The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox

By Arsenault K. Rivera and Brooke Bolander

In 1930s Manhattan, a PI who can perceive supernatural phenomena investigates an inexplicable and horrifying murder.

 

Morgan Knox sees the Darkness coming. Fourteen years after her experiences during World War I cursed her with the ability to perceive horrific supernatural phenomena, Knox is a private investigator in Manhattan, specializing in weird and macabre cases. But when a mysterious old man posthumously hires her to investigate his own death, she finds herself in a shadowy maze of power, corruption, temptation, and paranormality that threatens not only to erode her sanity, but to bring forth a monstrous evil that could destroy the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Realm
• Release date: Mar 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781638550105

Book preview

The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox

K Arsenault Rivera, Sunny Moraine, Gabino Iglesias & Bo Bolander

The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox © 2023 text by Realm of Possibility, Inc.

All materials, including, without limitation, the characters, names, titles, and settings, are the exclusive property of Realm of Possibility, Inc. All Rights Reserved, including the right of reproduction, in whole or in part, in any audio, electronic, mechanical, physical, or recording format. Originally published in the United States of America: 2020.

For additional information and permission requests, write to the publisher at Realm, 115 Broadway, 5th Floor, New York, NY 10006.

ISBN: 978-1-63855-010-5

This literary work is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, incidents, and events are the product of imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Written by: K Arsenault Rivera, Sunny Moraine, Gabino Iglesias, and Bo Bolander

Producer: Marco Palmieri

Executive Producers: Molly Barton and Julian Yap

Table of Contents

The Shadow Files of Morgan Knox

1. The Book Collector

2. Two Dames

3. The Dead Man’s Tale

4. The Cold Burn

5. The Mark

6. Sometimes We Carry Each Other

7. Down and Out in New York City

8. The Rifleman’s Rule

9. The Woman Who Wasn’t There

10. Eppur si Muove

11. Dead Reckoning

Writer Team

1. The Book Collector

K Arsenault Rivera

March, 1933. The City.

Morgan Knox clocks her perp the second he walks into the office.

The service uniform isn’t fooling anyone. No normal man walks like that, no nine-to-five Jack or John praying his boss croaks tomorrow morning. Too much weight on his right-side stride. Dark stains at the cuffs of his borrowed delivery man uniform; a hat pulled down close enough to conceal—but not totally hide—the burn scars consuming half his face.

Morgan Knox knows those scars, and she knows this man. For the past three months, she’s been tracking him on his murder spree across the city. She knows the pocket on his right holds a Colt Government Model. She knows that pistol is semi-automatic, she knows it fires seven rounds, and she knows that, with years of S.I.S. training behind him, John Craddock will only need one each to kill her and the client she’d been visiting. He’s probably got his hand around it already.

But she also knows one more thing: the Colt Government has a safety.

The Detective Special in her pocket doesn’t even have a trigger guard.

It’s in her hand the moment she has the thought; her finger’s on the trigger; she fires. Blood spurts from his thigh––red rain on the hardwood floors. A jolt of adrenaline hits her. Right through the quad! All she has to do is wait for him to double over—

But Craddock does no such thing. His eyes dart from his injury to Knox.

There aren’t many places to go. This private study might be spacious, but it has only one exit—one that Morgan and her client, Siverek, now block. She expects—well, she expected him to fall, but failing that, she expects him to try to shove her aside. Instead, Craddock bolts for the twin bay windows overlooking the glittering, benighted city.

Stop! she shouts, but it’s no use. Before she’s gotten that single syllable out, Craddock’s already crossed both arms in front of his face and crashed through the right-hand window.

Shards of glass fall like shattered stars onto the snowy cobblestone streets of Manhattan. Like all the other dreams the city swallows whole, the fragments are filthy the moment they touch the ground—splashing in the clogged gutters, burying themselves in the ruined white atop heaps of trash no one bothers to claim. If it weren’t for the man landing with a grunt and a curse, the passersby might not even take notice.

But Morgan can see him land from here, see the cold wind whip the edges of his uniform, feel it bite against her skin. He lands, he stands, he starts to run.

#

The cold March wind whips through her black trench coat. She hadn’t even taken it off before Craddock came up to interrupt her meeting. Probably for the best now.

The window’s three stories up, the jagged remnants sharp and slick with the killer’s blood, but Knox doesn’t hesitate to chase after him. Landing’s rougher than she remembers it being the last time she threw herself out a window, but then everything’s rougher these days. At least she remembered to roll. She’s on her feet in an instant, eyes on the prize.

Bruises and a little pain don’t stop her from pounding her way down the alleys of the glass-and-concrete maze she calls home. In her haste she skids on unseen ice. It’s only a wild windmilling of her arms that allows her to keep her balance—and colliding against a man slumping his way home from a local watering hole.

Rounding the corner, she can see him, the rough-hewn murderer: that cut in the meager midnight crowd has got to be him. But he’s already gotten too much of a lead thanks to her little mishap. A week’s worth of the right questions in the right ear; two months of following dead leads in hope of something greater; three bodies bleeding out onto the pavement, their heads cracked open like summer melons: all worthless if this man gets away. Shoving her way past two women enjoying a night on the town, she sights her quarry jump one car and then another, taking off down an alley. Up ahead the twin arches of the Brooklyn Bridge loom like the doors of some unseen castle.

No, not a castle—a sanctuary.

Shit.

Tires screech; her nerves leap and she reaches, out of reflex, for the cool weight of her revolver. Thankfully, half a heartbeat is all it takes for her to recognize Abe Moskowicz’s grizzled mug behind the wheel. The old taxi driver doesn’t blink.

Get in!

Morgan throws herself into the passenger seat and slams the door shut. Abe peels off like he’s done this a dozen times before, and maybe that’s because he has.

The bridge, she says. He makes it to Brooklyn and we’re never going to find him.

Then he ain’t gonna make it to Brooklyn, Abe says.

He doesn’t need to tell Morgan to hang on tight—she’s already well familiar with the Moskowicz school of careening down city streets. The cobblestones rumbling beneath them send her teeth chattering. You should give a gal some warning before you go running her off the sidewalk.

And maybe you oughta be more aware of your surroundings. I coulda been anybody, Mor—

There!

Momentum tosses her against the door as she catches sight of him again. Park Terminal. He’s really making for the bridge, isn’t he?

Abe floors it.

Abe, she says. The Terminal—

They’re scattering, it’ll be fine––

Morgan reaches over and slams the horn. It’s just barely enough—and Abe’s Plymouth sedan narrowly fits onto the pedestrian walkway. Wood groans as the cab charges up the winding terminal ramps.

The moment they crest the ramp she throws open the door and jumps. Abe’s shouting behind her, but she can hardly hear him over the boat horns and the distant wail of police sirens. For the second time that night she lands in a roll and springs to her feet, her muscles groaning with effort.

Where has he gone? Where is Craddock? He should be here somewhere, running to those sanctuary doors. How small a man seems in comparison to that triumph of engineering! The arches, the cobblestone, the cables beguile her—

The howl of police sirens, the rumble of the train, the cacophony of ten thousand lives lived in close proximity. Shadows shift like curtains in the bitter winter wind. Perched atop the bridge there is an unknowable darkness, a slick behemoth of dread whose body she cannot see and yet whose very essence she knows well. Here is hatred. Here is wrath. Blocking out the stars, the moon, the glittering life of the city itself—the giant reaches with its myriad wriggling hands for the suspension cables––

Morgan squeezes her eyes shut. Deep breaths only seem to bring the chaos around her deep into her lungs, but she has no choice. Not now. Please, not now.

When she opens her eyes all of this is going to be gone. A whole precinct’s probably tearing their way through the city after him—the Financial District’s packed with cops even in the middle of the night.

And if she lets this murderer get away, what is she going to say to them?

She takes a breath.

There, by the first pylon: the man with all the scars. Craddock. From the ragged look of his breathing, he can’t keep this sprint going much longer.

It’s now or never.

Knox raises her pistol.

No one wants to get caught between a dame with a gun and a man with scars like that. It’s a lot more expensive to be a hero after the crash. The lonely souls walking the bridge in the middle of the night aren’t willing to pay that price.

Knox grits her teeth. The dripping trail of blood at the man’s feet tells her all she needs to know. She has to hand it to him: it’s impressive the way he managed to run like that with a bullet in his leg—but this ends here.

Shadows paint Craddock’s scars with a malicious brush. His chest heaves as he struggles to catch his breath. Moonlight washes out what little color he has remaining, and the snow coating the walkways only serves to make him paler.

But there’s a ferocity in him that surprises her. Maybe it’s the way he’s baring his teeth, that lopsided snarl. Craddock’s lost a lot of the world already.

Morgan takes a step forward. Craddock reaches for his pistol. He thinks he’s quick, but she’s quicker—the shot hits the weapon before he can raise it. Impact sends it tumbling out of his hand. He clutches his wrist.

Do you have any idea what you’re doing?

Bringing you in, Knox answers. Go for the gun again and see where that gets you.

His good eye meets hers. In the dark of night it’s hard to tell what color it is, but she remembers—she’s read his records. Blue. Idly, she wonders if it is the blue of the sky, the blue of the sea, or the blue of a cop’s shabby uniform. Doesn’t matter, does it?

As she takes another step forward, he takes a clumsy swipe at her. Knox doesn’t even have to sway very much to avoid it.

You’re playing right into their hands, Craddock rasps. He spits dark onto the boards.

Whose hands? she asks. She has to shout to be heard; the cold air strains her throat. Victor de Witten’s? Gloria Harwell? Tommy Corbin’s? Stop me if these names sound familiar.

He laughs. She senses Abe coming up behind them. Morgan can’t spare him a glance—if she looks away, Craddock’s going to jump right into the glassy waters of the East River—but she waves him back with her free hand. The other clutches Kreznick’s old revolver tight.

Sweat trickles down Craddock’s brow. He sways again, but there’s something off about it. With a sinking feeling Morgan realizes why: he’s wandering closer to the gun, turning half away from her—

Another shot will kill him—

Craddock! she shouts.

Crack!

On a cold night in March, New York’s Finest shoot John Craddock in the chest. Tomorrow—or maybe the day after—the paper’s going to spin it like a gangster movie, but tonight there’s nothing glamorous about it. The shot, fired by a marksman out the window of his squad car, lands as clean as any bullet can. Craddock staggers backward. His one eye goes wide, his mouth hangs open as he reaches for something to brace himself.

Reaches for her.

Morgan Knox is running the second she hears the shot.

She has to catch him.

He knows it, too. She has to catch him.

So he reaches for her.

But John Craddock’s bloodslicked hands are the end of him. His fingers smear red onto her brown skin in the precious second before he falls. She watches. It takes him three seconds to fall. A splash of white against the black; a shadow quickly fading—that’s all that remains.

She is left standing on the very edge of the bridge. Wind howls in her ears. She can’t hear anything, let alone the remonstrations of officers too quick to pull the trigger and too slow to understand.

Three months. Three months, she’d been . . .

Abe’s hand lands on her shoulder. He was always going to jump.

Morgan trades her gun for the pack of Lucky Strikes in her pocket. Too late, she realizes she’s smeared Craddock’s blood on her pocket.

Maybe.

• • •

Kreznick always used to tell her that the second most important thing about detective work was getting paid.

Doesn’t matter if you solve the case or don’t, he’d say, a bloom of red across his bulbous nose. You do everything you can, and then they pay you everything they can. That’s how it works. Never let them stiff you.

At the time, it seemed to Morgan the pessimistic ramblings of a man far removed from reality. Kreznick had given up hope long ago. You could see it in the stack of cases he swore he’d get around to if you gave him more time; in the cracked paint of his office; in the bottles emptied like offerings to unseen gods.

The first time she met him, she told herself she’d never let things get that bad.

But the city makes even those choices for you sometimes.

And sometimes, you let a cigarette drop from your fingertips in the middle of the street, too exhausted by the night to care where it might land.

Morgan Knox looks up at the building in front of her. Volkan Siverek runs the Odessa Club, some sort of private society for book lovers—bibliophiles, they call themselves. Craddock’s last three victims had all been members. She’d been asking Siverek some questions when Craddock tried to kill him. Siverek wanted answers. She’s got only one to give him.

It’ll have to be enough.

Smoke still clings to her blood-splattered coat as she lets herself into Siverek’s office. It’s almost one in the morning but there’s still a secretary sitting pretty at the desk: young and blonde, her hair curling up at the ends. She smiles as Morgan walks by. There are no dark circles beneath her eyes, no red lines, no signs that this schedule bothers her at all. No signs that any of the commotion’s troubled her, either. She’s got one of those faces Morgan swears she’s seen before, like Ingrid Bergman’s long-lost sister.

Welcome back to the Odessa Club, Miss Knox.

Knox doesn’t answer her.

Up the stairs with their marble handrails, second office on the right. The smell of old books and fresh coffee gives Siverek away, even if there’s no nameplate on the mahogany door. Two raps to warn him she’s coming, the sound echoing down the empty halls.

Ah, Miss Knox, he says. Come in.

The detective in her can’t fail to note how casual he sounds about all of this. She files it away along with the scant other details she’s gotten. Seventy years old, a slightly stooped five-ten, maybe a hundred and fifty pounds. Hair’s mostly white, thin and light, a bit like spun sugar. Likes his coffee dark and very strong—and likes it at all hours of the night.

The nurse in her notices the knobbiness of his joints; his pale fingernail beds; his quizzical demeanor. The sort of man who read an article in the Times the other day about just this procedure and thinks that trumps her years of education. The sort of man who thinks her Puerto Rican education doesn’t count for much at all.

He rises as she closes the door behind her. She hopes he won’t offer to pull out her chair.

May I get you a seat?

Morgan tries not to wince. Thank you, but I think I’ll stand.

There’s old-world hospitality in his gesture toward the carafe. Makes her think of Spaniards. The islander in her rankles at the thought. Some coffee, then.

I’m trying to keep a better eye on my sleep.

I wasn’t aware that you did sleep, Miss Knox.

Craddock’s dead.

Back in her days as a nurse, she’d gotten complaints about her bedside manner. She made no apologies. When someone’s dying, people don't want you to sugarcoat their odds. The same goes for detective work.

Siverek’s cup clinks against the saucer. By your hand?

No, she says. I tailed him to the bridge. I was going to collar him and get some answers. It . . . didn’t work out that way.

The city likes to pride itself on being a melting pot, but not everything melts the same way. Some people don’t like when it’s a woman who follows up on their case—let alone a woman as dark and curly-haired as her. They study her just the way Siverek’s studying her now.

Why not?

I didn’t get to him quick enough, says Knox.

But you shot him in the leg, didn’t you? Siverek answers. An injury like that—surely he wasn’t quite so fleet of foot.

Fleet of foot. What else would she expect from a rare book collector? It stopped him on the bridge.

But you weren’t able to catch him.

I was not, she says, the answer coming quick and harsh. But when I came here earlier, you weren’t able to answer any of my questions. Craddock’s killed three members of the Odessa Club in the past three months—all carefully planned, all deliberate, all from a distance. Yet you’re sitting here as calm as can be with a cup of midnight coffee and a vague smile. I find that kind of funny, don’t you?

Siverek keeps sipping from his coffee. She puts one hand on either side of his cup, leaning over the desk.

What’s a trained S.I.S. sniper doing picking off a bunch of old book lovers? When I cornered him, he kept rambling in a way that made me think I wasn’t seeing the whole picture. She pauses. Siverek’s eyes are a little narrowed, a hint of a smile on his face. But you don’t look very surprised to hear that—just like you didn’t seem surprised when he interrupted us earlier. All the others he shot from a distance, but you aren’t surprised he came to see you personally?

Miss Knox, says Siverek, this man—Craddock, did you say his name was?—doubtless wanted the answers to some of his life’s darker mysteries. Perhaps he thought my ‘old books,’ as you call them, would help.

So he killed three book collectors? Knox says. "It isn’t adding up. Gray’s Anatomy isn’t going to tell him what’s wrong with him."

She thinks of what Kreznick would do in this situation—pistol-whip the old man and demand the truth, then take his payment from Siverek’s discarded billfold. That isn’t how she operates. Sometimes, though, she wishes that it could be.

That small smile spreads across Siverek’s face. "Gray’s Anatomy. Miss Knox, I think you know precisely the sort of answers he was looking for."

No, I don’t, or else I wouldn’t be—

I had my secretary look into you, he says. An Army nurse during the Great War, no? You spent the majority of your tour in France with the, ah . . . Pitfighters?

Knox has been speaking Spanish and English all her life. Siverek seems like he picked up English pretty early on, too. A mistake like that isn’t the stumbling of a bilingual brain; it is a purposeful slight. The Harlem Hellfighters. Some of the best men I ever met.

Yes. Yes, I’m sure, he says. That smile again. That was a war of nations. The War to End All Wars. And France—well. So much ended in France, in those days.

She stiffens. France was good to her and good to them. Better than the States. She still has friends over there. We’re not here to talk about the War.

But Craddock was. I find that war clings to the soul in much the same way ink clings to paper. This Craddock might have thought I had a way to wash those stains away. To give him a blank page.

He stands. Cases of books frame him in black and green leather, in brown and gold backings. His eyes wander among them as he strokes his beard. Morgan looks to the window—someone swept up Craddock’s bloodied glass already. Siverek doesn’t seem bothered by the cold. Outside, the city’s restless night continues: more sirens, the shriek of a violinist desperate to eke out another meal.

She focuses on these things—and not on the wailing that haunts her nights, not on the faces drained of blood and will, not the gory stumps, not those six eternal months of waiting for the next calamity.

Nor does she think of the visions that led her to Craddock in the first place: bones streaked in oily black, a man missing half his face, four dead bodies locked in some macabre ritual. Siverek doesn’t need to know any of that. Can’t know any of that.

A detective is always in search of an answer. You’re no exception, are you? That is what drove you to the profession in the first place. And yet you didn’t join the storied ranks of the police—you chose to work independently. Is that because of your background, Miss Knox, or because your people know the weight of a government yoke?

I’m not here to talk about politics, Knox says. Not with a man who uses phrases like your people, anyway.

Then why are you here? Siverek asks. He turns, smiling still. Your quarry is dead. You’ve informed me. Are you here for payment? Name your price, and you may have it. I am good to those who are good to me. And yet you have not brought that matter up yourself—only questioned me.

This is fast setting Knox’s teeth on edge. Maybe she should have just asked for the payment and put all this behind her. But she can't. I don’t think this is over.

Siverek nods. Neither do I.

Knox is itching for another cigarette. She resorts to tapping her finger on a nearby armchair instead. I don’t think he acted alone. To know that you would be here in the middle of the night, to come after you the way he did . . . This was personal. Someone gave him the key to the service entrance.

Indeed, says Siverek.

And it would have to be someone you know, she says. So all of this talk about the War, about wanting answers—don’t the people close to you already have them?

I am not so open as you might imagine. A collector's most prized possessions are those he rarely speaks of, after all, Siverek answers. "There are those in the Odessa Club who long to know the things I know, and to see