Detective D. Case (9 page)

          “Then why
do you keep having me around?”

          The nasty
one laughed. “That’s your fault, not mine.”

          Fading
footsteps signaled their leave. D., on the other hand, puffed out his chest and
released all the built-up breath he was carrying in the meantime. Well, he instead
should release the breath in slow intervals instead of holding it, but pressure
always blocked other better decisions in a person’s life. D. spat on pressure like
he did on jealousy, but that did as much to it as doing nothing and accepting it.
At least D. had the courage to resent it, which few people did these days. Day and
night jobs with crime never helped.

          And speaking
of which, D. needed to finish the job – the case, anyway. The sudden disappearance
of the McDermott son took time in steady tolls, which was at the center of the problem. 
Add in the complicated dead ends and you have a pot boiling with madness, dashing
in a pinch of frustration. Making things worse was what D. called the Time Stopper.
He should be working on the case, maybe researching the backgrounds of the McDermott
family and their relations with neighbors and other corporations. Assume that they
had more than one company to handle? Power corrupts, and no matter how private the
McDermotts kept their wealth and fame, they were no exception. Human beings in a
general manner were not capable of terrible, dark power that came from the unknown
– or the sinister side of humans, if you wanted a twist to the overall story of
human life. With everyone he met so far, D. made up his mind: the world would be
better off without humans, if the Earth was in fact intended for them in the beginning.

          D. fell
asleep long before the trunk door opened, so the members of, in D.’s mind, the gang
had presumed the old man still unconscious from the drowning sequence. Two of the
younger members pulled him from the trunk, splattering their newest prisoner on
the rain-filled pavement. The moment he was slapped on the wet pavement, the detective
snapped his brain awake. He coughed up water and saliva, punching the pavement with
one fist. Like a dream, the members inspected D. like an extinct species that out
of nowhere had sprung another form of itself. None of them spoke until D. finished
coughing.

          “They call
you D.,” said the nastier one. “What do you call yourself, besides that?”

          “Nothing,”
the old man said. “Just D., that’s all.”

          The members
crossed their arms, still watching.

          “You have
family?” one of them asked.

          “I used
to.”

          One of
them snorted. “You don’t seem to answer in very long sentences, do you?” When D.
got a clear look at him, he saw buck teeth sprouting from the rest like a rabbit
or horse. Freckles were sprinkled across his face like orange polka dots. The younger
one of the group, D. thought him a new recruit.

          “I can
answer very well, thank you.” He coughed. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”

          “We don’t
know each other,” the new recruit spat. “So back off, will you?”

          D. had
something to back himself up, but never got it out. Loud footsteps conquered all
the sounds in the empty night of those few people taking down a lonesome old man
trying to survive at his one job. The night was stark, so nobody could see where
the leading man was walking, but the loud footsteps never were  mistaken. D. of
course stood as the exception, but even he knew that the loud, gargantuan noise
those feet communicated were splitting cracks for miles.

          The loudness
ended, and everyone sealed up quiet. Silence was a thing to get used to from D.’s
perspective.

          “Speak,”
the man that came from the darkness bellowed. He barked as if he were speaking to
a pet.

          D. got
to his feet – well, to his knees, really. “I-I am D.,” he pronounced.

          The man’s
eyes didn’t change. Neither did his expression. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”

          “No it’s
not.” D. shook his head in case the man didn’t think he told the truth.

          “I’ve heard,
through various sources, that you are an independent criminal investigator?”

          D. nodded.
“Yes I am.”

          The man
came through the darkness and revealed himself. His appearance hadn’t matched the
voice since he was dressed as a businessman, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and had curly
hair. He had the shape of a high school nerd when you got close enough. When they
got a few inches too close, the man kneeled close and pushed his glasses up his
nose. He smirked. “No bosses, no partners during the scene?”

          “I have
none of those in the slightest. My office is in a curved corner in my tiny apartment
filled with paperwork, and I take calls in the same place without caring if it is
early morning or late at night.”

          The young
nerdy man held out a hand. “Call me Oliver Henry.”

          They shook
hands.

          “These
are my men,” Oliver Henry said, waving arms around the various young men who seemed
to enjoy beating old men and women. “I am sure you’ve seen them before?”

          “Yes, I
have. They were very polite when they shoved me into a small car trunk.”

          “Hmm .
. . So I see.” He stroked his chin and scratched behind his neck. “I apologize for
the rough treatment given you.”

          One of
the men spoke up. “Hold on a second – weren’t we supposed to nearly drown the man
and now you’re saying that we need to be more careful? What kind of bullshit is
this?”

          Oliver
Henry didn’t say anything. “I heard you are on the case of the missing man Paul
McDermott.”

          “That is
true.”

          “That case,
you know, has been going on for about five years?”

          “I know
that, Oliver. We were searching through his apartment, looking through anything
the police had overlooked, when the apartment was abolished.”

          Oliver
Henry was confused. “What happened, exactly?” An edge to his voice egged him on,
wanting to know more.

          “We were
in the apartment of McDermott, searching for any leads. Officer Lincoln Deed and
me. I suspect we had found some letters leading to something, but we were ambushed
of sorts.”

          Oliver
Henry’s eyes shot up; so did his eyebrows. “An ambush, you say? What kind?”

          “An ambush
involving fire, explosions, and dead policemen was the kind we witnessed. I’m not
even sure I should say “we” because most of the men with me died or leaped off the
building. For all I know – and this is because of my limited point-of-view here
– I may be the only one who survived. I won’t start on how I did.”

          The smile
on Oliver Henry’s lips widened more and more. “That is quite a lot to say for a
not-yet-retired investigator going on his eighties.”

          “Seventies,”
D. corrected.

          “Oh. I
apologize for that.”

          No, D.
was thinking, this wasn’t correcting anything about the events that happened. This
Oliver Henry man smiled too much for him to gain trust, while his intimidating men
walked like junior grim reapers. Their stares made his nerves go cold, his blackened
pupils so pitched they went on endlessly. His breath went low, far more often than
he pleased, so there was no going anywhere at this stage. At least, with what little
he had, D. straightened and stood on both feet. At his highest, D. reached above
Oliver Henry more than five inches, despite the age difference. Even so, height
doesn’t matter too much, since it seemed that Oliver Henry had a quiet, yet opening,
mind. All the words that came out of his mouth were limited, which also applied
to his other cloaked, almost mythical characteristics.

          Oliver
Henry was already moving. “We better be moving.” 

          “Where
would we go?”

          “We need
to investigate McDermott. In case you didn’t know, I have been friends with him
ever since college. We’re business partners.”

          D. stepped
back, bumping into one of Oliver Henry’s goons. “How am I supposed to believe that?”

          Oliver
Henry narrowed his eyes. “You’re saying you don’t believe me?”

          What was
he supposed to say?

          D.’s ears
began to block up from fear – or maybe it was just the blood pumping through his
brain spilling everywhere. Suddenly, Oliver Henry’s dialogue was stripped, cut
out from the slushing blood. He needed to keep his balance and stay calm; otherwise
he’d slump back down--probably worse this time, like a collapsed horse . . .

          “D., what
in God’s name . . . ? Is there something the matter?”

          “It’s nothing,”
he breathed. Sharp pain made him wheeze out.

          Despite
the weak support of his lie, Oliver Henry went with it. “All right . . . so, you
sound like you don’t believe what I’m saying.”

          “I do,”
he lied. “It’s just . . .”

          “Just
what
?”
he wondered.

          Without
an answer, D. pushed his way forward, making out through the thickness of the black
figures, the men who in his thoughts seized no souls. His wish half-succeeded; the
men grabbed for him, pulling his black coat to reel him in. Through the corner of
D.’s eye, he noticed Oliver Henry not doing anything – he stood there watching.
How the hell was that supposed to help in getting his prisoner back? A mysterious
man, Oliver Henry was.

          D. grudged
and groaned as he tried to get rid of his coat by the sleeves. He tugged at
them until they came off and he tripped onto the wet road, sliding onto a similar,
yet wetter, ice rink. Since there weren’t any signs of being stopped, D. kept gliding
further with his hands, almost rowing them, like people do with oars in boats. However,
some of the men caught up quickly, slipping then running after him. One hasty glance
at the men holding rifles, revolvers, and machine guns made D. go faster. The road
didn’t end yet.

          Oliver
Henry hadn’t shouted things like “After him!” or “Faster, faster!” and instead he
kept his distance. The night grew starker, and the dwarfed version of the nerdy
young man glistened in the shadows when he revealed himself. Wasting no time, D.
brought his legs back up and ran off. Both hands were brittle with frost, his breath
fogging up like steam. How he yearned for licks of flame and warmth, people surrounding
him like old friends he never knew but was grateful for in any case. He even imagined
a year when that time would come: 2002. The numbers, when spoken all at once, clicked
together wonderfully like sweet beans.

          Flashing
white lights came up ahead. The body of a car then came into view, illuminated by
the same source. Ice began morphing from the slightly wet road from the rain. Sharp
voices rose, yelling precautions, but D. didn’t hear them. His ears were shaken
up like broken door locks. He surfed to the left where his hands groped a metal
safety guard. He slowed a little but the speed mingled with the safety guard knifed
his hands in wide cuts. The blood felt the air and reddened like old wine.

          After that,
D. tumbled with multiple somersaults and other things he couldn’t even name. Along
the way, he fingered another hand that was not his own, but it didn’t last more
than a second or two. Long after the car accident, he still felt the hand wanting.

*****

Frederick
Davidson always told the truth and every now and then told himself the same thing
in a way that reassured his confidence. It kind of placed him on a higher pedestal
than the last time he mentioned it. Although nobody knew of this strategy, he thought
it good to keep hidden. Not even his wife knew about it. His inner critic, whom
he sometimes nicknamed Terrance, brought up quite a disturbing thought while he
sipped blueberry tea reading an English translation of
Extremhögern
.
He found it really interesting from a political viewpoint, but all of that was swiped
off clean when Terrance the Critic came marching up.

          To his
dismay, Terrance was loud when he yelled. This time wasn’t an exception. “Filthy
liar!”

          Davidson
dropped
Extremhögern;
it in turn shattered the tea cup to the floor.
Large chunks lay in tatters. Davidson stared at it without any intention of picking
up the broken pieces or cleaning the spilled tea that stained the wooden boards
that made up the floor. He knew Terrance could act like this some of the time, but
never did he scream so much that it made his master drop what he was reading in
a literal way.

          “Have you
the slightest idea . . .?”

          “Yes, I
do, actually,” spoke Terrance. To Davidson it sounded grim and highly sarcastic
with butter spreads of irony toping it off, but everyone else would probably think
Terrance sounded just like Davidson – no difference, but maybe nastier. “It’s got
to do with you.”