Detective D. Case (19 page)

          Content,
Bishop nodded. He clicked his gun ready, a rough and strong rifle with power like
an arm of muscle. He called it Artery. Queen didn’t like guns – “Too noisy,” she
had said – preferring smaller, more dangerous items of usage. At first Bishop couldn’t
tell whether Queen was right with her decisions, but she never got herself into
any real harm, so he guessed she was right in some ways. Yet the feel of Artery
never made him change, like a bride-to-be. You’d swear to never run off with anyone
else, and that was the promise Bishop kept to Artery. Filled with so much promise,
he noted, but never did he give that much in return in the form of affection; of
the many times he saw affectionate people with inanimate objects, not one acted
mature. Most, if not all, of them looked like idiots, and in public! Disgrace, Bishop
thought, such disgraces. He never catered to it, giving Artery the cold, distant
feeling it was destined for. Any warmer than what Bishop gave the gun and he was
certain things would end badly. So, in one way, Queen was wrong for once. He liked
that.

          Wait a
minute – where was Queen? He was the only one left standing.

          She must
have jumped. They were standing on a building a block away from the police department
on their watch, so Queen must have gone for the ground. Did she ever think of such
consequences? He would have liked to say she didn’t, but then something like Queen
shouting for him to come down and stop daydreaming would happen, killing the idea.
A majority of her actions ended up killing dreams Bishop had – sweet dreams, dirty
ones, hot dreams, all of the,, destroyed. Who wanted a bully for a partner?

          Still,
he was worried. Not for her, of course, but for him. The People of the Ground, what
would they say if they found out one of their watchers were dead? His heart beat
faster. “Queen?” he called, peeking down to the city ground. “Queen, where are you?
Did you take the jump?”

          “You think
I’m that stupid?” her voice came, but from where? “Get down here, Bishop!”

          “But where
– where are you?” Her voice seemed to come from thin air, materializing into the
void of his life.

          “Fire escape,”
she groaned. Bishop didn’t see her, but he knew she was rolling her eyes when she
said it.

          So he went
down. He kept his legs firm on the rungs of the ladder. It was like groping around
in the dark with your hands, but using your feet instead. Bishop, when he grabbed
onto the rungs of the ladder with its rungs full of rust and old age, shivered.
Spiders didn’t live in fire escapes, did they? The one thing that made him confident
about coming down through the infected escape was Queen’s voice forcing him to come
down with her words. She didn’t holler – no, doing that would ruin the whole procedure,
and according to the people above them (in higher positions), this was essential.
By the time he got down, Bishop’s hands glistened with sweat. Mixed with the cold
night air, his breath made them cold and frigid. Queen, to his relief, was at the
bottom.

          She was
doing that “non-smiling” thing – she didn’t smile, but you knew she was deep inside.
“Scared?”

          “No,” Bishop
blurted. “Were you?”

          “Are you
thinking I am scared of that – a fire escape? Get out of here.”

          She was
right. Why did Bishop have to be such an idiot?

          Queen stared
at the police department not too far away. “What’s that, over there?”

          Bishop
went closer, squinting. “What do you mean?”

          “Right
over there,” she said, pointing.

But
Bishop didn’t see anything. “What are you fussing about?”

“Some
kind of white light . . .”

And
then he saw it. He wished he hadn’t seen the white fire erupting giant licks of
grandeur, the police department building ablaze in its own uniformed glory of madness.

*****

Woolf was dead, maybe.

          Colton
shook him hard. Footsteps everywhere, especially from above, were heard. He thought
everybody had gone, but this was not the case. Around him the light had dimmed,
in turn shading everything into darkness. Never did he like the dark, never. But
Woolf would not wake; the sleeping dart had been in him for too long. To him that
seemed, in its entirety, his fault.

          “CHIEF!”
he screamed. “ADVERT, LINCOLN – ANYONE . . . WE’RE STUCK HERE!”

          Chief Advert
was howling, dead on the ice. It cut thick into Colton’s brain like an insert shot.

          He pounded
on the floor. The tears were coming, oh no, he did not want the tears –

          And then
this: white blazing light coming up ahead. Where did that come from?

          It was
coming closer . . . too close to outrun maybe . . . why was he thinking when the
fire was coming closer and the white was getting brighter, absorbing everything
in its path like a ferocious monster, possibly setting both Colton and Woolf ablaze,
even if Woolf after all this time was dead . . . why was he lying there when he
was about to be caught on fire?

          But he
wasn’t, fortunately. No, he was running. A part of his memory skipped over the cut
when he got up, grabbed Officer Woolf, and ran off in the other direction, away
from the fire. And the fire itself . . .  it was so bright, so white . . . he never
saw such fire before, even when his father had been a firefighter.

          Woolf wasn’t
breathing. He needed air, Colton needed air and energy to continue on before the
fire got both of them in its clutches. His face fell as if melting from the extreme
heat. What made things worse was the smoke coming from above. With Woolf in his
arms, Colton couldn’t crawl, nothing. He yelled, running faster. It wasn’t doing
any good. The heat and the smoke and the fire and Woolf and tiredness of his legs
and breath, all jumbled up in one mental picture.

          The hallway
never ended. So did the fire.

*****

One of the choppers
swung heavy like a bronze bell when rung. The pilot of what was called the “Aerial
Flight” moved in, seeing the white blaze on the department building.

          “It’s starting,”
Aerial Flight Pilot said into his radio. “Anyone else is seeing this? Over” .

          There were
multiple replies. All said the same thing: they were seeing it, and it was beautiful.

          What a
sight to truly be remembered.

*****

It was right there
– the door open in temptation, giving the Special Forces men time to think of going
in or not. One of the largest of the lot, Sean, was dancing on his toes. What were
they waiting for, anyway? If anything happened, surely they would’ve been ordered
to charge in like bulls baring the color of red for the first time – well, that
was Sean’s way of thinking it.

          “Shouldn’t
we be going in?” he said to the others.

          “Chief
said to stay put!” said one of them, Charles. “We can’t go in now!”

          But Sean
didn’t care about what Charles said. “I hear something . . . crackling sounds. Don’t
you hear it, too?”

          Charles
said he didn’t.

          “Come on!
You don’t hear anything?”

          It was
as if Charles had all the time he needed to think about it. Slowly, he shook his
head. “I don’t hear a thing, not in the slightest –”

          What came
from inside the police department belched out flame onto the Special Forces men.
Sean saw it first, dashing back. Others followed him when they saw what happened
to him running and all, but not all of them survived. The fire – “So white . . .”
Sean would whisper later on after the incident – caught onto many of the men, most
of them crumbling into an ash of black grit. It seemed like everyone was running
that night.

          Did fire
do that to people? Hell, nah! Sean kept running, not thinking but running.

          It took
less than a half hour (and a lot of white fire) until the police department building
finally took its surrender. Of course, in this case, surrender meant destruction.
As for the people who were still inside the building, if there were any . . . but
Sean was not the type to think of others in mourning. Selfish was the word for people
like him.

D. learned the man’s
name after he went into a coma – Paul. It made him think more of the famed Paul
McDermott, whether or not the young man who greatly disappeared was even real or
not. When he heard the news about the man he found in the church, sunken in blood,
he made up the best excuses he could to get out of it. Paul II would surely get
out of his way to find D. once he recovered. At least he saved the dying man in
the cloak, but the chances were too great to let something like that slip by. Already
his life was in danger – he didn’t need the case to be a part of it, too.

          Before
the doctors got to him, he snuck out of the hospital and into the Water Home. Like
before, he did not use a car (how he wished to have a car now more than ever) and
with what little money he had left, he took a bus to the outer parts of the city
where the home was located. He did not stop to ponder the waters making their occasional
stroll; there was no time for it. His eyes were intent on the door, always the door
to go into things and take charge of it.

          His mind
raced. Why did none of the others see this before? Ashamed of them all, even Darren
Will whom he greatly admired. Did he even work on this case? None of it was right,
for a man like Investigator Will would’ve solved it quickly. But they’re all gone
now, swept away like the dances of the night to disappear when day arrived.

          Before
he got to the office room, there was a creaking upstairs. Long, howling noises like
this:
ccccccrrreeeeaaaakk
with the letters stretched out and all. Was someone
else before him?

          D. stopped,
looking up at the ceiling. Pinches of dust shook off, some landing on his head and
shoulders when he walked by. He would’ve checked if he had time, but that seemed
the last thing he had left on his plate right now. Going to the office, old detective
D. took his hands and scrambled over the papers of work he’d done. Surely it must
have been somewhere, he needed the proof . . .

          Ah, there
it was right next to the lamp. He flipped the switch on. It came alive despite him
not needing it. Just in case, you know? You could never be too sure.

          “Fifty
years since Paul McDermott, then 7 years old, had disappeared,” D. said aloud to
himself. He paced around with no destination in mind. Instead he kept on thinking.
The same thoughts twirled through that mind of his like a cotton gin. More than
one detective or P.I. had gone through this, so why him? Was he chosen? The only
answer he got was yes, he was asking the same questions again. But that didn’t solve
anything, although it brought up a few clarities up front.

          For far
too long D. kept his suspicions about the McDermott family although he had never
met them in person. He should garner interviews with them soon to clarify the inaccuracies
in the history unraveling before his eyes. Would they tell the truth? Who’d crack
first? Surely the children, he guessed; children were keen on telling the truth
whether it mattered or not. Not too many children lied unless practiced on the task,
but still. But the certainty of it, no less, racked his brain like rolling tidal
waves coming over to splash everything out like
dues ex machina
. Sooner or
later – despite the interviews he might take hold of – he would have to report as
well as confront the police force on this “supposed” case. Yet he wondered who would
do such a thing, since you needed help when you needed it and not when you were
pranking someone. Foul tricks weren’t to be played like this, not when things as
serious as this were the new normal. Something’s up.

          Loud licks
came from the second floor. D. glanced up, his eyes keen on the culprit. Narrower
his eyes went as the seconds went by. Tick tock went the clock, D., better hurry
up and see just what the hell’s going on up there.

          The ceiling
– right where his eyes were on – rattled and shook. Quickly he got his pistol from
the office desk, trudging through the rooms of the first floor and onto the stairs,
making his way to the second floor.

          He went
to the end of the stairs, and what do you know? Large pails of fire, the heat peeling
through his eyes.

          Shocked,
D. fired. The bullet went wild. Were there others on the other side?

          “Hey!”
D. supported onto a wall. “What’s going on here?”

          Furniture
toppled over. Someone was trying to run.

          “Get back
here!” Did D. have to act so useless sometimes? Since no one was getting in his
way, he needed to go there himself. Officially becoming the pulling force never
seemed a good thing to him; it made him feel weak.

          The fire
grabbed a hold of his clothes, screeching in almost human voices. D. went through
while making sure to roll on the floor where it was clear so he wouldn’t burn to
a crisp. The fire didn’t scare him. On the other side, where the bedrooms resided,
everyone was gone. He assumed this, of course, not having seen anybody upstairs
and only the fire. Oh how bright it was, but D. needed to search through the bedrooms.
Were they hiding someplace?

          He checked.
All had empty beds, but not for the normal reasons.

          Like all
fires, this one spread quickly. D. opened the windows to get the smoke out and spent
most of his time on the ground where most of air was. He moved with his arms in
front. His blood boiled in his body, cooking him for dinner. He was living things
over once again, and how he hated it. All of them gone, he’d gone looking for an
exit. Did an exit exist?

          The plan
was fixed like the lenses of a camera in the right focus of light: go to the police
station, report the fraud case presented to him, and bring everyone to justice.
Evidence was everywhere except in the interviews which he hadn’t gotten yet, but
that didn’t matter – or maybe it did. How could he get an interview in this predicament?
God, things were so terrible, but the smoke never got to him and old detective D.
made his way out.

          And he
was out like that, but the fire wasn’t over.

          His eyes
only saw red. Stick around and his eyes also saw the reaping hues of orange and
white killing blades of grass. It went on for miles in search of more torment. Men
shot in fury with their guns, frolicking like maddened demon children. None of them
laughed or screamed in happiness; the sound of bullets firing ceased sound to penetrate
one’s ears.

          Some of
them sprang forth, ready to shoot some more, until they saw detective D. “He’s here!”
some of them said.

          But the
old detective said nothing.

          The smoke
and fog distilled the world of its visual aspects. The gunmen sprang on their long
legs like human spiders. Their faces, obscured by the white mask of lacked identity,
haunted the reminiscence of ghosts and the supernatural. They gunned down.

          D. ran
into the fog. Like a magician, he made himself disappear.  Then he realized that
during most of this journey through the case, he was always running – did he think
this before? Now he forgot, but the same thought arose without stopping. Old men
shouldn’t be running: they should retire. Money and finances hurt the slim chances
of living peacefully.

          Talking
wouldn’t solve anything with these people, he thought while running.

         
“GET
HIM!”
they screamed.

          Were they
gaining distance? The smoke destroyed the existence of distance; everything looked
the same place as where you started, no matter how far you ran. ’Course, sparks
in the air D. used as marking points of location even if it didn’t always work;
those men ran awfully hard, but never to be admired.

          “Who’s
the man?” gasped one of them.

          “Obviously
D., you idiot!” screamed the other. Their names weren’t known to him at the moment,
but which could be known from the chase.

          The second
gunman shouted louder than any bullet D. heard that fired. “D., come back here!
We need to talk!”

          So they
want to talk? D. thought. If he weren’t running for his life, he might have laughed
a little. Just when he was thinking about that . . . crazy, huh?

          D. kept
his pistol ready. He was running for it this time, sure, but he never shot one bullet.
Anyone who asked such a question D. would’ve answered that he tended to save his
bullets for important targets. But being old had its consequences. He had it in
his hand the entire time, but never used it in his defense. Not even once! When
will he learn? D. was beginning to slow down like the brake function of an automobile,
steadying while getting the gun in case such promises were not kept. The second
gunman never said any such things as promises – not even the word “promise” – but
whenever someone said orders like that you could perceive it as the like.

          “Lay your
guns down and we’ll talk!” D. said.

          The two
silliest-looking gunmen appeared in from the smoke. One of them wore a beard in
a French braid, a gray color.

          D. never
left his aim. “Lay‘em down!”

          Both of
them complied.

          “Don’t
touch them!” he added.

          One of
them – the one without the beard – scowled. “What’s it got it to you?”

          “Many things,
so just do as I say.”

          The one
without the beard sighed in displeasure.

          “So, what
is it you want?” D. asked. “I’m not looking for trouble, but it seems you two are.
Be quick about it and we’ll be on our own paths where we’ll never see each other
again.”

          “We’re
not looking for any trouble,” said the bearded gunman. “Orders from the boss, actually
– I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”

          D. raised
an eyebrow. “What makes you think that?”

          “Our boss
told us, nitwit!” said No Beard. He was stout and tiny. “Now, let us talk!”

          “All right,
but answer me this question: why are you putting the Water Home on fire?”

          No Beard
sighed again all sassy-like. “Again, orders from the boss.”

          “Who is
this boss of yours?”

          No Beard
shook his head. “It’s our turn: what did you find at the Water Home?”

          “Nothing
much,” D. lied. “I found some notes and a very broad background on the McDermott
family.”

          “Liar!”
cried Beard. He dived for his gun, but D. fired first. The bullet did not hit Beard,
but it startled him quite a great deal. His legs wobbled around, dancing, until
finally squatting onto the ground. “What the hell was that for?” he demanded. “Answer
me!”

          “No weapon
taking,” D. said. “Don’t you remember what I said?”

          “Forget
it,” No Beard said. “And why is it that you’re the only one with a gun?”

          “I’m pretty
sure there are more of you than me, I assure you.”

          No Beard
sniffed. He didn’t like it, but he could live with it.

          Other gunmen
came onto the scene, probably wondering what was going on them between the three.
They dragged a woman who wore no shoes, her black ashen arms dangling. D. stopped
them and ordered for the woman to be brought to safety. No, none of them was happy
about that, but D.’s gun made them obey. Silver knives flashed, but were too short
to puncture pain into the weaker parts of D. He kept close to the woman who didn’t
speak and garnered his attention more to Beard and No Beard, who, for some reason,
did naught with the situation at hand.

          “Killers,
all of you . . .” old detective D. whispered. “Now, what were we talking about?”

          “You’re
a liar,” Beard repeated more or less. “Tell us the truth about the Water Home.”

          D. sighed.
“I honestly don’t know.”

          “Get him.”

          No matter
how many times D. shot, none hit the two gunmen. They, with their guns, tackled
him, pounding him with their fists and the butt of their guns. Old detective D.
wheezed for surrender but you’d think they’d listen? Ha, never! Only when they were
satisfied – and sure D. wouldn’t get up from the ground – did Beard and No Beard
stop.

          “Paul McDermott’s
back,” No Beard said. “How do you like it now, old man?”

          Barren
with blood, the old detective almost winced. “H-huh?” he wondered.

          No Beard
smiled while zooming into D.’s eyes. “It’s what we were trying to say, but it seems
you were too busy trying to crack us down and all. McDermott’s back and he will
announce his return to the world at noon tomorrow. He also wants to meet you specifically.”
He grinned. “It’s not just his family this time!”

          This time
. . . the way he said it made it sound like McDermott had disappeared before. “He
wants to see me?” D. said stupidly.

          “Uh-huh,”
said No Beard. “Now, old man, tell me what is it you’ve found in the Water Home?
Was it what you were looking for?”