Secret origins of the Cliffhanger Case Files

BY DERRICK FERGUSON

**(Additional Words by TIM HARTIN)**

The Buick LeSabre cruised along the streets of the fog-shrouded waterfront like a long gray shark, the halogen headlights barely making a tunnel of light so dense was the swirling white waves. The Buick moved slowly as the two occupants were searching for an address that research on the Internet's MapQuest had informed them didn't exist. However, the curiosity of the two occupants had spurred them onto this nocturnal adventure over the objections of friends and family. It wasn't that the two occupants were excessively brave or daring. Motives even more powerful than that drove them on: they were writers in quest of good story ideas and that was a motivation stronger than love, lust or hunger.

The Buick halted in front of a dilapidated warehouse that appeared held together only by the thick coating of dirt and greasy grime years of disuse that caked its outer walls. The windows had long been boarded up and the corrugated doors of the loading docks rusted shut. The Buick halted and the driver and passengers doors opened and the occupants climbed out.

They couldn't have been a more mismatched pair. The driver was a tall black man, wearing a battered black leather jacket that he wore as if it were an old friend. Some gray peppered his otherwise anthracite black hair. At six feet four inches he was tall enough to have been a professional basketball player and indeed, he moved with the comfort ability of an athlete. Hyperthyroid eyes peered through wire-framed glasses, giving his stare an intense cast.

The passenger was shorter, perhaps eight or nine inches over five feet and white. He also wore glasses but whereas his companion's were round, his were rectangular and perhaps a bit more stylish. His brown hair and goatee also had some gray in it but he and his companion were alike in that despite the gray in their hair they both had a rather boyish appearance and attitude about the way they carried themselves.

"Told it would be here," the shorter man said with some satisfaction. "You're so damn suspicious you'd look for bones in animal crackers."

"Comes for having been married over 20 years," the taller man replied. "Hold on, I've got a flashlight ready. Let's take a good look around before we start knocking on the door."

The shorter man looked plainly exasperated. "Y'know, Derrick, I'd have thought that out of all the writers I know, you'd be down for this. How often do you have a chance to actually live out an adventure you only write about?"

Derrick Ferguson reached into the Buick and grabbed a large halogen flashlight from under the driver's seat and straightened up. He leaned on the hood of the car and looked at his partner. "There's a good reason I only write about stuff like this, Tim. It's because it's safe. Poking around the waterfront at 2AM in the morning is something I gave up years ago and you should have as well."

Tim Hartin grinned easily as he said, "C'mon, man…that doesn't sound like the creator of Dillon and Diamondback talking."

Derrick grunted. "Dillon and Diamondback aren't real and I am. And I intend to keep it that way."

Tim closed the car door and walked around the front to stand next to Derrick. "And if you feel that way why did you come with me?"

Derrick sighed. "Because The Wife keeps insisting I should be a kinder, more gentle human being and extend myself to my friends. And Lonni promised that she would find new and interesting ways for me to evacuate my bowels if I let anything happen to you. Why didn't you tell me she was so scary?" Derrick was slapping the flashlight in his palm. "Shit."

Tim cocked his head to the side. "Batteries dead?"

"Nah. Just haven't used this in a while. Not since the last big blackout New York had…here we go…" The flashlight burst into life and a solid tube of light emerged from the wide lens. Derrick smiled and turned the flashlight onto the front of the warehouse.

Despite the grime and dirt, both men could make out the name of the warehouse: HIDALGO TRADING COMPANY.

Tim and Derrick both looked at each other looked back at the sign and looked back at each other. It was Derrick who spoke first.

"Okay, get back in the car. We're outta here, yo."

"Now, hold on a second, Derrick, willya?"

Derrick firmly held the beam of intense light on the sign. "Hold on for what? Tim, somebody's jerking our chain, man! Doc Savage owned the Hidalgo Trading Company and he was a fictional character! Somebody's playin' us! They know we're starting up a website of fan fiction based on the pulps and this is a joke! Get in the car!"

"Derrick, will you just chill for a minute-"

"Now you sound like Patricia. Now I'M going to sound like Patricia. Get IN THE CAR. We're OUT."

The two men were cut off by the raspy squeal of one of the corrugated metal doors rolling upwards. Tim and Derrick looked on in silence as the ages of rust, dirt and grime fell away in dinner plate sized flakes.

"Aw, man… I ain't with this at ALL…" Derrick said slowly. "Let's us go back to the hotel, get Lonni and Patricia and go out to dinner and a whole LOTTA drinks and-"

But Tim was already racing to the open door. Derrick focused the powerful beam of light into the darkness within while shouting, "Tim! TIM!" He followed, a steady steam of curses pouring from his mouth as he followed his partner inside. Tim was already inside the dank and gloomy interior and Derrick joined him. He grabbed Tim's arm and hissed with insistent force, "Are you completely nuts? C'mon and let's get outta here before-"

The corrugated metal door slammed shut, a miniature storm of dust raised by it's falling as their only exit was cut off.

Derrick ran to the door and he cast the beam around frantically as he searched for a handhold. "Aw, CRAP! I seen this happen in I dunno HOW many movies! Tim, get over here and-"

The laugh that filled the expansive interior of the warehouse was one of sibilant malevolence. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere and filled their ears with dread. The laugh echoed and both Tim and Derrick, with their experience of reading numerous accounts of the hideously dread quality of that laugh knew it could only have been emanated by one man on Earth. Derrick turned around and saw that Tim was looking at something that could only have been described as a living shadow standing next to a rusted iron staircase. Derrick pointed his flashlight at the living shadow but incredibly, the figure was not illuminated. Indeed, it appeared as if the apparition was absorbing the light. The only thing that could be clearly seen was a hawk nose above a red scarf wrapped around the lower part of the living shadow's face and two icy eyes that transfixed them with an hypnotic power.

"Go up the stairs." The living shadow's voice was one that was not to be disobeyed. "You will not need your flashlight and you will not be harmed. You have our word on that."

"Whose word?" Derrick asked. He had to ask even though he had a sinking feeling he knew whom he was talking to and if he thought whom he was talking to actually WAS whom he was talking to…

"Our word." The new voice was that of a taller man who stepped into the light of Derrick's flashlight. He was far taller than Derrick and the skin exposed by the ripped khaki shirt he wore was a sparkling bronze in color, burned by exposure to many tropic suns. "Go on, gentlemen. An associate of ours wishes to speak with you."

Tim was already heading up the stairs. Derrick was still hesitant and he jumped as another voice spoke from behind him: "We mean you no harm, Mr. Ferguson. In fact, we're asking you to do US a service."

Derrick looked at the man standing behind him. Of average height he was dressed all in gunmetal gray. His face was as white and as immobile as that of a marble statue. Holstered on his right hip was an unusual double sheath holding a long-barreled .22 pistol and a slim stiletto?

"You…him…and him…you guys…you CAN'T be…"

The man in gunmetal gray seemed to be making an attempt to smile but for some reason he couldn't. And Derrick knew why. "Mr. Ferguson. Go with your partner. Listen to the offer of our associate."

Derrick ran up the stairs.

Tim was already in a spacious office, well lit. Three sides of the walls were lined with plain black file cabinets from floor to ceiling. A plain black metal desk and the chair behind it was the only furniture in the room. The man that sat in the desk was average sized, with slicked back straight black hair. Dressed in a black suit with a severe black tie. His eyes burned with a savage purpose and his smile was not friendly.

"Thank you for accepting my invitation to this meeting Mr. Hartin and Mr. Ferguson. Believe it or not I feel honored to meet you both."

Derrick cut off his still lit flashlight. "I'm gonna be honored to meet your tailbone to my foot if you don't-"

Tim grabbed Derrick's arm. "Derrick…this is James Bellamy."

Derrick subsided a bit. "Oh. Okay. Who put you up to this? McGee? Pollard? Nah, he's a college student, he couldn't afford something this elaborate…I got it! Cookie!" Derrick looked around the office. "Okay, Alex! We fell for it! You can come out now!"

Tim thrust an elbow into Derrick's side, which caused him to double up in pain. "WILL you shut UP!"

Derrick nursed his outraged side. "Damn, Tim…you could have just SAID shut up."

Tim rolled his eyes in exasperation and muttered, "Hasn't worked so far. Jeez…how does Patricia put up with you?"

James Bellamy had been silent up until now but his firm tones cut through the squabbling of the two partners. "I summoned you both here because my organization monitors The Internet on a regular basis and you two have begun plans to start a fiction site based on the serials, pulp novels and radio shows of the '30's, 40's and 50's."

Derrick straightened up. "Yeah, what about it? You wanna submit a story?"

Tim again slammed an elbow into Derrick's side.

"I wish you'd STOP doing that!" Derrick snapped.

"And I wish you'd let him speak!" Tim retorted.

James Bellamy's voice again cut through the air. "I invited you men here because I was under the impression from your writings that you were professionals. If I had known that I was going to be interviewing Slip Mahoney and Sach I would have chosen differently."

Tim held up a hand. "Mr. Bellamy, please…. you've chosen correctly. Derrick is…suspicious of your motives."

James Bellamy fixed his basilisk stare on Derrick. "I'm well aware of Mr. Ferguson's character. He's arrogant, undisciplined, contemptuous of authority and hostile toward anyone who doesn't subscribe to his hedonistic lifestyle. Personally, I think considering the people and organizations he's got mad at him he's going to end up in either a rehab facility or dead before he's 50." Bellamy looked at Tim. "And you're not exactly the paragon of virtue yourself, Mr. Hartin. Mr. Ferguson is your partner but he doesn't know about The Oath Of The Seven Blind Virgins you took in Toronto back in 1994, does he?" And here James Bellamy allowed himself a smile. "Or more importantly, Lonni doesn't…does she?"

Derrick looked at Tim. "Virgins?"

Tim again jammed an elbow into Derrick's side. "Quiet!"

"Yeah…but…virgins? BLIND virgins?…."

"Do you realized how hard it is these days to find a single virgin in a modern metropolitan city like Toronto? Let alone, seven blind virgins." Tim turned his attention back to James Bellamy. "So why are we here, Mr. Bellamy?"

James Bellamy folded his slim hands and smiled quietly. "You and Mr. Ferguson have achieved a level of respect and fame on the Internet through your writings. You have a respect for honor and courage. You have documented tales of fictional characters who have expressed these traits. It has come to my attention that you now intent to create a website that will feature stories about certain supposed fictional characters and events in this county's past that have been previously presented as fiction."

Tim nodded. "You're talking about CLIFFHANGER CASE FILES. Derrick and I have been talking about doing it…but just for fun..."

"I want you to do it." James Bellamy's voice was flat and left no room for argument. "And I am willing to give you access to these files." James Bellamy lifted a black clad arm to indicate the room full of file cabinets. "I will send you files by secure messengers that you will assign to writers you trust. They will write narratives based on these files. You will then post these files on your website. You will be supervised by me. They will be told as I deem fit."

Derrick snapped, "And what's in it for us?"

James Bellamy smiled with no humor. "You get a lot of good stories, Mr. Ferguson."

Derrick looked at Tim. Tim looked back at Derrick.

It was Tim who answered: "You've got a deal, Mr. Bellamy."

James Bellamy held up his hand. "Make no mistake. There will be those who will try to discredit you. You will have those who will say that you are trying to present the wildest fantasy as events that have actually happened."

"Never bothered me before," Derrick said.

"And that is why I have chosen you and Mr. Hartin, Mr. Ferguson. You may go now. Instructions have been placed in your car as to how and when the files will be delivered. You are to create the website and find the writers capable of telling the secret history of the world as it deserves to be told. And make no mistake: I and my associates who you have met downstairs will be watching you to make sure you do justice to the service we have done on behalf of the world and humanity. You are to consider yourself both members of a secret and honored brotherhood. And I most sincerely beg you: do not fail us."

Tim touched Derrick's arm and they left the office, retracing their steps back down the metal flight of stairs, back though the warehouse. The metal corrugated door was now open and they returned to Derrick's gray Buick.

There was a large silver gray box on the back seat and Tim hauled it out. With Derrick's help he opened it and they opened it. Within were dozens of aged manila file folders, thick with papers. Derrick looked at Tim, there faces illuminated in the light of the flashlight like pirates looking at dug up treasure.

"So what do you think, Tim?"

Tim Hartin looked at the bounty of stories that lay in the case and he closed it slowly. "I think you and I should find some writers."

Derrick looked back up at the warehouse. "Y'know, this might make a good story. Think I should write it up for the site?"

Tim picked up the case and walked to the passenger side of the Buick. "Couldn't hurt, my friend. It couldn't hurt."

They climbed in and Derrick started up the car. The gray Buick moved down the street and was quickly lost in the thickening fog.

THE BEGINING...

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