I'd hide out by them and wait to see if our visitors would show.

The inside of the barn was poorly lit and more of a twisted maze than the outside. I snaked through the walkways between pens. Occasionally I'd climb the boards to get an overview of the labyrinth.

The walkway opened into a large pen. Stumbling over something I discovered the limp body of a goat. Its breathing had been stilled and its lifeless eyes were wide open, fearful. Blood trickled from a triangular wound on it's neck. I froze with fear. So, They'd been here but were they still around? To be safe I drew my sunglasses from my coat pocket and put them on. Another goat laid still a short distance away. I advanced to inspect it and confirm the cause of death.

Movement from the far corner of the pen seized me with terror. Shapes dismissed as a pile of hay bales took on new forms—a hind leg, a head, collars and several spiked tails. A body rolled to its side and revealed a flashing light at its waist. With relief I saw no glowing eyes among the group. Their sides heaved and their stomachs appeared gorged. The stockyards were a jackpot for the thirsty little monsters and they were sleeping off their binge.

I snapped a photo and cringed at how my flash lit up the pile of snoozing beasts. Flashing them again could be disastrous—Not getting my proof would be worse. With clenched teeth, I squeezed another burst. Instead of the swarming attack I had imagined, one of the creatures whimpered and shifted it's weight. This caused a ripple through the pack, each passing a nudge to their neighbor. They settled and several seconds later I dared to exhale.

Now that I had my proof I needed to get out. I backed away from the sleeping pack of blood-suckers. Steps from being able to turn and leave the pen, a hay bale caught my heels and I tumbled over it backwards.

My crashing fall was muted by something soft. Craning my neck I saw that I laid on top of the limp form of my adversary, Toothpick. Sunglasses no longer hid the lifeless eyes. They bulged with fear like those of the drained goat. The incision on his neck dripped blood. More men lay lifeless nearby. Their suits and cowboy boots told me who they were. Fox's prediction had been realized, the Aliens had graduated to a more abundant food source.

On hands and knees I made for the pen's exit. Close to being out of view from the slumbering pack I caught the shape of a face in my peripheral vision. I froze, too terrified to look. Had they posted a guard?

Slowly I turned my head to look at my challenger and found myself eye to eye with Fox's goat. After a brief stare down, the goat turned it's head which caused it's bell to donk. Hay rustled from the creature pile but then silenced. I raised a cautioning finger to my lips. The goat must not have understood because he let loose with a piercing bleat.

Heads with glowing eyes popped up from the now-stirring pile of creatures. "Thanks a lot, Judas!" Scrambling to my feet I heard hoots and chatters fill the barn.

Frantically back-tracking to the exit, I turned left and right through the pen maze. A backwards look on the straightaways verified the creatures were in pursuit. They were dazed from sleeping and slowed by full stomachs but still catching up.

The maze hair-pinned and all that separated me from the hissing pack was a board fence between us. Their eyes flashed through the slats and several of them took clawed swipes at me.

Rounding a final corner I saw the exit directly ahead. The lead pursuer had broken from the pack and was only steps behind me. It would be on me before I could open the door. That's when I spied a pitchfork leaning against the wall. I snagged it and turned to meet what hunted me.

Confused by this new threat, it stopped and hissed at me. I jabbed at it with the pitch fork and it recoiled. I could hear the rest of the hooting pack scuttling closer. Numbers would soon overwhelm my meager defenses. In desperation I gripped the fork like a javelin and hurled it.

The tines sank deep into the creature's torso. Squealing and thrashing, it blocked the others from getting to me. Those few seconds allowed me to get out and slam the door shut.

Hay bales, shovels, buckets and my body stacked against the door to keep them inside. The creatures scratched and banged. Their combined efforts were slowly forcing the door open. Through the gap, they hooted, hissed, and clawed at the objects holding it shut. Among the thrashing claws, a fist taunted me with the feeding hose.

They'd be through in seconds and I knew they'd overtake me if I ran. My resources grew thin. In desperation I frisked myself. Hope surged when my hand felt the hard outline of my lighter. Kneeling down I lit a bale at the bottom. The flames advanced at a painfully slow rate. I wanted to fan them but discovered I'd lost my hat during the chase. Immense blasts from puffed cheeks encouraged the fire.

A creature had wriggled halfway through the door before the flames flared to swallowed it up. With a scream it withdrew into the barn. The rising flames scorched the other claws, forcing them to be drawn back. Finally the door slammed shut.

To keep them from finding another way out, I circled the barn and barred each exit with blazing hay bales. Now that they were trapped, I captured fire-lit proof through a window until the heat forced me back.

Final witness to their rampage of blood, my tape recorder collected the inhuman screams and piteous wails...until they stopped.

Standing among the gathering crowd, I dictated events into my recorder. When Chicago's Finest arrived asking for witnesses, the crowd parted from me and several claimed I had told my tape recorder that I started the fire.

"Oh, Good evening, Kolchak," said the officer. "Roasted marshmallows and sing-alongs at the campfire this evening?"

From the back of a squad car I watched the Fire Engines arrive. The entire structure was aflame. All they could do was keep the fire from spreading to the other buildings. After midnight the barn collapsed in a spectacular light show. Burning embers shot high into the night sky. The crowd clapped at the fireworks display.

A group of men arrived wearing blue wind breakers—Federal Agents. After bickering with them, a cop approached the squad car I was in. Opening the door, he gestured at me and told the Feds, "He's all yours."

The Feds questioned me at the scene for hours. I recounted the story over and over, answering their questions with the truth. My interrogation was interrupted a few times when a cop or fireman strayed close. I used those opportunities to ask them if they'd seen a hat.

Around daybreak the last of the fire engines left the scene. The sleepy crowds had departed and even the news trucks had left. A smattering of cops wrapped up the scene.

"What about the bodies?" I asked my captors. I'd told them about the Mexican's and the creatures and yet, no body bags had come out.

A Convoy of black sedans arrived in answer to my question. The occupants emerged dressed similar to my late Mexican antagonists except wingtips and ties replaced boots and bolos. Several suits approached, relieved my FBI captors of their notes and dismissed them.

"Are you guys from Tijuana by any chance?" I asked. Grim set jaws and mirrored sunglass stares were the response. They weren't Mexican but they were surely cut from the same cloth.

From the back of a sedan I watched the army of suits descend on the scene. With a practiced efficiency they removed evidence of all the aliens, the blood-sucking reptoids as well as those from south of the border.

Their grim work completed, the bulk of the Suits departed. One straggler approached and hauled me bodily out of my back seat cell. Ignoring my queries about finding a hat, he confiscated my camera and recorder. Against my complaints, he pried out the tape and film cassettes and tossed my equipment to the ground. He tromped to another sedan's back window. The window powered down half way. Cigarette smoke came out and the proof of my story went in.

The last sedan departed, spraying me with gravel from its spinning wheels. I stood alone staring at the smoldering remains of the stock yard.

A familiar clanking noise caught my ear. I couldn't help laughing when I saw Fox's goat teetering across the smoking rubble. Unharmed, he munched my hat.

I'd been deprived of hard proof, but many agencies and witnesses were involved—corroboration was assured. Excitement drove me on as I typed alone in the post-dawn INS offices. Pride swelled on the thought of my story going world-wide. I'd finally get my well-deserved slice of recognition pie. I even dared suggest to myself the possibility of a Pulitzer. Then I dared more than a possibility.

We passed at the threshold. Tony in—me out. I slapped my story on his belly and then cocked my hat down over my eyes. Questions about the soot on my face and just where I thought I was going, first thing in the morning, were answered only by my smile—ear to ear.

Several hours of sleep and one bowl of chili later I arrived back at INS.

Nemecek unloaded her belongings onto a desk I had recently called my own. A beret replaced my hat on the wall rack. Artifacts and mementos I recognized as mine stuck out of boxes on a nearby cart. It finally happened. My story broke big and I was getting an office of my own.

Somebody had scrawled "CONGRATULATIONS!" along a strip of hanging teletype paper. I leaned back under the impromptu banner with my fists on my hips, surveying the reporter pool. What's the use of fame if you don't lord it over the lowly? Uninterested they banged away on their typewriters. My watch showed it was crunch time for them. Ah, well. There'd be opportunities aplenty for adulation after deadline. Heck, they'd probably planned a party.

What's this? An adorant approacheth? "Have you heard?" the copy boy said, leaning in over the typewriter din, "It's going national, can you believe that?"

"Oh, I believe it, alright." I said.

"Have you read it? It's brilliant!"

"Read it? I lived it!"

"Sure, sure, we all feel that way," he said. I slapped the poor star-struck kid on the back as he scuttled off with handfuls of comparative bush-league copy from the pool. I rationalized that my story couldn't be expected to fill an entire paper and ceded the back end of the run to my adoring co-scripts—inferior as they may be.

Smiling wider than ever I pushed my hat down low over my eyes and threw my legs on Tony's desk waiting for his phone call to end. "Thank you, Mayor," he spoke into the phone, "we are proud of all our reporters here." I feigned modesty. Tony's eyes narrowed and twinkled. "I agree with you, Sir. Possibly the best story to come out of our offices."

To hold down my blush, I fanned myself with my goat-bitten hat.

"Yes, Sir, we are rewarding them with a promotion," he said. I faked surprise at this news that verified my suspicion.

"Thank you for the call and I'll pass along your congratulations." Tony hung the phone up and I basked in adoration. "Insufferable" barely begins to describe my attitude.

"Well, Carl, You've really done it this time," he said.

"I take it that I'm moving," I said, gesturing to the cart of boxes.

"Yes, I've decided on a work space more befitting your new position."

"Where, may I ask, will that be?"

Tony's smile evaporated. His elbow shoved my feet off his desk. "You're moving next to the store room in the basement!" he hollered.

"Basement? What about my office?"

"What office? You are going to Obituaries."

"Obitu...? What about my story?" I asked.

Tony drew the pages of my story from his desk drawer and flapped them under my nose. "This story? I couldn't verify one fact from any of it. Not one!" He slapped it back into his drawer and slammed it shut.

From my sensory memory came the barest whiff of cigarette smoke. My back stiffened. "What about the Cops?" I asked.

"Denied it all."

"The Feds?"

"Refuted," snapped Tony.

"Animal control?" I squeaked.

"Want the reports back that you stole from them."

"You must have heard from the University of Chicago Professor."

"You mean the one you ran over in reverse? Yeah, we heard from him and by that I mean we heard from his lawyer!"

"The kid?" I eked out.

"Oh, the kid? What's his name again?"

"Maudler, Mundane, Murder, Mumble, mumble...mumbl..."

Deadline be damned, the reporter pool had ceased their typing to stare at the train wreck I was tangled in. Miss Emily swiped a tear. Ron was over-joyed.

Tony continued the hammering. "If you'd simply done the story I gave you, you'd be where Nemecek is now—praised nationally and promoted. Not only did she crack the Bulgari shooting but she also solved a decades-old cold case involving Al Capone. All from one cocktail napkin! She's on her way up and you're on your way down, Kolchak—to the basement."

Anger, dread and dejection boiled in my brain. My sputtering attempts to speak were interrupted by Nemecek's rap on the door.

"Here she is now," gushed Tony. "Sharon, come in. The Mayor called to offer his congratulations. I've got some ideas about your next assignment." Tony's face darkened as he barked at me, "Kolchak, don't you have some moving to do?"

"Don't bother, Carl," Nemecek said. "You can have your desk back. I just got off the phone with the Tribune. I start there tomorrow."

"The Tribune? I don't understand," said Tony. "If it's the money, we can discuss it."

"Stay at INS when the Tribune calls? I doubt that," she said. "Thanks for the hot lead, Kolchak." She plopped her beret on her head and walked out laughing. Applause from the reporter pool crescendoed then collapsed into murmuring confusion as she walked past them and out the door, waving good-bye over her shoulder.

Tony and I made a pair. The same stunned expression was on both our faces. A roaring train passed just in time to smother Tony's expletive-laden curse. You, Dear Reader, will have to fill in the blanks.

The story you just read was buried and buried deep. The following accounts that support my claims did make it to print: "Last of Historic Chicago Stock Yards Burned by Faulty Wiring," "Mystery Animal Plague Attributed to Poor Record Keeping," "U of C Professor Awarded Damages In Traffic Accident" and "Cub Correspondent Cracks Capone Cold Case."

This "incident" was only the first time Brer Fox crossed paths with Brer Rabbit. Our associations would be intermittent and nebulous at best. At times I'm not certain that we knew each other at all. Was he a ghost in my imagination? Or maybe I was a ghost in his.

Tony still refuses to discuss what happened that hot June so many years ago. Asked directly, he denies the story ever existed. I often envision my manuscript tucked away with its siblings in a dusty file of attic memories. Maybe one day they will be discovered and put in print. Who knows, they might even make a decent television show.

Concerning the veracity of this account, I direct skeptics to a clue from that week's crossword puzzle—thirteen down, ten letters, "Mexican goat sucker", starts with "C".

Thank you, Miss Emily.