Free The White City by John Claude Bemis Page A

“What have we here, see?”
    Ray twisted away from the agent, but Sandusky had him locked in his grip. With a tug, the agent popped open the top buttons of Ray’s shirt. Ray fell back, and when he landed, the red flannel toby lay exposed.
    Muggeridge’s eyes widened. “Let me see that.”
    Mister Murphy ripped the toby from Ray’s neck and handed it to him. Muggeridge opened the string and emptied the contents into his palm: roots, a dandelion petal, a twist of rue, dried herbs, and other charms. He continued shaking them out and letting them spill to the ground as he searched.
    Mister Pike said, “The Ramblers were known to carry mojo pouches of these here hoodoo curios.”
    “But there’s no rabbit’s foot in it,” Muggeridge said, throwing down the empty red flannel sack.
    “The hell! He’s got it hidden on him somewhere else!” Sandusky cried, and Pike tightened his grip on his arm.
    “Strip him,” Muggeridge ordered.
    Ray tried to remain impassive as Murphy and another agent removed Ray’s clothes until he stood in the baking sun in only his underclothes and socks. “Where is it?” Sandusky looked as if he were about to attack Ray again.
    “Some sort of spell he’s cast on it,” one of the other agents suggested.
    “To make it invisible,” another agreed.
    “I’m not looking for a discussion,” Muggeridge barked. “I want some order here with you men!”
    “We’ve been out here for weeks on these blasted plains!” Sandusky shouted. “How much farther we going to go? To the Pacific? To China? Yes sir, we’re chasing a ghost!”
    “Put Mister Sandusky in the coach,” Muggeridge told Pike.
    Sandusky furled his brow but allowed Pike to lead him away. Muggeridge said, “You men get to your posts. Ready the steamcoach.” The men reluctantly backed away as ordered.
    Muggeridge looked at Ray after they were alone. “Put your clothes back on, boy.”
    Ray began dressing. When Pike returned, he asked Muggeridge in a low voice, “Sir, are we going to continue pursuit?”
    “We have orders to bring back the Rambler boy and his rabbit’s paw,” Muggeridge said. “And this kid isn’t carrying it.”
    Pike’s voice was tight. “The men are nearly mutinous, Mister Muggeridge. Supplies are low. Morale is worse. And I absolutely feel we have convincing evidence that this here boy is the Rambler we’re after, even if we can’t find the charm. Let’s find out.”
    “What are you suggesting?”
    “Bring out the Hound.”
    Ray had just fastened the last button of his shirt. He kept his gaze down, trying to mask the fear twitching at his jaw.
    Muggeridge paused. “All right. You watch the boy.”
    He turned toward the back of the steamcoach. Pike thumbed the hammer back on his pistol and motioned toward Ray. “Sit on down there.”
    Ray sank to the dusty earth.
    Muggeridge unlatched the door and entered the car. After a moment, he came back out, his hand clutching the Hoarhound at the throat. Ray had only ever seen the creature at night, images that had been blurred by darkness and the terror of the encounters. But now, as the frost-armored beast steamed in the hot air, Ray had time to see Grevol’s creation more clearly. Bigger than a bull, the Hound had enormous jaws that hung slack, and its back was stitched up crudely from the battle with the rougarou.
    Its head somewhat resembled a dog’s, but with the features exaggerated and grotesque. The ears protruded back like splintered horns, and its muzzle hung with gruesome tendrils of skin. It moved with none of the grace of an animal but followed Muggeridge with a gait made stilted by rotating gears and pumping pistons.
    Ray sucked in his breath as the Hound brought its steely eyes around to meet his. The monster snarled and lunged. Muggeridge tightened his grip and said, “Easy there. Slowly. Slowly. Over here.”
    As the Hoarhound approached, Ray sat back, leaning on his hands to stifle the trembling in his arms.
    “Stay right there,”