Sidhion and I pace side-by-side down Rynor avenue. The bustle of the day-time town washes over and around us.
"Since Walter is busy crying or whatever, why don't we check out this gun lead?"
"Eager, are we?" Sidhion gives me a sidelong glance.
"Are you not? I'm here to devour a murderer."
Sidhion's frown deepens, "Figuratively, I hope."
"Yeah, yeah." I wave a dismissive hand. "Let's hit up some gunsmiths."
With much ado and asking around, Sidhion and I come to find that there is one gunsmithy which services the whole of Two Rocks, Hyde and Sons’.
The shop is buried deep in a residential area. The stone building itself is even converted from a family home, complete with a roofed veranda. The only signifier that this is indeed a business and not residence is the small, worn wooden sign hanging over the front steps.
The store itself is more than a bit of a mess. It’s more of a workshop than a proper store. The air is heavy with sawdust floating on no breeze at all. The strong smell of dust and metalwork permeates every corner of the place. Nearly every wall is lined with a short worktable. And every worktable is brimming with little metal minutia and oddly-shaped tools. Standing at one such table is a rather short dwarf. His clothes are yellowed with sweat and oil. His dark brown hair is dappled with generous sections of gray. His dappled beard and massive eyebrows conceal row upon row of ancient wrinkles. I can barely detect his toothy grin beneath all the hair. “Welcome in, kiddos! What can I do ya for?”
“Owen Goldenfist. State Militia. We have a few questions to ask.”
The old man seems unphased by our status. “Aye, I had a thought you’d be by.”
“Why is that?”
“A young’n buys one of my firearms and ends up dead a day later? Stands to reason you’d come bangin’ on my door sooner or later.”
“Then you’ll have refreshed yourself on the details.”
“‘Course! Got a mind like a steel trap.” The man emphatically taps his temple.
“Why don’t we start with your name, sir,” Sidhion intones.
“Ya didn’t read the sign?”
“Your first name?” Now Sidhion looks annoyed.
The old man chuckles. “No need to blow a gasket, son. I’s just messing with ya is all. I’m Frank Hyde.”
“And you sold the gun to Panril,” Sidhion asks flatly.
“As I said. Lad came in here rantin’ about self defense. Wild look in his eye, that one.”
“You didn’t think to not sell a gun to someone in that condition?”
“He had the money. I make firearms, not sales ethics.”
Sidhion’s frown twists into a sneer of disgust.
I step in front of Sidhion and hold up the bullet from the crime scene. “Did this come from the gun you sold to the victim?”
Frank holds out his withered hand and takes the little piece of metal. He holds it up to the light and looks closely at it. Then from around his neck he pulls a jeweler’s loupe and inspects the bullet in his hand. “Difficult to say..”
I roll my eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be an expert.”
“Don’t sass me, laddy. My ammo is standardized. Do you know what that means? It means a bullet that fits in one of my pistols is gonna fit all of my pistols. Same goes for calivers, same goes for muskets. Only thing certain is this was fired from one of my pistols. I’d bet my daughter’s beard on it, Moon rest her soul.”
“So the bullet could have come from anyone..” Sidhion ponders for a moment. “Do you at least keep records of who you sell to?”
“What kinda fool do you take me for? ‘Course I keep records.”
“We need any names who’s purchase could fire that bullet.”
“Lucky for you the list is likely short. No money in makin’ guns. Servicin’ guns on the other hand..” Frank trails off into a long-winded diatribe about the economy of his business. I zone out and watch him retreat, still yammering, to a dusty old shelf lined mostly with tools. He picks up a large volume and carries it back to the counter. He flips through page after page of receipts as they tell the story of years of business transactions. “And let me tell ya, a work-a-day man always tips better than one a those rich bastards up in their frilly manor.”
I take the opportunity to cut in and end this onslaught “Speaking of the Rynors! We need any records specifically pertaining to them.”
“Oh, you won't find those, laddie. Rynor bastards think they’re too good for my new designs. Won’t even look at a gun unless their great grand uncle killed a hundred deer with it. Only ever pay to have ‘em serviced. Not even interested in upgrading from that ol’ spherical ammo.” Frank spits on the floor beside him in disgust. Then he gives his receipts an odd look. “Seems your murder victim is the only one to buy a pistol from me in a long time. Yet alone any ammunition to use the thing.”
“So the bullet came from the victim, more likely than not.”
“But the gun wasn’t in with his personal effects,” Sidhion adds helpfully.
“Did the killer really just rob him for a gun?”
“Seems plausible. In any case it seems if we can find Panril’s gun, we’ve likely found our killer.”
“Then.. If we want to find the gun..” I let all the facts at hand pass through my mind. I close my eyes and try to come up with potential holes in our conclusion. Something doesn’t perfectly add up here but I can feel our lack of a grasp on the full picture. “We ought to search the victim’s home to rule it out.”
The home once occupied by Panril Gaelmorne is located on the coastal side of Two Rocks. I would generously call this the bad side of town. The buildings here are constructed poorly and maintained even poorer. Just when I think I’ve seen the shabbiest house on any given street, I spot something that blows the last one out of the water.
Panril’s house is one of the worst of the bunch. The building is a single-room, two-window affair. Every board used in its construction appears to be pulled from a different species of tree. Light from outside streams into the house through a hundred little gaps between the boards in the walls. And despite its exposure to the ocean breeze it is disgustingly hot.
Sidhion elects to search what the victim likely thought was a kitchen. I stride to the side of the room that somehow served as a bedroom. First I open a splintered, old wardrobe. Hanging within it are an assortment of laundered shirts and aprons. Every drawer is a mess of clothing and junk. No sign of a gun.
A ratty old rug pokes out, only barely, from beneath the thin bed. A peek beneath the bed reveals several boxes, each containing a minutia of practical garbage- old hats, shoes, belts, playing cards, a few coins. No gun.
A tiny nightstand is stacked with several books. I open each one to check for hollows. Most of them are normal. But one, a book of sword techniques, has a peculiar mark on the inside cover. A little stamp in the corner reads, "Property of the Athenaeum." And beneath that is a card glued to the inside. Each line on the card has a name and a date. The bottom name, written in an elegant hand, is Panril Gaelmorne. The date beside it matches the date of his death. This is a library book, a week and a half overdue. It's no gun but I slip the book in my bag, anyway.
The next volume I open appears to be a journal. It's well-worn with openings and closings. The spine is cracked. Every page is brimming with writing. By the looks of it, the victim wrote down his thoughts here nearly every day. I don't have time to read his life story so I flip to the end. The very last passage is dated the day before he went mad in the woods. And the information therein is utterly useless drivel.
Sidhion calls across the room, "Any luck over there?"
"Not really. Found a journal but it's got nothing."
"Oh, a journal? Why don't we trade then?" Sidhion comes to me and holds out his hand. He's holding a small velvet bag.
Suspiciously, I take the bag and hand over the journal. I loosen the little drawstrings of the bag and softly dump the contents into my hand. I am met with the light jingle of metal as a few bullets come pouring out.
Realization dawns and I dig into my satchel, searching for the bullet from the crime scene. I hold it up next to one of these new bullets, comparing the shape and position of the ridges. It all lines up. If I ever had a doubt that it was the victim's gun at the scene, this has thoroughly dissolved them.
Sidhion, meanwhile, is reading through passages in the journal. I never had him pegged as a person who enjoyed reading something so blithering and sappy but I suppose that is his business.
Sidhion closes the book with a loud snap. "I see what you mean about it being pretty useless. But there's at least one passage in here you missed. Looks like Panril suspected his boss of smuggling illegal goods for the Rynor family. Says he saw Kellerman going into Nguyen woods more than once."
"Wait so.. If he saw Kellerman in the woods.. Came back paranoid.. Kellerman kills him to shut him up about the smuggling.. Turns up dead the next day.. Is this case closed?"
Sidhion folds his arms and tilts his head to one side. "Well maybe. It's a strong theory. But we need more evidence to be certain."
"I say we raid his office. Then his house. I guarantee we'll find that gun."
"That's a little presumptuous. What if he sent someone else to do the dirty work?"
"We'll find proof of it when we kick down his door."
Sidhion lets out an exasperated sigh. "Why don't we try something a little more subtle before you start cracking skulls."
That comment cracks me up a little. Sidhion gives me a worried glance before continuing on.
"How about we stake Kellerman out for a few days? If we can catch him going out into Nguyen woods, one of us can search his office and the rest of us can root out this smuggling ring."
The roof of the new precinct is in distinctly better shape than that of the old precinct. None of the tiles are cracked or crooked. The slope of the gable is perfectly steady and rises to its highest point at the center of the building.
Sidhion, Walter and I lay on our bellies, three abreast. Our heads poke over the top of the precinct roof, looking out over Kellerman’s general store. My arms are crossed in front of me and my head rests on the left side. I can hear Walter dozing beside me. I roll my head to the right and look at Sidhion. He is frozen in place, resolve steeling his heart against the hopelessness of our strategy. His sharp, tight features obscure any hint of regret or exhaustion that has taken its toll on Walter and myself.
“You know he knows we’re watching, right?”
“You are welcome to go back to the precinct.” Sidhion does not peel my telescope from his eye.
I sigh, “And let you rub it in my face if you catch Kellerman littering?”
“Criminals don’t commit their crimes every day.”
“How about every week? It’s been ten days of following him to the manor and peeping through his curtains. He’s the last person I want to see undressed again.”
“If you’d like a better view, I’m sure Walter would oblige you.”
I shove Sidhion’s shoulder. “Ew!”
Walter waves an arm in the air and murmurs, “Too waifish for my taste.” He rolls onto his side.
“You two are insufferable. Now I really am going home.”
“Shush!” As I begin to stand up, Sidhion grabs my arm and holds me down.
I look down the street and see Kellerman emerge from the front door of his shop. He lingers there for a time, just staring at the lock in front of him. This is mildly out of character given the last several days of observation. Kellerman is breathing heavily. He leans against the door, seeming to try and center himself. His hands are shaking when he retrieves the store key from his breast pocket and locks the door.
When Kellerman turns away from the road to Rynor Manor, I lean over and vigorously shake Walter. “Get up and shut up,” I whisper.
Walter grumbles and rolls around with the effort of waking himself.
"Ugh, useless.. You stay and get into his office. Come on, Sidhion."
Sidhion nods resolutely. We both slide down the roof and rush to the ladder. Kellerman is out of sight for a solid minute by the time we get to ground level and peer down Rynor ave. I only barely spot him turn down a side-street. Sidhion darts ahead of me, determined to keep his quarry in sight.
I’m already out of breath by the time I reach the street-corner. Sidhion is long ahead of me, keeping pace with Kellerman. Stopping at street corners to let him reveal his route. I’ve lagged behind. Sidhion doesn’t even look back to see if I’m behind him. As the chase goes on, further and further toward the northern outskirts of Two Rocks, I’m not even chasing Kellerman anymore. It’s enough to simply spot Sidhion and try to catch up.
Half an hour into this chase, I find Sidhion crouched behind a bench. There’s no sign of Kellerman. I creep up and rest my head on Sidhion’s shoulder. I whisper, “Did you lose him?”
Sidhion shushes me. He points out toward the clearing ahead of us. The paved streets of Two Rocks give way here to an open field. A hundred feet ahead of us are the densely packed trees of Nguyen forest. I follow Sidhion’s gaze now and spot Kellerman, pushing aside some dense brush and uncovering a hidden path. The moment he's obscured by foliage, we book it to catch up and not lose him. Kellerman is taking a well-worn path.
Breathlessly, I try to keep up with Sidhion. He's single-minded in his pursuit, not even breaking a sweat. The mere idea of a break in the case has renewed tenfold his vigor for justice. Lucky for us, the distant sounds of frogs, crickets and birds mask his clomping footsteps. Even I can barely hear him stomping on twigs and pushing back brush as he tries to keep line of sight on Kellerman.
I can't even fault Sidhion for his fervor. Days upon days of dead ends have taken their toll on my morale. I just want to nab the killer and be on to my next case, perhaps closer to home. And the prospect of catching Kellerman in some act has me ravenous. So ravenous, in fact, that I nearly walk right past Sidhion when he stops and crouches behind a bush. He grabs my wrist and pulls me to the ground, breaking my fall with an embrace.
"There's no more trees. We have to let him cross the clearing again," he whispers in my ear.
I nod, determinedly. Sidhion and I peer over the foliage. We finally take in the gap and figure out where we've been led. Stretching out before us is a large clearing, an odd place where the trees dare not plant their offspring. About 100 feet ahead of us stand two massive, gray boulders. Both are oblong and lean lazily against each other. One lays on its long side, nearly 20 feet across. The other reaches for the stars, using its companion to prop itself up in this endeavor. Around the base of these spectacular titans, little white flowers bloom even at this time of year. These must be the titular "Two Rocks" for which the town is named.
Kellerman slowly approaches the boulders, as if he is pondering something. He leans against the tall rock and lights a cigarette.
"Is he waiting for someone," I wonder aloud.
"Must be. Let's split up and watch for this contact. Less chance we're discovered."
Sidhion and I exchange knowing nods and he releases me from his grasp. He flanks right and I go left. The trees and underbrush are unforgivably dense here. Several minutes and several more cuts later, I take up a position. I can see Kellerman, with his nearly finished cigarette in his left hand. His right is tucked in his jacket pocket, fiddling with something unseen. For half a second I spot Sidhion in the distance. At least he'll be the one caught and not me. I elect to ignore him and focus on Kellerman. I can't exactly tell at this distance but I think I spot a tinge of anxiety on his face when his cigarette is no longer viable. He lets out a heavy sigh and drops the smoldering butt. Then he turns and faces the tall rock which once supported him. His right hand leaves his pocket. I can't make out what was in there.
Kellerman raises his right hand to the stone and glides it along the surface. It must be chalk. He's writing something. I'm immediately headed back the way I came, scratches be damned. I pray he doesn't erase it before I can get a look. Thankfuly I needn't go far to get an angle. At this distance I can barely make out what he drew. It's clearly a sigil of some sort. I note a curve reminiscent of a skull. There are triangles beneath it and a tight spiral in the middle. I don't recognize the symbol from any of my own occult studies. And certainly it is not related to any sanctioned faith. I copy it down in my notebook as best I can. It's passable but a far cry from the genuine article.
Kellerman bows his head reverentially. Then he says the words.
I don’t have time to process them before the sigil comes to life. It glitters with such radiance, the lines appear to be releasing themselves from their bond with the stone. I feel the shift in magic, like wind passing over me, as the sigil draws power to itself. The glimmer then suddenly rockets itself from the sigil, where it began, all the way to the very top of the rock. Purple sparks crawl in all directions up the boulder and converge at a single point, where a small flash momentarily blinds me. When my vision returns, there is a man perched where the magic converged.
My whole body is arrested by this sight. This man is tall and thin. The moonlight causes his soft purple skin to glimmer slightly. His features are as sharp as the horns protruding from his temples. They curve back at the base as if to comply with the formation of his black, slicked-back hair, but the tips reach upward in defiance. From these horns, this man has hung several gold ornaments which catch the moonlight magnificently when he turns his head toward the sky.
The man’s slender body is concealed by rich silk robes which flow and drape over him. The fabric is dark like the space between stars with little beads of shimmering glitter revealing themselves when the moonlight catches them. One of his arms is raised nearly in a shrug, holding aloft a long cigarette holder. The smoke of his cigarette wafts in my direction and encircles me in a cloud of smoldering cloves. In one small motion he flicks the cigarette and sends his ashes to rain down on Kellerman’s head.
His demeanor is perfectly composed and still he has the air of a cat letting a mouse think it's gotten away. He takes a long drag of his cigarette, holding his breath and savoring the feeling of smoke in his lungs. When he speaks, my heart begins pounding from the adrenaline.
First he speaks quickly, letting the syllables pass without letting the smoke leave his lungs. “Phineas..” Now he lets out a long, sweet sigh and with it the smoke pours from the corners of his mouth. “Kellerman..”
Kellerman hasn’t moved a muscle since the man appeared. Every inch of him is taut like a spring. He looks ready to bolt at the first sign of danger. A bead of sweat rolls down his neck and soaks into his shirt.
“You know why I called you here, yes?” For the first time, the man looks down on the world beneath him. His eyes pass over the entirety of the clearing, seeming to regard every leaf and flower petal with derision. His gaze passes over me and my heart stops. His bright blue eyes are like glowing knives, and without the merest touch cut away the foliage around me, cut away my clothing, cut away my skin, cut away my bones, stab at my still-beating heart until it can no longer sustain me. I cannot stop my eyes from meeting his. Those two glittering blue stars emitting heavenly light from a mere hundred feet away. Then they pass, turning their light upon Kellerman.
Surely I was spotted. But he spared me?
“Y-yes, the shipment. I know it’s a day late but-”
Kellerman is interrupted when, from his perch, the man hops onto the sideways rock then to the ground. He towers over Kellerman and places a hand on his shoulder. Kellerman flinches at this gesture. The man leans down to eye level and glares. "Correct yourself. You are two weeks overdue. Do you know what happens when you fail to deliver?"
Kellerman trips over his words, trying to protest.
The man presses a finger up under Kellerman’s chin, causing him to stop stammering. Now the man takes on the tone of a headmaster admonishing a student. “That’s right. Our little pet goes without her dinner.” Now his tone grows sympathetic. “And I am no monster. I cannot simply stand by and watch her starve, can I?”
Kellerman gulps his response.
“Right. It’s your job to see that she gets fed on time. If I can’t trust you to do this one, simple job, I don’t really have a use for you, do I?”
Kellerman whines, “Now hold on! I can’t sell you something I don’t have! That bastard Adrian has missed two deliveries now!”
The man grabs Kellerman’s hand and turns it over, inspecting something. His mocking tone turns nonchalant. “I am adequately aware of your position, Phineas. Allow me to enlighten you on it. You took on this responsibility for the family. You are expected to fulfill the promises you made. It’s not my job to settle your supply chain disputes.”
“But you’re the boss. You’re supposed to-” Kellerman is cut off by his own cry of searing pain. The end of the man’s long, smoldering cigarette buries itself in Kellerman’s wrist. His knees buckle under the shock and pain but he is held aloft by the powerful grasp of the man holding him.
“Do not presume to tell me what I am ‘supposed’ to be doing. You waste my time with your whining. I want results. And I want that delivery made immediately.” The man makes intense eye contact with Kellerman. “And I do not much care who fills it.”
“But-” Again the cigarette and a scream of horrible pain.
“Do I make myself clear?” The man exasperatedly turns his gaze upward.
Between tears, Kellerman stammers. "Y-yes, lord Diantha."
So his name is Diantha. I'm fixated on this man. His visage exudes terror. It is clear this man is a terrible threat. And yet I find myself oddly allured by this fact. The words he speaks do not connect with me. I can only focus on the particular smoothness of his voice and the faint whisper he employs to communicate his threats. Every time he sways his head, my eyes get lost in the golden glimmer of the adornments on his elegant horns.
I'm so distracted that I barely realize the conversation I'm meant to be eavesdropping on has ended. Kellerman had been cowed into submission. His head hangs low as Lord Diantha gracefully pats his shoulder.
“Fear not, my good man. Your hard work will be justly rewarded once it is complete. Now.. Do not let me detain you.” Lord Diantha releases Kellerman from his grip and watches the man as he bows, turns and runs off into the night.
