Authors: Neal Goldy
Yellow tape wrapped
around the police department like a caution blanket. Due to the decline of private
investigators over the past few years – some of them long dead – police-detectives
took over the scene where the mass shooting occurred. According to the authorities,
fingerprints had been found and they tracked down the culprit. No sources claimed
as to who started the shooting at the police department (or why, which seemed even
easier to crack) but Joseph wrote this all down regardless. When you’re 17 and still
trying to get big cash, at least you can’t go wrong with journalism. At the specific
newspaper Joseph worked in –
The Daily Bell
– the pay on articles was good.
But enough about payment; he needed to find out information anyone had gotten in
the past few minutes. Police officials were blocking the premises with that dumb
yellow tape, so it didn’t matter who you were or what magazine/newspaper/journal
you worked for: DENIED ACCESS. Point taken from them to not even speak about it
or answer any questions from reporters – just read the damn sign on the entrance
and you were set. But the problem with police officials and officers, and just everybody
working on the scene, was one person, and that was Joseph himself. He needed to
get in, find info no one had gotten dibs on and report back to the
Daily Bell
.
And he needed it now--pronto. Standing at the entrance of the department, jiggling
your arms around while hopping between feet made you look like you were dealing
with a hot potato or knocking on the door for free use of the bathroom. Of course,
he knew it was neither of these monstrous hyperboles, but he needed to quit his
doings otherwise people would start questioning. If you knew Joseph, you would know
that he never liked it when strangers began poking in business that never belonged
to them. Actually, forget that – you didn’t even have to know him to find that out.
His mom yapped to all her friends (and sometimes not even her friends) about her
son that you didn’t need to meet the guy in order to know why he slept with a Paddington
Bear at night, why he never got a girlfriend in high school, or why he still worked
at this well-paid yet lousy job. Guess what? He was banned from the morning coffee
station because of his so-called “lousy” writing! Could you believe him when he
told you that that was only the beginning?
A droning
voice broke his chain of never-ending yarn thoughts. “Kid,” said a man with a strict-looking
uniform that reminded him of a P.I. The mustache was a must-have for detectives,
you know? “Hey, kid.”
“Huh?”
Nice work for the 17-year-old journalist.
“Police
department is off limits,” said the mustached man. “Do you mind if you . . . you
know?”
“I am afraid
I am not following,” said Joseph.
“For God’s
sake, can you please get the hell out of here? FBI’s gonna come in soon so you pretty
much got to get out before they kick you out. That’s not to say I’m not going to
kick you out and give you the soft treatment of high priority, so I’m giving you
up to five to scram.”
Joseph
stamped his foot – something that had no meaning, really. “I’m not moving, officer.”
“Why won’t
you?” His mustache furrowed.
“Because
. . .” Joseph, think! “Because . . .”
And the
mustached man kept his patience, waiting for what the young Joseph had to say. That
was, if he said anything besides because.
“Because
. . .” If he could go on without being annoying . . .
“To hell
with it, kid!” said mustached man, striking a finger to the nighttime city. “OUT
OF HERE, NOW!” he screamed.
“Really?”
said Joseph. “You think screaming is going to make me move? You must be out of your
mind, man.”
“Then give
me your reason.”
What was
he supposed to say now? “Because . . .”
Like one
of those always tempered cartoon characters, the mustached man’s face paled and
then went a deep red. “You . . . idiot,” he seethed.
“Look,
I know someone here, and I need to see if they’re all right. Who knows, they might
be hurt!”
“You must
have realized before I did that you are the worst reporter – ever. This place has
been under caution tape much longer than you have been here, if you really needed
to see anyone you actually knew. Plus, all the injured people are at the hospital
right now. Don’t you know anything?”
“But –
I could have sworn I saw someone –!”
Like a
policeman (was he?), the mustached man took Joseph by the arms, put them behind
his back, and took him down the steps. No matter if Joseph struggled or tried to
break free from the meaty hands of the mustached man, the guy had a firm grip. “Lemme
go!” he cried.
“Jesus,
what are you, a damsel in distress? Let’s go . . .”
Two minutes
later, the mustached man led Joseph into a small café. He must be some kind
of bad-tempered kind of guy to place Joseph in the darkest parts of the city. Envision
criminals surrounding him like sharks! Before a minute passed, Joseph dashed inside
the café; that place was his haven, the post in which kids protected themselves
in Freeze Tag. Difference was, when you were caught, they would beat you and steal
all your money. Or worse . . . much, much worse than that . . . yeah, not a good
idea, so Joseph ordered mocha. When he seated in one of those booths, he spread
out all he got.
His face
fell. Take out the useless doodles he did while passing time and there wasn’t much
left to make it into a good story.
Nooooooo
he thought while slumping over
his arms like some dead-looking animal after the sleeping dart did its work. No
one would want this! And to think, if they published this – even though the chances
of this being looked over were slim – he’d become a laughing stock, the punch bag
people liked to poke fun at even when its charm had worn off. Joseph twirled his
spoon in the coffee, hearing the dull clatter of metal ring in his ears. What to
do, what to do . . .
Joseph,
slouched over, did not cry over his failures. After all, this was not the first
time this had happened. People laughed at him before, too, although he preferred
it if they stopped doing that and let him garner some damn reputation. What was
left worth of his life depended on this! He clacked his fingers on the booth’s table,
looking outside--the night never ceased to amaze him with its lack of stars. One
day he went stargazing as a child – dad was there explaining the constellations,
what they looked like and what they were called. Didn’t stars continue to shine?
Someone must’ve turned them all off like a night switch. Joseph wished they’d turn
them back on.
In the
very café, sitting next to the counter, was a man wearing a black-as-oil
suit. Some might’ve mistaken him for a detective as did passersby drinking what
was best for them. He spoke to no one. When the edge of his mug touched his lips,
slurping noises rippled. Joseph, like the rest of the lot, paid no mind to the mysterious
man at the café; too many “mysterious” people to go around and not enough
time.
*****
Abel kept his distance
when he stalked victims, a shark holding rhythmic tunes with its pace in order to
catch its prey. A withdrawal of blood did not bring him here to the all-night life.
Everywhere he turned, Abel saw dark faces, the ones that belonged to the frightened
rather than the ones people feared. Chilly winds froze him to the core, the underbelly
of the beast. He tightened his black-as-oil suit, trudging against these said winds
of bitterness. He clenched his teeth tight, too. Keeping it like this, Abel heard
old creaking sounds like his front teeth were cracking and splintering away from
their once iron-strong foundation. He swallowed, looking on. Flakes of snow blinded
his eyes. They were looking for him; they were always looking for Abel.
But now,
in addition to them looking for him, Abel sought another. As most people knew, the
police department had been under investigation – a queer decision to lead the expedition
with the force’s famous detective of the day, D. Headlines about the man spread,
infectious, including why he was chosen instead of anyone else. D. was old, for
one thing, and nobody took their problems to him anymore. They used to, but now?
Just go to the police, godammit; let the old man be until he rots. People forget
some things, though, like how D. – in neglect of anyone’s knowledge – was one of
the few P.I.s out there doing their work right. He might even be the only one left,
which made Abel’s mission mandatory so they could fix things. Once all was over,
things would get back like they used to.
The
stairs he’d gone down went on forever. Almost like an optical illusion, the steps
seemed to go down, down, down, never ceasing to stop. And ahead of it was darkness
that blinded you from seeking further. Abel imagined it like fish bait – the hook,
line, and sinker of knowledge – teasing you a little more than the last time to
make you do what it says. It was at least something to do while chopping ways with
the startling pitch of black, always hiding and clawing.
Abel felt
the edge of the last step with – well whaddya know – the edge of his also black
boot. His eyes were closed for he wasn’t brave enough to face the voice that would
intrude. He heard only the ticking of his watch making time go by with its magical
powers.
“Abel?”
the voice pondered out loud. “Is that you?”
“You seem
to always know, Minotaur.”
Clobbering
of hooves and everyone knew it didn’t belong to any human. “All I ask is this: why?”
“Why what,
Minotaur?” asked Abel.
“Why come
here again, on this particular night? Do you need to speak to –?”
“Yes. Let
me in.”
The smoke
billowed, and the darkness was gone. Abel arrived and opened the door that awaited
him. Inside he faced the People of the Ground, a tight-knit group of gangsters –
some yes, others not – that plotted under the earth. A name like that would send
mismatched signals to commoners thinking they were nocturnal; no they were not,
since the meeting took place at dark, and they lived their simple lives above. Besides,
when was the last time anyone had seen the sun? Even Abel was a loss when asked.
That time it had been a frail woman, dying, coughing up nothing but air. All he
knew was that none of the People of the Ground knew the answer.
Lights
on the ceiling flickered – things went dark for a little while– and the People of
the Ground vanished from his sight, sealed away from known human activity. In this
case it meant him. Abel wandered through the darkened room, searching for anybody.
Everybody had gone without a minute’s waste, leaving Abel in the cold. He checked
the corners of the room so he could report back, with no evidence of the People
of the Ground. They were there but ran off like the frightened mice underneath the
wood of the kitchen, the light dying out. Just like that, the lights went out here,
too.
And then
they came back on. “Evening, Abel,” said the man Abel knew as Lake. “Everyone’s
left, so why are you still here?”
“I needed
you. How did you know I was here?”
“Intuition,
perhaps,” said Lake.
Abel frowned.
“Intuition is one thing, coincidences and suspicions another.”
“All right,
all right, you got me, all right?” He raised his hands as if surrendering to the
police – which sounded odd since he was an officer of the force – and gave an easy
smile. It’s what liars do to gain trust from opposing parties. “What is it you need?”
“I have
been following D. like you said,” Abel said. “For an old man he seems pretty clever
looking through old research and long dead sources. I played my role as the rapist
in the church, again, like you said. He saw us. I think he knows what this all means
now.”
“Good thing,
too,” Lake said, yawning. “I’m gonna be honest with you here, Abel, but I’m getting
kind of bored with all these P.I.s and detectives digging their noses into other
people’s business and finding nothing. About time somebody found out.”
“But I
need to know what happens next,” Abel told him. He looked at him right in the eyes,
unmoving. “What is it I need to do now? Soon he’ll report to Chief Advert about
the case and about McDermott, too –”
Before
he could finish, Lake guffawed, his voice detonating in tones that rattled the earth.
It was so loud coming from the deepest part of the stone walls, that even for him,
Lake leaned on the walls trying to support what weight he had left. He banged the
stone, making Abel wonder if pain ever went through the man’s hands whenever they
struck. “That Avert!” he exclaimed. “Oh how I talked to him before he went off.”
“Pardon?”
said Abel. “I’m not following.”
Lake glared.
“What are you, boy, drunk? I killed Advert long ago.”