THE LIGHTNING BIRD (2018)
“What goes around, comes around.” I've heard that expression as far back as I can remember. But thanks to an 83-year-old South African immigrant, it recently took on a whole new dimension.
Monday, November 13th, 7:40 p.m. The David N. Dinkins Building at One Center Street housed the offices of Manhattan Borough President Lawrence A. Farkus. His staff had gone home for the day, but Farkus remained at his desk, where he often sat until 9:00 p.m. Managing an island of 1.75 million people was a lot of work.
Farkus was on the phone with the deputy mayor when a deafening clap of thunder boomed over the city. Farkus shouted, “Whoa,” and nearly jumped out of his chair. “Did you hear that?”
“Oh, I heard it, all right,” said the deputy mayor. “How could I not?”
As the tsunami-like rain pounded against his office window, Farkus remarked, “Looks like our dry spell is finally over.”
Those were his dying words, unless you count the scream that followed.
The deputy mayor exclaimed, “Larry? You there? What's wrong?” When there was no response, he called 911.
The Borough President was not the only New Yorker who routinely stayed late at the office. Your Humble Reporter does, too. I was working against a deadline when my rotund editor, Tony Vincenzo, approached me.
“Hey, Carl?”
“I'm revising it now, Tony. Give me about twenty minutes.”
“That can wait; Farkus is dead.”
“Really? He just aced his yearly physical. How the hell did he die?”
An exasperated Vincenzo replied, “I don't know, Carl. That's why I'm sending you to his office—to find out how the hell he died! Do I have to tell you everything?”
The hard part was finding a parking space. One Center Street looked like a dumping ground for police cruisers. Nor did the three ambulances help. But I finally parked my car (illegally) and was waved through the police checkpoint. I took the elevator to the Borough President's suite.
To my relief, the lead investigator was one of my few allies at the N.Y.P.D. A luscious blonde of 39 who stood over six feet tall, Detective Heather Fontayne had been with me during a pair of particularly weird episodes. So she knew that my stories were not the result of untreated psychosis, to quote a police shrink.
“Hey, Kolchak!” It sounded like she was vaguely glad to see me. “How you doin'?”
“Better than Farkus, from what I'm told.” I sniffed the air. “Did he have porkchops for dinner?”
“You mean, the smell? That's Farkus.”
My eyebrows went skyward. “What happened to him?”
“Come on, I'll show you.”
She led me into the Borough President's office. The corpse had not been touched. Farkus was in his fancy leather chair, holding what had been a phone receiver. Now it was a blob of melted red plastic. Not that Farkus himself was in better shape. What smelled like pork was the charred remains of the Borough President. I also noticed a hole, about the width of my forearm, in the center of his picture window.
I turned to Fontayne. “He burned to death?”
She threw her hands up. “Your guess is as good as mine. And please don't quote me on that.”
Once the body had been shipped off to the City Morgue and the M.E. had performed an autopsy, I dropped in on my favorite morgue attendant—Gordon Spangler, affectionately nicknamed “Gordy the Ghoul.” No sooner had I walked in then he said, “Let me guess: Farkus.”
“What else would bring me out on such a lousy night?” I removed my hat to shake off the excess rainwater.
“It's really coming down out there, huh?”
“It's miserable.” I pulled out my wallet and handed Gordy his standard fee, plus a gratuity for his boss, Dr. Carol Huizenga. When he first landed in New York, Gordy was skittish about supplying me with information as doing so had gotten him fired in Chicago. However, he recently learned that Dr. Huizenga shared our taste for the mercenary. As long as she received her weekly cut, she would look the other way when Gordy, shall we say, moonlighted. This was good in that we no longer had to operate clandestinely, but not so good in that I now had to pay twice as much as before. And I was running out of clever ways to sneak those payments onto my expense account.
“I've already seen the stiff,” I said. “Just tell me what killed him.”
“Lightning.”
I did a double-take. “Lightning?”
“Mm-hmm. He was electrocuted.”
“In his 40th-floor office? How is that possible?”
“Carl, you wouldn't believe what I see on this job. Why, just last week, we had a woman who died of internal bleeding. She tried to use a wine bottle as a….”
“Never mind!”
Back at the office, I called the National Weather Service and spoke to meteorologist Janet Vogel. She told me that indoor lightning strikes were rare but known to occur. Ms. Vogel named three occasions during the last seven years when people inside a building had been struck by lightning. Like Farkus, all three were using a phone. But unlike Farkus, none of them died.
As Vincenzo read my story, he looked quizzical. “Struck by lightning?”
“I got it straight from the M.E.'s report, not to mention the meteorologist I spoke to. It's freaky, but it happens.”
“So, the lighting punched a hole in his window and got Farkus at his desk?”
“That's how it looks, Tony.”
“Well, it's weird, but at least it's believable. That's more than I can say for a lot of your stories. I'm just glad you didn't say the Loch Ness Monster was to blame.”
“I'll save it for next time.”
He handed me back the story. “All right, Carl, put this on the wire.”
Tuesday, November 14th, 8:00 p.m. Julian McMichael, 36, was founder and president of the McMichael Group, one of New York's biggest real estate developers. The Wall Street Journal called him “The Boy Tycoon.” McMichael's specialty was buying apartment buildings and converting them to $3 million condominium units. The thousands of people he had put out of their homes never entered his mind. On the rare occasion he was questioned about it, McMichael shrugged and replied, “In this life, bloodshed is inevitable.”
He was right, of course. And on this night, Julian McMichael shed his own blood. Outside of some old college pals and a few business associates, nobody mourned him.
McMichael had died while his car sat at a red light. When I arrived at the scene, I saw Fontayne interviewing a Latino woman in her 20s. She was saying, “This lightning bolt just came outta nowhere and struck the dude through his windshield! I never saw anything like it.”
“OK, thanks.” Fontayne closed her notebook and finally took notice of me. “I assume you heard that?”
“Uh-huh. Another lightning strike.”
“Yup. And three other witnesses corroborate her story.”
I looked up at the sky. The moon shined brightly, the stars twinkled, and there wasn't a cloud to be seen.
At the office, I got back on the horn to meteorologist Vogel. She told me, “Cloud-to-ground lightning bolts are common. About 100 of them occur every second.”
“But the sky is cloudless tonight.”
“Let me check something.” She put me on hold for about 30 seconds. “I was looking to see if there were any thunderstorms in your region tonight. You see, a lightning bolt can travel up to 25 miles. But I'm not seeing anything. The entire Northeast and Mid-Atlantic regions are dry as a bone.”
“Does lightning always come from a thunderstorm?”
“No, it has other sources. You can see lightning in a volcanic eruption, a really intense forest fire, a heavy snowstorm, a hurricane, or a surface nuclear detonation.”
“None of which have occurred in New York tonight,” I pointed out. “So, where did that lightning come from?”
“Mr. Kolchak, I'm damned if I know. There are some things that science just can't explain.”
“Oh, I'm aware of that.”
Vincenzo, at his desk, looked up from my copy and gaped at me. “Another one?”
“Another one.”
“And your meteorologist friend has no explanation?”
“Nada.”
He shook his head. “What the hell is going in this town?”
I shrugged.
“Really? You haven't concocted one of your infamous theories to explain this?”
“Not yet.”
“Maybe there's hope for you after all! Here, put it on the wire.”
Wednesday, November 15th, 10:00 a.m. In a change of pace, I was covering a protest demonstration at the courthouse on Center Street—not far from where Larry Farkus had been killed. A lawsuit was filed by the Human Rights Coalition on behalf of the tenants of Manhattanville Arms, a 90-year-old apartment building at Amsterdam Avenue and West 133rd Street. The building had been sold and was slated for renovation—or should I say, gentrification. Many of its 500+ residents were elderly and had lived there for decades. The Times had just run a feature on the Arms, which included quotes from its mainly African-American tenants. I'm not what you'd call sentimental, but some of what they said nearly had me in tears.
The rally was loud but peaceful as the elderly residents, some in wheelchairs, held signs and rhythmically chanted their dissatisfaction with being evicted. As a journalist, I need to remain objective when reporting a story, but it was hard to do; a lot of these people weren't more than a decade older than I was.
A young woman stood on the courthouse steps, holding a microphone plugged into a portable amplifier. She was about 25 with short reddish hair and black plastic glasses. She wore bluejeans and a heavy jacket. Her breath was visible as she said, “He calls himself the People's Mayor, but he supports the Manhattanville Project. Which people do you support, Mr. Mayor? Certainly not Harlem's elderly!”
The crowd cheered as I took photos. A limousine escorted by motorcycle cops pulled up in front of the courthouse. Out stepped Attorney Charles Moffett, representing the defendant. A phalanx of police cleared a path for him as a mob of reporters rushed to question the $900-an-hour lawyer, who said nothing as he walked stoically toward the courthouse steps.
Over the cacophony, I heard the discordant call of a bird. I looked up and saw something hundreds of feet in the air. It looked avian, but that was all I could make out. I pointed my camera upward and took some pictures.
It swooped down and circled the crowd, who took notice of the beast with a collective gasp. The bird was black and about the size of an adult human. I took more photos as its call became louder and more painful to endure. A number of demonstrators, along with Attorney Moffett, covered their ears. Police drew their guns and aimed at the bird, which continued to circle at a height of about 30 feet.
The next thing we knew, the bird extended its legs and shot lightning from its talons! The twin bolts merged and hit Charles Moffett squarely in the chest. Demonstrators screamed, ran away, or hit the ground as police fired at the creature. I stayed on my feet and took one picture after another.
As quickly as it began, the lightning stopped and the bird flew from sight. Attorney Moffett lay on the courthouse steps, burnt to a crisp and giving off tendrils of smoke. The Fire Department arrived moments later, along with additional cops. I left before they could take my camera.
Vincenzo groaned as he read my story. “I should have known it was too good to last. A lightning bird, Carl?”
“I saw it, Tony, and so did 100 other people! I have pictures, too.” I pulled out my digital camera and showed him.
His eyebrows knitted as he scrolled through the photos. “What kind of a bird makes lightning?”
“Not a clue.”
“You say this thing was human-sized?”
“Biggest bird I ever saw. And the scariest.”
Vincenzo expelled his breath through puffed cheeks. “Let me think about it.”
“What is this 'think about it?' That's news, for Christ's sake!”
“I said I would think about it. Now go!”
“Go,” I murmured as I left his office. “All the time, go. How about you go, Vincenzo? Straight to hell!”
At my desk, I got on-line and tried to match my pictures with existing bird types. However, that bird looked like nothing the Internet ever saw. I found a chatroom for ornithologists and asked if any birds produced lightning. The median response was “LOL.”
I looked up information on the victims. They all had one thing in common: the Manhattanville Project. Lawrence Farkus had persuaded the mayor to go to bat for it, the McMichael Group had bought the building, and Charles Moffett was the Group's lead attorney. This electric avian was taking out those looking to gentrify the Manhattanville Arms. Did that mean the mayor himself was a target?
As I pondered this, my desk phone buzzed. “Yes?”
It was Vincenzo. “Carl, I need you in my office. And bring your camera.”
“Oh, this can't be good.”
“Please, just get in here.”
As I entered Tony's office, two men were with him. One I recognized as the Police Commissioner.
“Carl, you know Commissioner Galloway.”
“Oh, I know him, all right.”
Tony motioned to the other man. “And this is Bobby Lester of the mayor's office.”
“Mr. Kolchak.” Lester offered his hand, which I reluctantly shook. His grip was weak and clammy. It made me want to recoil in disgust.
I took a deep breath. “So, what's going on?”
“Carl, I'm going to need your camera.”
“My camera?”
Lester explained, “Mr. Kolchak, you took some pictures that we can't allow the public to see.”
“Allow? Since when does the mayor's office tell a news organization what to report?”
The commissioner replied, “Since we have the power to deny you access to the N.Y.P.D. and the mayor's office. Try reporting the news without that!”
“Now, Dicey.” The unctuously outgoing Lester called Galloway by his nickname. Rarely had one been so fitting. “We hope it won't come to that. Don't we, Mr. Vincenzo?”
“Of course, course.” Tony turned to me and assumed a soothing tone. “Carl, I wasn't sold on your story anyway.”
But I wasn't listening. Instead, I told Lester, “Listen, that bird has killed three of the big mucky-mucks of the Manhattanville Project. It doesn't want that building gentrified.”
“Please, Mr. Kolchak,” said Lester. “We don't say 'gentrify.' We prefer to call it 'urban renewal'.”
“You're putting 500 elderly people out of their homes! How is that urban renewal? Do you even know how full of shit you are?”
“Kolchak!” said Tony. “Show some respect.”
“For this guy? He's a weasel! And the same goes for you, Galloway.”
The commissioner's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing: a first for that big-mouth.
I told Lester, “I think that bird's going to target the mayor. You better get him out of town until this thing blows over.”
Lester's jaw dropped. “Why do you think that?”
“Because the mayor supports the Manhattanville Project! I don't know why, but that bird has a grudge against it.”
Galloway spoke up. “Vincenzo, I don't want to see a word about these deaths being caused by a lightning bird. Do you understand me?”
“Of course, Commissioner, of course. There's nothing to worry about.”
“Thank you. Now before I leave: Kolchak, I want to personally witness you deleting those pictures from your camera.”
Burning with resentment, I did so.
“Good,” said Galloway. “Now, did you download those pictures anywhere?”
“No.”
“I don't believe you.” To Vincenzo, “I want to see Kolchak's computer.”
At my desk, Galloway sat in my chair and snooped around on my P.C. He found nothing.
“I told you I didn't download them.”
“All right; looks like the pictures are gone. Let's get out of here, Bobby.” Galloway looked directly at me. “I don't like the smell.”
I shot back, “Try Right Guard, you Nazi prick.”
Vincenzo said, “Kolchak, please.”
“Please, nothing! They've suppressed the goddamned news, and you let them do it!”
As he walked away, Tony asked no one in particular, “Why didn't I take early retirement?”
Needing to cool off, I drove uptown to the Manhattanville Arms. It was a 30-story brick building whose best days had predated the Johnson White House. Next to it stood an abandoned factory that looked like something out of Dresden after the Allies had bombed it. I walked through the main entrance to the Arms, a revolving door that led to a spacious (if grungy) lobby. Beyond it was a metal door opening into a cavernous dayroom. If the McMichael Group had its way, this would all soon be a Whole Foods.
A couple of dozen tenants sat on couches and around tables, playing cards, watching TV, or talking. Not one looked a day under 65. On the wall nearest me, in a poster-sized frame, was the New York Times piece on the building. I skimmed it and saw that a few people whose photos accompanied the article were currently in the dayroom. The quote that really jumped out at me was from Lubanzi Naidu, an 83-year-old immigrant from South Africa. Naidu and his parents had emigrated to New York when he was sixteen. He spent 48 years working for the City as a subway mechanic and was a 56-year tenant of the Manhattanville Arms. Understandably, he was unhappy about being gentrified out of his long-time abode.
To quote the Times piece, “Naidu gazes into the distance, his dark eyes flush with anger. 'These men care more about money than they do about people,' he says. 'The day will come when they pay for their evil deeds'.”
Someone tapped my shoulder. It was the young red-haired woman who had spoken at the rally.
“Hi,” she said. “Lillian Leach with the Human Rights Coalition. Aren't you a reporter?”
“Yes! Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service. I was looking for some information on the Manhattanville Project.”
She looked at me askance. “Pro-corporate or pro-tenant?”
“I don't want to see these people kicked out of their homes, if that's what you mean.”
Lillian smiled. “Well, you don't sound like a money-grubbing scumbag. Let's talk.”
We sat at a table in the far corner. I pulled out my digital recorder, which had replaced my old hand-held tape deck. After more years than I could recall, it finally died on me.
I asked, “Is it OK if I record you?”
“Sure.”
“Any thoughts on the death of Charles Moffett?”
“Oh, god,” Lillian exclaimed. “Did you see that yesterday?”
“I was there.”
“What the hell was that thing? Some kind of bird?”
“That's what it looked like to me.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “It just swooped out of the sky and zapped him! I'm still trying to wrap my head around it. And why wasn't there anything on the news?”
I didn't reply to that. “So, I take it your people had nothing to do with Farkus, McMichael, or Moffett dying?”
“No! We're a human-rights organization. We solve problems legally, not violently. And whoever's doing this, I hope they stop. It makes our movement look bad!”
Back in the lobby, I checked the tenants' directory and found a unit number for Lubanzi Naidu. I took the elevator to the 27th floor and rang his bell. It was some time before the door opened. Mr. Naidu was a frail-looking man with wisps of gray hair that dotted his otherwise bald pate. His forward-leaning posture suggested back problems. He wore navy blue bedroom slippers, the same color slacks, and a kelly green sweater. I introduced myself and lied that I was writing a piece on the Manhattanville Project. He smiled and invited me in. I walked patiently behind Mr. Naidu as he led me into the living room and motioned to a table. I took a seat and waited for Naidu to follow suit.
The wall dividing the living room and kitchen was only about five feet tall. Sitting on top of it were framed pictures of a younger Naidu with his wife and children, and old knickknacks that looked African. On the living room wall was a flag of red, white, blue, green, black and yellow: the flag of South Africa. Also on the wall was artwork that I presumed was by African painters. One struck me in particular: a black bird encased in lightning. The creature seemed to control it.
I pointed out the painting. “That's an intriguing work. Did you paint it?”
Naidu laughed. “Oh, no. My father brought it from Cape Town when we came to America. I inherited the painting when he died some 30 years ago.”
“Does the bird signify something?”
“That is the Impundulu.”
“The Impo…. What's that again?”
“Impundulu,” he repeated, enunciating each syllable. “The Lightning Bird—a magical creature the Sangomas of my tribe pass down from father to son.”
“I'm sorry. Sangomas?”
“You'd know them as witch doctors. The Impundulu carries out the wishes of the one who owns it.”
“You?”
He laughed again. “I wish! It's a mythical being, Mr. Kolchak.”
“Well, I'd really like to know how Larry Farkus, Julian McMichael, and Charles Moffett all died of lightning strikes?”
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you really here?”
“I told you, I'm writing a piece on the Manhattanville Project. I wanted to get a tenant's point of view.”
“And you came to the 27th floor with plenty of people in the dayroom? Why would you do that?”
“Well,” I said, thinking quickly, “I saw the Times piece and remembered your quote, that the day would come when they'd pay for their evil deeds. You intrigued me, so I sought you out.”
Pausing, Naidu said, “It's time for my nap. You'd better leave.”
Something told me to stake the building out. So I sat in my car and kept a close watch on the Manhattanville Arms. Sure enough, not twenty minutes later, Lubanzi Naidu exited the building. He only walked as far as the abandoned factory next door. I got out of the Yellow Submarine and followed him in.
The place was every bit as decrepit as you'd expect. There was dust everywhere, but that allowed me to to follow Naidu's footprints to the basement. I could see him at the far end of the long hallway, opening a door and walking through. I gave Naidu a minute before cautiously opening the door myself.
It was a boiler room, about twenty by twenty feet. Naidu was in front of the boiler, setting up what looked like an altar. He was dressed in what I later learned was the traditional garb of a Sangoma. This included white make-up that covered the old man's face. I hid behind a stanchion and watched as he lit a fire in a large metal bowl and added ingredients to the flames. He chanted in Xhosa, clicking his consonants. The only word I understood was “Impundulu.”
Naidu picked up an 18th-century styled quill, which he dipped in an inkwell. He scrawled something onto parchment that looked as old and brittle as a 78 RPM. Naidu held it in both hands above his head, which allowed me to see what he had written: “CARL KOLCHAK.”
I suppressed a gasp. Lubanzi Naidu was sending his lightning bird after me! That's what I get for asking too many questions.
He dropped the parchment into the flames. As it burned, the boiler came to life. It shook violently, followed by a cacophonous bird call. As Naidu's chanting increased in ferocity, the boiler's door opened and out flew the Impundulu. It circled the room twice, cawing ferociously, and disappeared up the chimney flue. I exited the boiler room and ran for the stairs before Naidu could see me.
In a panic, I hopped onto the Henry Hudson, which I took to I-95 Northbound out of the city. In Connecticut, I turned onto the Merritt Parkway and followed it until the expressway ended. It was now called the Berlin Turnpike. Exhausted, I got a room at the Days Inn and hoped the Lightning Bird wouldn't find me.
No sooner had I slipped off my shoes and socks then my cell phone rang. Naturally, it was Vincenzo.
“Carl, where the hell are you?”
“Berlin, Connecticut—two hours from the city.”
“What are you doing up there?”
“Trying to stay alive.” I relayed the events of earlier.
“But if this Lightning Bird kills people involved with the Manhattanville Project, why did this witch doctor send it after you?”
“I was asking questions that made him uncomfortable.”
Vincenzo assumed his fatherly voice. “Carl, come back to the city. We'll work this out together.”
“No, thank you!”
Using my phone, I got on-line and looked up “Impundulu.” I read several pieces, all of which agreed that the Lightning Bird had but one weakness: fire. Ironically, I would have to burn it to death. All I needed was a source of fire, one that didn't require me to be close to the Impundulu.
“Do I know where you can get a flamethrower?”
“Yes, a flamethrower.”
Detective Fontayne exhaled into her phone. “Should I ask why you need one?”
I explained about the Lightning Bird.
“Good Christ, Carl! How do you get into these situations?”
“If I ever find out, I'll let you know. So, how about it? Can you steer me in the right direction?”
Pausing, Fontayne replied, “I'll look into it.”
I decided to take a nap. My phone woke me up 90 minutes later. It was Fontayne.
“You're in luck,” she said. “A uni who owes me favor happens to own a flamethrower.” (“Uni” was cop talk for a uniformed officer.)
“He owns one? But aren't they illegal?”
“Not in New York. And before you ask: I don't know why he has one, and I don't want to know. But he's going to loan it to me. We're meeting at his house at nine o'clock.”
I set my phone's alarm for 6:00 p.m. That would give me plenty of time to return to the city. Now to get back to sleep….
8:30 p.m. I crossed the city line into the Bronx and nervously searched the sky for the Lightning Bird. So far, so good.
9:30 p.m. Fontayne met me at the I.N.S. office and gave me the flamethrower. I hadn't seen one since my Army days and was surprised at how lightweight and compact it was. I had assumed I'd be strapping an olive drab tank onto my back, but no. This wonder of modern technology was the size and shape of a rifle. And for some reason, it was colored white.
Fontayne said, “Where do you plan to look for this Lightning Bird?”
“I'd say the factory is a good place to start.”
“I'm coming with you.”
“That's not necessary! It's my battle.”
“And it's my murder case!”
“If I need you, I'll call your cell.”
Reluctantly, Fontayne agreed.
At the factory, I held the flamethrower in one hand and a flashlight in the other. I took the basement stairs to the boiler room. It was dark and empty. I shined the light around and saw nothing but the altar in front of the boiler. Tendrils of smoke rose from the silver bowl. Clearly, Lubanzi Naidu had used the altar again—after he sent his bird to kill me.
Sweating profusely, I opened the door to the boiler; it was empty. Naidu had indeed dispatched the Impundulu. But who was the target?
I noticed a fragment of burned parchment in the silver bowl. A partial name was legible: the mayor's. My guess had been right. I pulled out my phone to call Fontayne, but there was no cell service in that damned basement. I hauled ass up the stairs and tried again. This time, I got through. Frantically, I told her that the Lightning Bird was coming for the mayor.
“I'm on it,” Fontayne said and quickly hung up.
Since it was late at night, I took a guess that His Honor was at home. I floored the Yellow Submarine and headed to Gracie Mansion. The four-mile drive to Yorktown seemed to take forever. By the time I got there, the cops had already arrived. I heard the cawing of a bird and saw the Impundulu circling the spacious front lawn as a dozen or more cops fired on it.
“That won't do any good,” I tried to tell them, but between the birdcalls and the gunfire, no one heard me. Not that they would have listened anyway.
The bird extended its legs and shot lightning at the cops. The twin bolts nearly took out two officers, causing Fontayne to scream, “Retreat!” I fired up the flamethrower and aimed at the Impundulu. The bird turned its head in my direction and seemed to recognize me as the target that got away. As it flew toward me, I pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. I yelped and jumped out of the path of an oncoming lightning bolt. It hit the grass not four feet away from me.
Fontayne yelled, “Dammit, Carl, use the flamethrower!”
“I'm trying!” I gave the trigger another pull. This time it worked.
The bird flew up to the mansion's roof, emitting its ear-splitting call. I aimed the flamethrower straight up and fired, hoping to get its attention. “Come and get me, you son of a bitch!” It flapped its wings and came at me kamikaze-style. Before the bird had a second chance to zap me with its payload, I fired. The flames hit the Impundulu's mid-section, causing it to shriek in agony. It hit the ground and slid several feet.
The police advanced on it. I shouted, “No! Keep away,” but it was too late. The Impundulu was injured but still powerful. It shot lightning from a talon, just missing a uni. The other cops shot at the bird, but their bullets couldn't harm it. I bombarded the creature with fire, causing it to flail about with an earth-shattering scream. I kept my aim steady, continuing the fiery onslaught until the Impundulu stirred no more.
While the patrolmen cautiously approached the dead bird, Fontayne walked up to me. She gave me a hug and kissed my cheek. “Nice job, Carl.”
Once the threat was neutralized, Fontayne escorted me into Gracie Mansion to meet the mayor. He sat in the living room wearing pajamas and a bathrobe. A bodyguard stood behind the couch while the obsequious Bobby Lester sat with him.
The mayor stood up and vigorously shook my hand. “Mr. Kolchak, I can't thank you enough! You put yourself at risk to save my life. How can I possibly repay you?”
“You can let me print my story.”
Before His Honor could respond, Lester intervened. “We can't do that, Mr. Kolchak! If the public found out that monsters really exist….”
I cut him off. “…they might be prepared if a monster attacked them. God forbid! I should have known better than to even ask.”
The mayor looked ashamed. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
I thought for a moment. “Actually, yes.”
After the fracas at Gracie Mansion, Fontayne drove uptown to question Lubanzi Naidu. However, he did not answer his bell. When the superintendent let the detective in, she found Mr. Naidu dead on the floor. Oddly enough, his painting of the Impundulu had disintegrated. A pile of dust lay beneath the now-empty frame.
To my surprise, the mayor honored my alternate wish—the Manhattanville Project was canceled. Those old people no longer have to dread being evicted from their homes.
My story on the Lightning Bird never made the news, but a related story did. Due to facts I dug up, the McMichael Group is now under investigation by the Manhattan D.A.'s office. It seems their business practices were something short of ethical. If you'll pardon the expression, what a shock.
