Graham Masterton - The Manitou

There was quite a reception committee waiting for us when we stepped out into the bright light of the eighteenth floor. Dr. Winsome had called in the police, and there were eight or nine armed officers standing around among the doctors and male nurses. The newspapers were there, too, and CBS television were just setting up their cameras. As we emerged from the elevator, there was a hubbub of questions and exclamations, and it was all I could do to push my way through.

Jack Hughes was sitting in the corner with his hand heavily bandaged. He looked pale and sick, and there was a male nurse with him, but he had obviously refused to be sent off the battlefield.

"How is it?" he asked me. "What's happening down there?"

Dr. Winsome, redder than ever, pushed his way forward and said: "I had to call the police, Mr. Erskine. It seems to me there are people's lives at risk. I had to do it for the safety of all concerned. This is Lieutenant Marino, and I think he wants to ask you some questions."

Behind Dr. Winsome, I saw the now-familiar face of Lieutenant Marino, with his hard smile and his brush-cut hair. I waved, and he nodded back.

"Mr. Erskine," he said, pushing his way closer. There were five or six newspaper reporters clustered all around us, with their notebooks out, and the television people had just switched on their glaring lights. "I just want to know a few details, Mr. Erskine."

"Can we talk somewhere private?" I asked. "This is hardly the place."

Lieutenant Marino shrugged. "The press are going to get hold of it sooner or later. Just tell us what's going on. Dr. Winsome here says you have a violent patient. Apparently he's already killed one man, injured this doctor here, and he's planning to kill some more."

I nodded. "That's true, in a way."

"In a way? What's that supposed to mean?"

"He's not exactly a patient And he didn't kill that man in the normal sense of murdering him. Look — it's impossible telling you now. Let's find ourselves a private office or something."

Marino looked around at the press and the TV cameras and the policemen and medics, and said: "Okay, if it's going to make it easier. Dr. Winsome — is there an office we can use?"

The press groaned in disappointment, and started to argue about their right to know the facts, but Lieutenant Marino was firm. I called Singing Rock, and together we locked ourselves with Lieutenant Marino and his deputy, Detective Narro, in a ward nurse's office. The press clustered around the door outside, and we spoke quickly and quietly so that they wouldn't hear.

"Lieutenant," I said, "we have a very difficult situation here and I don't know how to explain it to you."

Lieutenant Marino parked his feet on the desk and took out a Lark.

"Try me," he said, lighting up.

"Well, it's like this. The man down there on the tenth floor is a homicidal maniac. He's a Red Indian, and he's seeking revenge on the whites."

Lieutenant Marino coughed. "Go on," he said patiently.

"The only problem is, he's not a normal man. He has certain powers and abilities that ordinary people don't have."

"Able to leap tall buildings at a single bound?" asked Lieutenant Marino. "Faster than a speeding bullet?"

Singing Rock laughed, without amusement "You're nearer to the truth than you think, Lieutenant."

"You mean you got Superman down there? Or Super Redskin?"

I sat up, trying my darnedest to look sincere and believable.

"It sounds ludicrous, Lieutenant, but that's almost what we do have. The Red Indian down there is a medicine man, and he's using his magical powers in order to seek his revenge. Singing Rock here is a medicine man himself, of the Sioux, and he's been helping us cope. He's already saved several lives, and I think you ought to listen to what he has to say."

Lieutenant Marino took his feet off the desk and turned around to look at Singing Rock. He puffed at his cigarette for a few moments, and then he said: "Some detectives like wacky cases, you know. I mean, some detectives go out of their way to solve these real eccentric mysteries, and stuff like that. Do you know what I like? I like open-and-shut homicides. Victim, motive, weapon, conviction. So do you know what I get? Wacky cases, that's what I get."

Singing Rock raised his lacerated cheek "Does that look wacky?" he asked Lieutenant Marino quietly. Lieutenant Marino said nothing, and shrugged.

Singing Rock said: "I'm going to tell you this straight because we don't have very much time, and even if you don't believe me now, you will when things start to happen. My friend here is right. The man downstairs is a Red Indian medicine man. I won't stretch your imagination too far and tell you how he got here, or what he's doing on the tenth floor of a private hospital, but I can tell you that his powers are quite real, and highly dangerous."

"Is he armed?" asked Detective Narro, a young, neatly dressed cop in a blue suit and blue check shirt.

"Not with guns," said Singing Rock. "He doesn't need to be. His magical powers are far more effective than guns. What's more, your guns will be quite useless against him, and potentially dangerous to yourselves. If I can't impress anything else on you, let me convince you of that. Please — no guns."

Lieutenant Marino raised his eyebrows. "What do you suggest we use as an alternative — bows and arrows?"

Singing Rock frowned. "Your humor is a little out of line, lieutenant. There's nothing funny about what's happening downstairs, and you're going to need all the help and all the information you can get."

"Well," said Lieutenant Marino, "what is happening downstairs?"

"It's not easy to understand," said Singing Rock. "I'm not even sure of this myself. But here's the way I read it right now. Misquamacus, the medicine man, is preparing a magical gateway to summon Red Indian demons and spirits from the other side."

"The other side of what?"

"The other side of physical existence. The spirit world. He's already managed to conjure up the Star Beast, which is the servant and messenger of the Great Hierarchy of Red Indian demons. Mr. Erskine here — well, he saw the Star Beast with his own eyes, and nearly died."

Lieutenant Marino said: "Is that true, Mr. Erskine?"

I nodded. "It's true. I swear it. Look at the state of my hands."

Lieutenant Marino peered at my blue and blotchy patches of frostbite and said nothing.

Singing Rock said: "It isn't easy for any medicine man to conjure up beings from beyond. They're pitiless, dangerous and powerful. Most of the greater beings from Red Indian history are sealed off from us by ancient locks and spells that were imposed on them before the white man even placed one foot on our continent. The medicine men who locked them away in the spirit world were masters of their craft, and there isn't a single spiritual wonder-worker alive today who can match them. That's why these manitous are so perilous. If Misquamacus releases them, there is no one who can send them back. I'm not even sure that Misquamacus could send them back himself."

Detective Narro was confused. He said: "These beings — do you mean they're hiding in the building?"

Singing Rock shook his head. "They are all around us. In the air we breathe. In the woods and rocks and trees. Everything has its manitou, its spirit. There are the natural manitous of the skies and the earth and the rains, and there are manitous in everything that is made or created by man. Every Indian lodge had its manitou; every Indian weapon had its manitou. Why do some bows shoot straight and others crooked? It depends on the faith of the man who holds the bow, and the sympathy he has for the manitou of his weapon. That is why your guns would be so dangerous to you. A gun has a manitou, according to whatever faith and craft has been invested in it, but your men do not believe that, and the manitous of their own weapons could quite easily be turned against them."