Home Again, Home Again, Jiggety-Jig – And Not a Minute Too Soon
They’re back in Heinlein’s one-floor 1950’s ranch house on Vosseller Avenue in Martinsville. His half-acre back yard abuts the Warren Township border line – so one might say he’s “back to where he started”, that is, grew up. Last night when him and Leeds were eating Chinese takeout at his kitchen countertop, he got an encrypted text from Simon Magus.
“Aleah al Sacrede in Teterboro. Package to arrive today, DHL. Miss you both. Regards”.
While they’re happy to get the hot tip on al Sacrede – they’re more tickled to get a few words from The Master.
“Jesus, I miss that guy…” Heinlein says out loud. Leeds just smiles and gently touches his back.
“I miss him, too. I feel naked without him just being…. around. I wonder when Archangel Gabriel will take him and Longinus….home.”
Heinlein just looks down at his cup of Folgers instant coffee. No artisanal Honduran beans in this old house. Just practical, coupon-sale-priced bargains.
Suddenly, his cell rings. It’s Dispatch, Warren Police Department. Heinlein answers immediately. Gina at the main desk.
“It’s happening again. A bad one. Captain Trevor says you guys are to meet him at Chimney Rock Overlook in Martinsville. Bring a barf-bag”.
Heinlein is stunned. Him and Leeds are supposed to still be on extended Leave assignments on “Government” Business. Why are they being once again roped into a local police matter?
Leeds’ intuition makes theoretical sense out of it.
“Whatever we’re being dragged into has something to do with ASTRA and the Antidote – and maybe a Yakwahe, thrown in for good measure. We gotta’ follow this lead. We can head to Teterboro Airport and sniff around for Sacrede afterwards”.
As they head out of Heinlein’s driveway, a brown DHL International truck pulls in. Heinlein signs for the package – it’s from “SMCo.” – and hands it to Leeds to open.
Inside are twelve Glock magazines pre-loaded with 9MM Silver Nitrate Vampyre-killer rounds. Heinlein and Leeds swap out their standard 9MM loads at a red light and continue on their journey.
The two of them really appreciate Simon Magus’ thoughtfulness. Silver Nitrate Ammunition like this can make the difference between walking away from a Vampyre confrontation – and succumbing to it.
Leeds is pleased. “How thoughtful…” she says.
Chimney Rock is a Jersey Schist outcropping overlooking Route 22 and Western New Jersey for as far as the eye can see. It’s in Martinsville, off a precarious logging road, at the end of the first spine of the Watchung Mountains. Boy Scouts – and local toughs who gather there to drink beer at night – love the place. Chimney Rock (you may have guessed) looks amazingly like a tall chimney. Getting drunk there is a rite of passage for New Jersey teenagers. Heinlein himself almost took a header off the side of the cliff where “The Chimm” was perched when he was in High School. After drinking six cans of Budweiser, he almost met the Grim Reaper.
“Party at the Chimm” was a common battle-cry and Weekend ticket to blow off adolescent steam back in the day. Bring your own six-pack of beer – and girl. Viola! Heaven on top of the world. Heinlein barely conceals his grin just thinking about those days. And sure enough – he became a cop! Go figure.
Leeds picks up on the irony showing on his face as he’s driving.
“Reliving your High School Glory Days?”
Heinlein just keeps driving. No way he wants to admit what a wastrel he was in his younger days. He’s sure she already surmises what a young Hellion he was back then.
Chimney Rock isn’t far from Warren. In fact, him and Leeds could’ve walked there from his house on Vosseller Avenue. They pull onto the beat-up, rutted service road and bounce around for about a football field’s distance when they see Police Cruisers lining both sides of the access, light bars blazing. There must be a dozen cars and countless cop uniforms hustling everywhere. Ahead of them is blue sky – it’s the edge of the cliff. To the left is that peculiar rock formation that George Washington camped at whenever he needed cloud-level elevation to spy on British encampments in the distance at New Brunswick. It is actually shaped like a tall Chimney that could’ve been crafted by a local mason. A true natural oddity.
But is supposed to be the color of Jersey schist – Gray Rock. For some reason it’s all red – and something is sagging off of it. Like somebody draped a crimson tarpaulin over its side. Heinlein remembers now – there’s a old, bent metal “NO CLIMBING ON CHIMNEY OUTCROPPING” County Park Police sign affixed to the side of the structure. Whatever red thing is that he’s looking at is apparently hung up on or wedged into that rotted old metal sign. It’s the size of a flag. Is it some banner – some protest or adolescent statement of political angst?
Him and Leeds get closer – then they see it. A face – more like a mask. The red thing starts moving, flapping in the gusty wind. But it doesn’t move like a flag – it’s congealed to the side of the rock, greasily slipping in the wind. There’s a pool of blood puddled below it, at the base of the rock, still viscous and shiney.
It’s a human skin suit that was flayed off a skeleton.
Voices to their left ring out.
“HERE! OVER HERE! BRING THE CORONER, QUICK!’
Heinlein and Leeds wade about ten feet into a dense thicket of weeds and brambles. In the middle of a bush – basically sitting up – is a partial skeleton. Its internal organs have been ripped out, torn through ribcage openings and split joints. Bones are broken off and hanging still attached to what looks like gnawed-upon viscera and muscle fibers. The legs are completely detached – thrust into a bush a few feet to the left of the brutalized torso. Everything looks like its been chewed on – or at least tasted. A large, curved chunk of grey matter is dripping out of the head’s crushed eye sockets – where the attacker obviously sucked it out. Whatever did this was strong and killed the victim in a frenzy or rage.
“A real sight for sore eyes, ain’t it…bring back memories?
Gus Trevor, Heinlein’s Captain from Warren Police Department is right behind them.
“I know you guys are on some long-term hoity-toity assignment – but I wanted you to see what’s going on here. Whatever monster we had butchering people in Warren has returned. The common denominator is the Gray Rock....the Watchung Range...the same igneous geography that the Lene Lenape Chieftain said these things lived in. He’s going to be at Warren PD at 7:00 tonight – if you want to speak to him. Maybe pick his brain. I gotta’ go – see ya’ later, right?”
Heinlein watches the Somerset County Coroner – Josiah Eales, MD –foraging around in the weeds near the skeleton. He and his tactical forensic team are busy setting up tents and barricades to cordon off the gory dismembered remains. It’s all up to the medical boys from here on in.
“Look – there’s nothing more we can do here. Let’s head to Teterboro Airport and scratch around up there a bit. We can come back to meet Chief Crow-Feather at Warren PD later – what do you say?”
Leeds just nods her head in agreement, and they head to Heinlein’s Ford Explorer.
Soon they’re getting on Route 78 West and heading to US Route 287 North to get them to Teterboro Airport in Teterboro, Bergen County, New Jersey.
After about ten minutes’ drive time, Heinlein figures it’s time to poke Leeds for some answers.
“Look….I never asked you what happened when you disappeared into that, that glowing circular energy Portal in the Watchung Reservation during the Indian ceremony. I was just so glad to get you back, I figured it didn’t matter – and, when you were good and ready, you’d volunteer some details on your own.
But things are happening now….If what skinned that poor bastard up on Chimney Rock is another Yakwahe, we got a problem. This comes at the worst possible moment for our investigation – everything seems to be somehow circling back to this Yakwahe entity.
I say we contact Simon Magus and ask for some help. The Old Ones clearly don’t want humans to hunt – or kill – Yakwahe. I ‘ve already lost one finger in this deal and I don’t want to lose any more. But how the Hell can we defend ourselves against them?”
Leeds – never one to waste words – gently touches Heinlein’s arm while he’s driving.
“I don’t know what happened to me when the Old Ones invited me through their Portal. All I know is that I felt warm and safe. At times I felt pain. I know I was operated on – and have an abdominal scar to prove it. My cancer, thank God, is gone. I wish I had answers for you. I don’t. I say we call Simon Magus and give him a heads up after we see what’s shakin’ in Teterboro.”
Shoehorned into a County – Bergen – that’s packed in to the most densely populated State – New Jersey – in the United States of America is a private, very exclusive airport called Teterboro Airport. It’s located a Bergen County “Township” called Teterboro, in which resides about 70 people. Suffice to say, the entire town is the private airport and most of those 70 people who live there have something to do with the business of flying, landing, maintaining and fueling private planes – or catering to the people who do. These are very expensive private aircraft. Gulfstreams, Hondas, top-end Cessnas, Bombardier Global 8000s, Embraer Phenoms and Praetors.
Exclusive and discrete corporate flight companies in Teterboro use these private “Concierge” Jets to take wealthy people anywhere they want to go. New Jersey is 7,354 square miles and has about 10 million people in it. Bergen County is 250 square miles and has about 1 million people. New Jersey has more people packed into it than any other state. Like sardines. And a tight corner of the sardine can that is New Jersey is Bergen County. If somebody wanted to test an aerosolized biologic agent – a drug sprayed from a plane – on a tightly packed urban population, Bergen County New Jersey is the perfect laboratory canvas. Is this why Aleah al Sacrede, French Aviation Aerosol Engineering Genius is in Teterboro, New Jersey? Heinlein and Leeds are intrigued by the possibility.
They arrive. They park. The wander aimlessly throughout the facility. They don’t even have a picture of this guy. And apropos of what they don’t have – Heinlein mentally rattles off his list.
Picture of Aleah al Sacrede? Nope. Cell phone sweep of the airport for the last twenty-four hours? Nope. CCTV digital records of all comings and goings in compressed time for the past week? Nope. Roster of names of Airport employees? Nope. Pictures of Airport employees? Technical breakdown of exactly what kind of equipment would be necessary to make modern jet planes emit aerosolized biological agents at altitude? Raw pharmacological data needed to understand this kind of Beta test? Pictures of what aviation aerosolization equipment looks like? Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.
“We’re freakin’ naked here with our heads up our asses. ” Heinlein says as they wander. “I don’t even know what the F-ck we’re looking for…. How ’bout we take an airport employee, drag him into a hanger and beat the livin’ shit outta’ him? Maybe then we’ll get lucky and he’ll know something!”
They head to the Airport Tower. The tarmac-level door has a sign: OPERATIONS CENTER. Somebody gotta’ know something here. There’s an elevator – with a hand-printed cardboard sign duct-taped on its doors that reads “OUT OF ORDER“. Five levels of steps. Heinlein and Leeds hoof it all the way to the top level. They open the only door that’s on the fifth level.
They’re greeted by a pancake-makeup-faced Guidette in her twenties with greasy hair, fake eyelashes and red lipstick sitting behind a desk that’s buried in paper. And as you might expect for this neck of the woods, she’s chewing gum.
She barks out with a ‘Jersey accent – “Summin’ I can do fo’ youz?”
Heinlein pauses a few seconds to take it all in. This woman doesn’t even have a name tag.
There’s five other people sitting at desks completely mesmerized by computer screens, eyes bloodshot from gazing at concentric lines inside lines with numbers and red lights blipping. Each blip has a number next to it. They’re oblivious to Heinlein and Leeds. If this is an “Operations Center”, it ain’t exactly High Tech.
“Yes, Maam” Heinlein says as he flashes his badge.
“I’m Detective Heinlein from the Warren Township Police Department and this is Sargeant Leeds with the New Jersey State Police. We’re searching the whereabouts of a man who we believe to be a Terrorist – his name is Aleah al Sacrede. We believe that he’s a French Citizen and an Aeronautical Engineer who may be using Teterboro Airport to further his unlawful activities”.
The oh-so-helpful helpful Guidette stares at them both.
“Youz Cops gotta’ picchha’? The Feds that were here this mornin’ only had some dopey composite sketch, like they show on TV”.
Heinlein looks at Leeds – in shock and disbelief. The NSA and US National Security apparatus are on the hunt for this guy al Sacrede already? If so, chances are good they know what the BratvaRus Chief Executive Officer, Pyotr Grushakov, told them and Simon Magus in Switzerland. They may even know specific details about ASTRA.
“Shit” Heinlein mutters under his breath. “No, Maam – we dont’ have a picture of the man.
“Well I’ll tell youz guys what I told those Feds – look around if you want, but I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no French Engineer…”
Guidette turns her attention back to her computer screen and starts fiddling with her mouse. Her helpfulness is over. She might have well as said “Get Lost…”
As Heinlein and Leeds schlep back down the five-floor staircase, he mutters out loud, shaking his head –
“Was that a ‘Jersey moment, or what? Sometimes I wonder if this State is even worth saving.”
Copyright, 2026 Jon Croft
www.bogironslav.com
Email: vlchek1@gmail.com
