Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Stephen Spielberg, George Lucas, and their marvelous affiliates at Lucasfilm and Paramount. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only.

Summary: While recovering from a horrific car accident, Mutt is haunted by the form of his late stepfather Colin Williams. His investigation into the events surrounding his father's demise leads him to discover the dark truth about Colin's time overseas and even darker truths about the Nazis and the nature of evil.

Themes: Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Adventure

Rating: T for language, violence, and disturbing situations.

Timeline: Five months post-KotCS.

Author's Notes: This is the byproduct of my obsession with Mutt and his step-father, Colin Williams. It's considerably darker than the films and probably the darkest concepts I have ever played with. I was inspired heavily by Tanya Huff's Blood Pact and Mike Mignola's Hellboy, which may give you a hint as to the storyline, but not too much of one. Basically, I wanted to explore the relationship between Mutt and Colin, while also bringing the Nazis back as a villain.

I have used some female original characters in this. The relationships they form with Mutt are strictly for the sake of the story and will not take centre stage, just in case anyone's worried.

"Get bent" is the 50's equivalent of 'screw off'...or so I read. If this is incorrect, I would like to know.

Other than that, constructive criticism is always appreciated, flames are always ignored. Enjoy, readers!

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

Chapter One

There were many reasons Henry "Mutt" Jones Jr. hated Susan Walsh, and everyday she took the liberty of giving him new ones. That day in class, though, she had given him several lists worth, lists he reflected upon as he crossed Bishop's Square to the bus stop home.

The story of Susan had been the talk of the school two months before when she appeared on campus. It had the makings of an epic: the daughter of a wealthy Englishman and his dowdy wife sent adrift in the wake of her mother's remarriage. Mrs. Walsh had lost her husband during the war and had raised her daughter alone for many years. However, during Susan's first year at Cambridge, Mrs. Walsh quickly became the apple of the esteemed Physic professor, Dr. Albert Montague's eye who, as luck would have it, had recently been promoted at Marshall College to the position of Faculty head. Unable to leave his job, he invited the former Mrs. Walsh to live with him in America and, being unable to leave her daughter, Susan was dragged along and transferred to Marshall.

If there was any disdain in the decision, no one could be sure. Susan kept very few contacts at the school and spoke very little. Her sharp, clipped tones were often attributed to her British upbringing and her character rather than relocation resentments. Neither justification made her any more bearable, though. She was known to be a fierce debater when provoked, a verbal serpent with an abrasive wit and Socratic proficiency. When she spoke, people listened; when she attacked, people bled. Since day one, she had delighted in knocking her classmates down several pegs. It was, in part, because she had the highest mark in the class. Mostly, though, Mutt figured she was just a bitch.

Needless to say, her relationship with the young Jones had been strained from the beginning and fluctuated accordingly. On a good day, neither recognized the others' existence, but on a bad one, everybody took notice. Neither was known to take anything lying down, though Susan was certainly adept at pretending she did. They turned class discussion into world wars, Axis versus Allies, America versus Russia, departing only after the professor had forced them from the battlefield…er, lecture hall.

Today had been no different. One comment from Anthony Verdigris sent Susan on the stealthiest warpath she had ever been on. She made open ended statements seemingly in Anthony's favour, convincing the class that she supported the youth's assessment. The façade did not last long, though. In her throaty, clipped tone, she began to twist his statements, showing in subtle but blatant ways how he had undermined his point. Finally, just when he thought he was getting off easy, she posed a final rhetorical question that sealed her verbal victory and secured her dominance in the class.

No sooner had class ended Mutt marched to the back corner of the class where Susan always sat. Anthony was a good student and a good friend. She could pick on everyone else, take on the President if she wanted, but he wouldn't stand for her tearing his friends down.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" he snapped.

Susan lifted her gaze casually from her bag where she was packing up her notes. Her dark brown eyes appeared almost black in the harsh lighting of the hall. Her blank expression was even more disturbing, not because it was void of emotion, but because Mutt could feel her smirking under it all, entertained, ready for battle. She turned from what she was doing gracefully, like a debutante and waited for an explanation, silent and inert as a jungle cat whose meal had just been interrupted.

Anthony patted his friend on the shoulder. "Mutt, come on – she's not worth it."

"No, please," she insisted cordially. "A Neanderthal with a vocabulary? Mr. Jones is making evolutionary history. I'm honoured to be present for this."

"Spare me the polysyllabic bitchery," Mutt's hands balled to fists. "He had a legitimate argument and you know it."

"So legitimate means wholly wrong and thoroughly inaccurate in this country?" Susan raised her brow into a perfectly calculated arch, enough to indicate skepticism and sarcasm in the same horrible instant. "In that case, I'd like to thank you for your perfectly legitimate rebuttal to Mr. Verdigris's public shaming."

"Oh, get bent."

"Henry Jones!"

Oh crap…

Mutt turned slowly. He already knew what he was going to see. The thundering voice had made it clear. Sure enough, Dr. Martin stood ominously behind him, glaring with a fierce intensity Mutt had never seen before after having overheard Mutt's more colourful use of the English language. Faster than one of Susan's verbal attacks, he cleared the remaining students out of the class – including Susan, much to Mutt's chagrin - and suspended the young Jones from class for the rest of the week. Being Wednesday, it wasn't the steepest punishment the professor had ever given out, but Mutt knew better than to be relieved. There was something Martin wasn't telling him, something he was saving.

The young man's suspicions were answered when the doctor held open the door for him to leave. Just as he reached the threshold, the professor added, "I'm suddenly relieved I made that appointment with the assistant dean next period. I thought we wouldn't have anything to talk about. I guess I was mistaken."

Mutt pulled himself from his teacher's grasp and stormed off down the hall. He might not be in trouble now, but he certainly would be when he got home.

He pushed his way through the crowds of Bishop's Square cursing Susan with every step. He hated her, every inch of her; every cell in her body, every neuron in her brain, he hated her. He hated how she thought she was always right. He hated how the Socratic Method validated that thought. He hated how she was among the highest students in her classes. He hated how she looked with her sharp, bony features, her black gaze, and her mess of lengthy chestnut curls, the way she accentuated each with expensive clothing, jewelry and dark make-up like she was a crown royal instead of a professor's step-daughter. He hated her accent and her voice, the cracked, throaty, animal sounds that emerged from her mouth when she spoke. He hated her vocabulary, how she could say everything she meant without saying it at all. He hated how he got suspended for saying something honest, how his friend could get picked on and those willing to stand up to her were punished for their boldness. He hated how his dad was going to lecture him when he got home. He hated how long that lecture was going to take. He hated how he would probably be forced to apologize to her. He hated how she would smile at that. He hated how he would get expelled after that for punching the bitch's lights out. He hated…

"What was the damage?"

Mutt looked up from where he had been burning holes in the sidewalk with his stair. Anthony was standing by his side trying but not-quite-succeeding at matching the young Jones's pace. With the thoughts of his hatred simmering on the back burner of his mind, Mutt finally slowed down enough that they could walk.

"Two days suspension."

"That's nothing."

"He's telling my dad."

"Oh," Anthony's eyes widened. He put an arm over Mutt's shoulders and gave him a comforting pat on the back. "Nice knowing you."

"She shouldn't have the right to do that," Mutt spat bitterly.

"No, but she's gonna do it anyways. She's just a bitch, Mutt, let it go. I have."

"Nobody should have to," he muttered, and was haunted by the image of her smirk. "Geez – just once, just once I wish someone beat her at her own game."

"Amen to that," Anthony replied. "She's a tough nut to crack, though. I've seen her take on professors for the hell of it, and these are professors who know what they're talking about."

"It's not fair."

"No, it's not. But, look at it this way - she's only in one of your classes."

"Yeah, well, that's one class too many," Mutt growled. He could see her vividly in his mind seated in her shaded back corner, black eyes gleaming, as she smirked victoriously. When he tried using her as a punching bag his father dragged him out of the classroom by his ear. "Geez…"

"Hey, what do you say we stop by Merla's and get some root beers? I heard Chloe's working tonight."

Chloe, Mutt sighed. There was nothing he would rather do that go than go see Chloe Weaver in her little pink uniform, ash blonde hair bouncing in thick pigtails at her shoulders as she roller-skated from table to table in the tiny diner. He would probably say something awkward and stupid, but she'd smile and blush just the same as she brought them their orders. Just before leaving, she would probably suggest he walk her home after work or that they go to a movie that weekend, and he would probably say yes in the most small, affected fashion he could manage because Chloe Weaver was pretty, smart, and funny and could have any guy in the world but she chose him even though he couldn't think of a good reason why.

But all hopes of seeing Chloe were dashed by the storm clouds brewing in his mind, storm clouds created by 'Satan' Walsh consisting of Henry "Indiana" Jones Sr., a month-long grounding, and an apology for stupid Susan herself.

"Nah," he replied glumly. "I should get home. If my dad finds out I got suspended and went out afterwards, nobody'll find the body. At least if I get home early, I can work on a good defense."

Anthony remained silent, but he gave his friend an extra pat on the shoulder as if to say, "You're going to need it."

The bus stop was packed by the time they reached it. Students were crowded around the bench with papers and books in their hands, cramming as much as they could before next day. Mutt was too tired to notice. All his hating and dreading was beginning to wear him out. He wanted to crawl in a hole somewhere and let the world forget about him for a while. When he emerged, dad would have calmed down and Susan would have developed a terminal illness, preferably something foreign and hemorrhagic.

He lifted his gaze from the ground and stared off across the street. I'm a dead man, he thought to himself, watching as children raced across the playground yonder. I'm a goner.

A rush of adrenaline raced through his system suddenly. Mutt perked up and scanned the playground again, searching for something.

Anthony glanced over at his friend. Mutt had gone several shades paler. "Hey, man, you okay?"

Mutt didn't answer, he shifted about on his heels, standing up on his toes and twisting his head to get a better look. He took a step closer to the street to get a better view.

"Whatsamatter, Mutt, you see something?"

A camera flashed across the street. A group of students wandered past. Young children bounded in a hoard through the breaks in the crowds. The camera flashed again and made everything blur, colours bleeding into one another. Yet Mutt couldn't pull his eyes away. He had seen something, something from before, something familiar.

"Buddy, you're freaking me out. What's going on?"

"I thought I just saw my dad."

"Your dad?" Anthony's brow furrowed. "I thought he was in a meeting with Martin?"

"Not that dad," Mutt replied, and walked out into the street.


"DAD!" the younger Jones called, jogging now to the park on the other side of the street.


He didn't. He was transfixed on the shadowy figure in the crowds making a run for it across the park, away from him. Mutt reached out and called to him, but his cries were drowned by the piercing sound of a horn honking, brakes screeching and tires skidding before being cut off completely sharp pain exploding along his ride side.

Bright red light swallowed him that bled into white, followed quickly by darkness.

Till next time, folks - happy reading.