Where Angels Fear

WHERE ANGELS FEAR

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The Tales of Blakely & Boles

Table of Contents

Title Page

Where Angels Fear

The Legend of the Kongamato | A Hugh Blakely Adventure | Jiundu Swamp, Zambia, Africa

Two Days Later, Mount Shambu, Zambia

The Case of the Real Headless Horseman | A William Boles Adventure | Cooch State Park, Delaware

SCREAMING IN SILENCE

MEMORIES

Ragged Bones

LET ANGELS PROSTRATE FALL | A Donna Fargo Story

Buckhead, Georgia

EYE TO EYE

THE ONLY COURAGE

ONE NIGHT IN CHINATOWN | A Lai Wan/Donna Fargo Story

Hyatt Hotel, Downtown Atlanta, Georgia

The Jaguar God | A Blakely & Boles Adventure

Due West of Tikal, Guatemala

EPILOGUE:

WHERE ANGELS FEAR | A Blakely and Boles Story

By:

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Bruce Gehweiler

&

C.J. Henderson

The Legend of the Kongamato

A Hugh Blakely Adventure

Jiundu Swamp, Zambia, Africa

  A small, smooth shadow glided across the fishermen, causing them to pause as they pulled their net in toward their dugout. Both looked up into the cloudless sky, puzzled as they wiped at the sweat dripping from their brows. At first neither could find anything to explain the momentary darkness. Then, something darted past the corner of the man in the stern’s vision, something coming in low and fast over the fetid water.

  As he was still trying to focus on what he thought he had seen, Kinsanga was struck by a leathery wing which knocked him violently backward out of the boat. Sputtering, he resurfaced to the sight of his companion, Umbati, struggling against a most peculiar bird. Veins shown through the thin skin of its wings—wings longer than the vessel over which it circled. Its oddly shaped head came to a point as long as its beak which held a huge fish in its rows of sharp teeth.

  A fish it has stolen from us!

  The thought angered Kinsanga enough to shock him to his senses and send him swimming back toward the dugout to help his friend. As he did, Umbati attacked the strange bird with an oar. The creature dropped the pilfered fish, grabbing instead the outstretched arm of the fisherman. Umbati screamed as the giant bird shook its head from side to side, rowed teeth stripping the flesh up and down the length of his arm.

  Kinsanga yelled as loud as he could at the bird, hoping to frighten it. Reaching the side of the boat, he heaved himself upward, somehow managing to catch hold of the creature’s leg. Above him he heard a popping sound; a sticky liquid splashed over his head and shoulders. Ignoring everything else except his duty to his friend, Kinsanga tried to use his weight to drag the bird-thing down into the water. To the fisherman’s surprise, however, the creature took flight instead, Kinsanga still clinging one-handed to its leg. His muscles strained, burning from the exertion as the bird-thing thrashed violently—its struggles a desperate attempt to climb higher despite the man’s weight.

  Why do you still hold on, fool?

  As the thought passed through the fisherman’s mind, he looked below him to make certain he was over water. Then, to his horror, he saw Umbati draped half in and half out of their dugout, his right arm no longer attached to his body. Kinsanga looked up and found the missing appendage, firmly gripped in the bird-thing’s impossible, tooth-filled mouth.

  In that moment of shock, the creature kicked and flapped wildly once more, finally managing to dislodge its unwanted passenger. Kinsanga screamed as he fell and fell until finally slamming against the muddy surface of Jiundu Swamp. The water slapped against him viciously like so much timber. The addition abuse forced the fisherman to cry out once more, even as it drove him beneath the lake’s surface once more. When he finally managed to thrust his head upward into the air once more, battered and frightened and very much confused, he saw the great bird flying higher and higher. He watched it for a very long time, until it disappeared over the distance shoreline.

  Afterward he swam for his dugout, a craft he realized sadly was now probably his and his alone. Pulling himself up to where he could see inside the boat, the fisherman found his friend, Umbati, laying very still, an ocean of blood pooled all about him. Kinsanga’s eyes focused on the empty socket at Umbati’s right shoulder, and then his tears began to flow—his tragic lamentations frightening the animals along the nearest shore.

Duke University, Durham, North Carolina

  The phone rang, making the large man cross the room and pick it up, Dr. Hugh Blakely speaking.

  Sounding tinny and far away, the voice on the other end spoke in English, but with a strange accent. Blakely had to concentrate to understand what the man was saying.

  This is Dr. Kurt Kruger, he heard, of the University of South Africa. I’m a zoologist studying species native to Zambia and I’m afraid our expedition has had a bit of a problem. Blakely frowned, asking;

  And what exactly does this problem have to do with me, Dr. Kruger?

  It appears that a large bird resembling a Pterodactyl killed a fisherman, wrecked a boat, and injured another man. There was not a part of Kruger’s statement that did not command the crypto-zoologist’s attention. Swallowing hard, forcing his excitement into a place from which he hoped it would not soon escape, he pretended the connection to be worse than it was, asking;

  So, I’m sorry, but did I hear you right? Did you say that you called to tell me ... that a living dinosaur is on the loose in Zambia?

  Yes, that’s why I’m calling! I know it sounds a little crazy ...,

  Yeah, a little something ...

  Dr. Blakely, Kruger’s tone dropped a notch, his anger at being made sport of becoming apparent, I can appreciate you need a moment to compose yourself, but I am calling from Africa, and there are others who—

  No, no, the crypto-zoologist back-pedaled furiously, ladling ever excuse for his tone he could stir up into the phone lines. After a moment, the voice on the other end of the line apologized for its owner’s short temper, then added;

  Yes, as best we can make there must be something to this. The injured fisherman is well known for his honesty. The local magistrate was making noises about suspecting him in the other man’s death—but, the victim was the fisherman’s best friend, and the way he was killed, his arm sawed off—it didn’t take much investigation work to prove his arm was chewed off, Kruger sounded almost apologetic.

  That’s fantastic! blurted Blakely. Give me your number, tell me where you are, exactly, and the best way to get there. I’m in motion already.

  After scribbling notes furiously, Blakely thanked the man on the phone once more and then cradled it back onto its base. Grabbing up his keys and note pad, he mumbled to himself as he locked the door to his office. Pimms is going to love this ... maybe I can use the coffee fund money to go ... must see this for myself ... my eyes ... what a find!

  Blakely scratched at his short cropped blonde hair as he moved his muscular frame rapidly down the hall. Reaching the office of the Chancellor he began moving even faster. As he barged into its well-appointed waiting room, the petite woman sitting behind the desk in the center of the room leaped up and planted herself in front of the inner office door.

  Hold it right there, Dr. Blakely! she snapped, chin and right palm both out-thrust dramatically. Chancellor Pimms is in a meeting with Dr. Boles and they are not to be disturbed.

  Ms. Jakosta, the big man blurted, glaring down at the tiny woman, This is an emergency. I’ve got to see the Chancellor. A prehistoric bird has been spotted alive in Zambia ... Ms. Jakosta placed her hands on her hips and frowned up at Blakely.

  And you actually believe this fanciful report? Photos have been sent to you? Video captures? A really old bird’s nest? As Blakely’s towering form collapsed inward somewhat, its steam dribbling away under Jakosta’s barrage, the woman continued, not letting up for a moment. Crossing her arms across her rather humble chest, she began tapping her foot as well as she sneered;

  Really, Doctor—haven’t you got better things ...

  The heavy wooden door opened behind Ms. Jakosta, revealing the sight of a very plump, sweating man frowning at Blakely from behind his desk. Holding open the door, a short, neatly arranged man with a salt and pepper goatee gloated;

  Why, I was correct, Chancellor. It’s the good Dr. Blakely disturbing the peace again. Find any good monsters recently, good Dr. Blakely?

  Yes actually, Dr. Boles, growled Blakely, his eyes narrowing at the sight of the one professor on campus he had to admit he actively loathed. "You can read all about the new species of crocodile in the upcoming issue of National Zoologist next month. They did a very nice piece on the discovery, even included a picture I sent them of the chancellor and his wife at the reception where we donated the specimen to the National Zoo in D.C. In the school’s name, of course. Your wife still collects those kinds of notices, doesn’t she, sir?"

  Not willing to get in the middle of yet another row between his two most popular professors, Pimms merely waved his hand in the air for an instant, then found a spot outside his window he could fix his gaze upon in the hopes he could ignore the pair. A thin smile breaking his lips, Blakely asked his colleague;

  How about you, Doctor? Find any ghosts recently, or did they all vaporize before you could get a clear picture? As usual? Boles seemed to stab at Blakely with his pointy nose, as he answered;

  Yes—in fact Chancellor Pimms has agreed to accompany me to Delaware to search for the real Headless Horseman. Sightings of the famous ghost have been increasing recently in a remote area known as Cooch’s Bridge.

  Blakely felt hurt by the news.

  Is that true, sir? Boles allowed himself the tiniest of snickers, keenly aware that Pimms had never accompanied Blakely on any of his excursions into the field. Turning back toward the pair, rising from behind his antique desk, the rotund man did his best to straighten his trade mark three piece suit, as he said;

  Yes it is, Dr. Blakely; I’m going to assist Dr. Boles in this case. Been feeling the need to stretch my legs, get off campus, dirt under the nails—you know. The ensuing uncomfortable pause delighted Boles to the point where the Chancellor had to clear his throat, then add;

  After all, Hugh, I’d have to get myself into much better physical condition before I could accompany you on one of your field trips. They tend to be much more rugged and dangerous than I’m accustomed to ... Sensing an opportunity Blakely did a quick two-step around Jakosta and said;

  While we’re on the subject, I came to ask you for a touch of emergency funding—special field trip to Zambia. Kurt Kruger, University of South Africa, you remember him—right? Spotless reputation—just got off the phone with him. Asked me to look into sightings of a giant bat, a living Pterodactyl, something that actually attacked two fisherman. At the very least we have physical evidence from the body of the dead man ... could be very useful in identifying the animal involved. Fantastic opportunity for the university, sir ... should really jump right on it.

  Pimms did not hesitate. Peering around Blakely, he instructed his administrative assistant to help the professor to write up a proper equipment requisition, and to make any necessary funds available to him. Blakely smiled widely at the chancellor, so pleased with the turn of events he even shook a quite surprised Boles’ hand. Thanking everyone in sight, he spun around to find Ms. Jakosta still close behind him. Still caught up in his emotional release, he swept the delicate woman up in his powerful arms, hugging her like a long lost child. Rolling his eyes, Pimms snapped;

  Dr. Blakely—kindly unhand my assistant. You must learn to curb your enthusiasm. Gently, Blakely lowered Ms. Jakosta back to the floor. Brushing the folds of her linen top back in place across her shoulders, he said;

  Ah, sorry, ma’am—I guess I got a little carried away.

  Smoothing her skirt and the rest of her blouse while looking at the floor to hide her deep blush, Ms. Jakosta mumbled, That’s all, all right, Dr. Blakely. I suppose it’s understandable under the circumstances. Perhaps you should have a seat in front of my desk ... so that we can get this requisition done.

  Blakely sat down as instructed. As Ms. Jakosta closed out one program on her computer and opened another, the professor threaded his fingers behind his head, then sat back and began whistling the tune to Pretty Woman.

  Ms. Jakosta never typed faster.

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  From the moment of his arrival, Zambia proved to be one of the most beautiful countries Dr. Hugh Blakely had ever experienced. Plains filled with a staggering variety of wildlife gave way to rolling hills covered in dense jungle. Bringing his supplies and equipment into the country had proven easier than anticipated. The political influence of Dr. Kurt Kruger, or as some would intimate, Dr. Kruger’s wallet, had cut any binding red tape to the minimum reserved for appearances. That and the fact a man had been killed and a village terrified had not slowed the process any, either. Expertise, if even from a foreigner, was welcome at that point as far as the Zambian government was concerned.

  Blakely’s two Range Rovers pulled into the Kaonde Village just as the noonday sun began its daily frying of anything not mobile enough to reach the shade. The village consisted of mostly wooden stick huts with thatched roofs. One large building made of concrete blocks and possessing a tin roof, its purpose undiscernible at a glance, stood in the very center of Kaonde. Women moved about the sides of the streets attending to their daily chores while walking from overhang to overhang to remain in the shade. Children played a casual game of soccer in-between the huts as the Range Rovers pulled up outside the central building. The door opened as if in timed response, and an older black man dressed in a short sleeve, light blue dress shirt and navy colored pants stepped outside to greet them. He was followed by a white man dressed in safari khakis from head to toe. Exiting the truck, Blakely went over to shake hands with both men.

  Dr. Hugh Blakely of Duke University, at your service, gentlemen. The white man unconsciously brushed back his graying brown hair, while using his other hand to present the older man with him.

  Dr. Blakely, I’m Kurt Kruger, and this is the Kanyinga, or headman, of the Kaonde tribe, Mr. Masoma Bunta. Blakely shook the Kanyinga’s hand firmly as the three men found themselves suddenly surrounded by children. Bunta said something in his native tongue which Kruger translated;

  They are curious about your size—they have never seen anyone with muscles as big as yours. The children think you might be a giant as they have been told about in their folklore. Smiling uncomfortably, Blakely replied;

  Tell them I’m just a friendly over-fed American, who has come to learn wisdom from the Kanyinga.

  Kruger dutifully translated and the children laughed and smiled as the Kanyinga motioned Kruger and Blakely inside the building. Ceiling fans circulated the air inside the rectangular building which seemed to be a large meeting hall, possibly the village school. Most likely, Blakely supposed, it doubled as both, and as a hospital, wedding chapel, or anything else the tribe might need. The three men sat on two benches with the Kanyinga facing the two white men. Kanyinga Mosama Bunta began to speak as Kruger translated for Blakely;

  "Thank you for coming from America to help my people in this time of terror from the sky. For many years we have seen this flying demon. It is the Kongamato, which means breaker of boats. This devil steals the catches of our fishermen when it is playful. It does worse when it is angered. The shaman teaches that the Kongamato possesses spiritual powers of great evil. It can cause great floods that kill many people. The shaman makes charms to protect us them. Bunta handed Blakely a small leather sack the professor assumed was filled with herbs and bones. The charm is called muchi wa Kongamato. It will protect you while you are here."

  Thank you for the charm, said Blakely, studying it as if he felt it held any importance. Can you tell me what the Kongamato looks like?

  Kruger continued to translate for both men.

  The Kongamato is red skinned. It flies with no feathers. The skin on the wings is quite thin—its veins and bones show through clearly. It possesses a short tail, two short legs. The feet are heavily clawed, good for catching, small animals ...

  The Kanyinga paused for a moment, then finally added a word which Kruger echoed;

  Children. The pause resumed. The older man showed no emotion as he spoke, going back to describing the beast in question.

  The head is rounded on top and at the back. A long beak sticks out in front. The beak if filled with very sharp teeth; the eyes are big. When Kongamato flies, he always turns his head, constantly looking for prey.

  Where does one find the Kongamato, asked Blakely.

  He hunts along some of the rivers and swamps, but where he comes from is not known. None have never found a nest. This is why our shaman say he is a demon. Kongamato does not show himself every day. Not even every year; but when he does appear, he does so swiftly, bringing death on silent wings.

  After their audience, Blakely thanked the Kanyinga deeply, then departed the building with Kruger. The South African put his panama hat back on his head to protect it from the afternoon sun, then immediately pulled out a badly worn, but still serviceable cigarette case. Tossing one into his mouth with a well-trained flick of his wrist, he lit it as Blakely said;

  Can’t thank you enough for bringing me in on this.

  Don’t thank me yet, answered his colleague, letting go a great cloud of smoke. You must not read the news, to come swarming into this region so eagerly.

  Africa’s Africa, man, answered the large American. There’s always some kind of trouble here. Patting his sidearm, he added, We just have to be careful—right?

  Maybe, offered the South African. But there’s been a lot of noise on the jungle grapevine lately; someone’s out there stirring up trouble.

  Big trouble, asked Blakely. Serious trouble? Bombs and tanks kind of trouble?

  Here they fear machetes more; roving bands of tribesman moving through villages, slaughtering ... Kruger’s voice trailed off, a thin line of smoke catching the pale breeze, slowly falling away from his lips into the afternoon heat. Blakely merely stared at the other man, finding himself somewhat at a loss for words. Finally, however, his colleague took another pull on his cigarette, then said;

  Maybe I’m just letting the past get to me. I’ve lived in Africa my entire life. Been through a few spots of oh-dearie-me, let me tell you. But I’ve been through twice as many times when the rumors said the worst was coming, and nothing ever showed. Perhaps I should just concentrate on the project at hand, eh?

  That sounds good to me, answered Blakely. And while we’re on the subject, just what do you think of the project at hand? The South African released another cloud of smoke into the hazy afternoon, then took another deep pull as he said;

  The Kongamato sounds like a giant bat to me, except of course, for the long beak filled with teeth. That brings me a vision more along the lines of a flying pterosaur, a pterodactyl. Which would make it a living dinosaur from the lower Jurassic period to the end of the Cretaceous period—in other words, a beast from roughly 160 to 60 million years ago.

  In other words, repeated Blakely, it just can’t be.

  Couldn’t have said it better myself, laughed Kruger, joyous smoke puffing from his nostrils. Blakely slapped him on the back, chuckling as he offered;

  You see, we can ruin your reputation as a zoologist with just one field case. You’ll end up in the loony-bin with us crypto-zoologists, just because you made the mistake of stumbling across an unknown species.

  Both men laughed as they climbed into the lead Range Rover along with its driver. As they settled in, Kruger said, I suppose we’ll just have to catch one of the damn things; then no one can call us crazy. Blakely agreed.

  That’s the challenge, all right, he sighed. Bring back enough evidence for the skeptics, those precious academics who do no field work, yet constantly tell the rest of us to ‘bring back a body or we won’t believe you’. Photographs and film, footprints, recordings of vocalizations, not even hair and tissue samples are good enough to convince them. No for our ‘colleagues,’ he spat the word viciously, any discovery they can’t get in on, they call it a hoax.

  What’d you expect, old man, said the South African as their vehicle began to roll forward out of Kaonde. That’s why most academics won’t even discuss unknown species, afraid of losing their academic tenure.

  I’m just lucky Pimms and the board at Duke have an interest in making new discoveries and are willing to take risks, answered Blakely. The Duke family took plenty of risks in the business world; that allowed them to set up Duke University in the first place. I’m sure glad they haven’t lost their guts along the way.

  Adventurous academics, Kruger said with a whistle of approval. You are lucky, indeed.

  Yeah, agreed the crypto-zoologist. But so’s our dinosaur. Tell me, what’s your guess? You’ve been here awhile; you have to have been thinking on this. How’d this thing survived undetected all these years?" Taking off his hat and scratching his bald head Kruger, speculated;

  As far as I can tell, the Kongamato is just another animal to Kaonde tribe despite their shaman’s ‘demon’ theories. They see it often enough and every tribe member down to the very youngest know how to avoid contact with it—that is, if they see it coming. Tribal leaders have mentioned it to visitors for centuries, but no white man ever took them seriously—until me.

  And what made you take it seriously?

  The wounds on the body of the dead man were obviously from giant claws and resembled similar marks seen on dead fish I’d found along the shoreline. Also, the other man who was attacked was very convincing in his description of the creature. He said it was the winged death of the Jiundu that attacked them ... Kruger dragged out the last bit of calming smoke he could from his cigarette. He held it for a moment, luxuriating in its blessed nicotined relief, then exhaled as he said;

  After looking into his eyes, I have to tell you ... I believed him.

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  Gaslights illuminated the campsite as Blakely, Kruger, and their two guides finished putting up the large tent. Sakem, the senior of the pair, brought the group’s hunting rifles inside the tent as his man Hundu brought in the last of the lanterns. The four men sat on their cots.

  Where did you learn to speak English, Hundu? asked Blakely. Hundu, a slim man in his early thirties, answered;

  I attended the University of South Africa in Capetown. My major was business, but our government here in my native Zambia is worse than your Mafia. Taxes are so high, no honest businessman can stay in business. When I heard about camera safari I became a tour guide. The cash tips make a better living for me, anyway—if a humble servant is permitted to hint so boldly. Both the professors chuckled. Even Sakem grinned. Pulling out his cigarettes, Kruger offered the case around while asking the head guide the same question. Sakem accepted a smoke, saying;

  My father is an Ambassador to the United States for Zambia. I attended the University of Chicago as a civil engineer major. Like Hindu, I too learned of the tourist industry and its large tips, although as senior partner in our service venture, I am not so brazen as my junior associate.

  You guys are as bad me during funding request season, said Blakely, nodding his approval. As Sakem bent forward to accept a light from Kruger, Hundu asked;

  So, we are chasing a flying dinosaur. If I might, could you tell us how we are going to set out to capture this thing?

  Sure, answered Blakely, rubbing his palms together. Getting right down to it is cool by me. I’m thinking this thing is probably more a nocturnal than a daytime hunter. I’ve brought some infrared ... The large professor’s voice trailed of at the sudden intrusion of a sound from outside the tent. Both of the guides went immediately rigid, theirs eyes narrowing, a hand going to an ear to focus any further sounds. Sakem also moved his other hand to his mouth, passing one finger before his lips—calling for quiet.

  All four men picked up their rifles, flashlights as well if there was one nearby. Blakely turned off two of the gas lamps while Kruger attended to the second pair, extinguishing one and turning the last down to its lowest setting. Both their guides kept guard against whatever might happen next. After their eyes adjusted to the dark, Kruger and Blakely opened the tent flaps while Hundu and Sakem stepped outside, rifles to the ready.

  The professors joined the guides, the quartet standing quietly in front of their tent, straining to catch another moment of that one noise that had seemed so out of place. When it came again to them once more from behind the tent all four men jumped forward with relief, as if preferring danger to waiting. Kruger and Hundu automatically went to the left as Blakely and Sakem went to the right. Rounding the corner first, Blakely caught a glimpse of movement—a shadow toward one of the Range Rovers.

  Instantly Blakely clicked his flashlight to life, framing a man opening the truck’s door. Startled, the man slowly turned around as Blakely called out;

  And who are you?

  I know him, Kruger interjected. He’s Kinsanga, the man I told you about earlier.

  The survivor from the attack? As the South African professor nodded, the frightened man spoke in his native tongue which Sakem translated;

  I am looking for the Blakely—Kruger expedition please. My name is Kinsanga.

  What did you want with our truck?

  I thought I would sleep inside the truck tonight and ask if you are the right expedition in the morning. When Sakem translated that answer it received an appreciative round of laughter from the other team members. Guns were lowered as the atmosphere lightened considerably. Kruger inquired, Why are you looking for us?

  The flying demon killed my friend Umbati and almost carried me away, Kinsanga gritted his teeth as he said, I will kill the Kongamato, even if it means my own death!

  The lights of the camp burned late into the night as the team and its newest member traded stories, devised plans, and drank perhaps a shade too much bourbon.

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  Blakely woke at just past 7am the next morning. The others were still asleep, but the sun was already heating up the tent. Despite living in the deep South, the American habit of over-air conditioning rooms had spoiled Blakely and he found himself already sweating. It was a cycle he was used to, of course. His expeditions took him to every corner of the world, and he was quite aware of just how long it would take his body to adjust to the climate. Splashing the slightest dollop of water into his handkerchief, he wiped the sleep from his eyes, refreshed his face, then rubbed the back of his neck and behind his ears. He was on the veldt—that much would suffice for a morning shower.

  Deciding he would wait for the others to awaken before he worried about breakfast, the crypto-zoologist turned to the back of the second Range Rover, from which he retrieved a large net. Carefully, he spread it out over the ground, clearing even the smallest knots and tangles. Satisfied with his work on the first net, he then pulled a smaller net out of the truck and began working on it next to the first. As he did, the passenger door to the first Range Rover opened and Kinsanga emerged rubbing his eyes.

  Good morning, the fisherman managed in English.

  Blakely smiled, returning Kinsanga’s greeting even as the man made gestures indicating he would like to help. The crypto-zoologist got across what needed to be done easily enough, then turned to getting breakfast started. Just as he was finishing, the others began spilling out of the tent.

  Good heavens, man, growled Kruger, firing up his first smoke of the day, "how’s a body supposed to get any sleep with you hammering them so relentlessly with such aromas? Sausages and eggs? You Americans really are an extravagant lot." Knowing the South African was simply having sport with him, Blakely answered;

  First breakfast of any outing I always like to make it a good one. Get that sniffer of yours geared up. I’ve got a skilletful of pan biscuits going, too.

  Oh my, answered Kruger, pressing his palm against his cheek in an exaggeratedly feminine pose.