The Adventures of Deacon Coombs (4 page)

In Liberty City

In flight

Deacon was frustrated as he thought to himself,
Oh,
my
intentions
to
shed
pounds.
This
extra
weight
on
my
one
hundred
ninety-five
pounds
just
never
seems
to
evaporate.
Always
too
much
time
spent
sitting
in
front
of
the
computer,
lounging
in
the
library,
analyzing
in
the
laboratory,
cogitating
in
the
parlor,
and
deliberating
evidence
on
the
balcony.
Now
I’m
suddenly
forced
to
expose
my
condition
of
being
physically
overweight
to
the
general
public
while
I
am
on
this
mission.
He knew that his attire would never win him any awards; today he had chosen an innocuous khaki shirt, coordinated with baggy steel-gray pants and black sneakers.

She stared at this peculiar man. He had choppy light-brown hair cropped around his orbicular face. Peering out from above his chunky cheeks were those large, bright blue eyes exuding confidence.
Could
this
possibly
be
him—the
man
that
the
public
has
come
to
know
as
the
Deacon?
She spotted the nickname on a magazine cover staring at her. She turned toward him again and glimpsed two seats over. She recalled reading that those eyes had earned him the nickname Moon Eyes from his classmates when he was younger. They symbolized the eternal hope that he displayed as he confronted new master criminals at every turn.
No.
I
must
be
mistaken.
This
man
in
dreary
garb—so
plain,
so
ordinary
looking
and
overweight—this
is
not
him.

Deacon secured himself by buckling his ankles, his waist, and then his chest. Taking a deep breath, he swallowed the gooey substance that would aid his body in withstanding the rigorous jounce of takeoff. A soothing feminine voice addressed all the travelers.

“Good afternoon, and welcome aboard
Sleek
Stoll
Twenty
. Our destination is Liberty City. We will be flying at an altitude of thirty thousand feet with cruising speeds of twenty-one hundred miles per hour. We will arrive in Liberty City in less than two hours from gate to gate. Your captain today is Johann Welders, who will be aided by his Quadro computer system. Remember, Quadro is number one for in-flight navigation and safety. Please consume the milk in front of you. Secure yourself tightly. Sit back and relax. Thank you.”

His body was jolted as the tiny, slender craft jerked, ascending vertically off the ground from the gate. At one thousand feet, it turned to face west, the nose slightly tilted up. Then it threw the passengers against their seat backs as it rocketed into the heavens, the synthetic fuel components mixing and combusting while the capsule accelerated and climbed at a sharp angle into the clouds. Johann Welders introduced himself and shared two experiences with the passengers. He then said, “Finally, the Quadro system stands for the four components of computer-controlled segments of our journey: vertical lift-off, cruise control in-flight navigation, fuel blending, and vertical descent.” Welders’s sense of humor concluded the address as he spun light yarns to the passengers and put them at ease.

But it did not appease Deacon. His heart throbbed; his palms were rich with fresh, sticky sweat as he hugged both armrests. He distracted himself by examining the elaborate menu, entering his selection of fresh salad with his favorite—Menzel fruit juice.
Perhaps
, he thought,
this
was
the
greatest
benefit
of
traveling—to
be
able
to
sample
the
cherished
juices
of
planet
Menzel
from
the
Alpha
Centauri
system.
Since his preliminary glance at the ticket that night on his balcony, he had dreamed of this moment to again sample these rare juices not found on Earth except on all Quadro flights.

As the craft leveled, Deacon poked his head into the aisle to spy the carriage with the Menzel juice heading in his direction, and his face broke into a broad smile.
Truth
magazine had said that “many a female’s head had been turned to catch a glimpse of Deacon Coombs’s gorgeous, straight white teeth, which so characterized his infectious, innocent schoolboy smile.” Flattered, he noticed a lady across the aisle doing just that. She appeared to be examining him.

Deacon sat back to relax, but it was impossible. Behind him, a man reminisced about a lascivious summer’s affair with a mistress; two young ladies directly in front of him were both recalling their journey and frolics to Anglo; across from him to the right, a game of Othello evolved into a shouting match between two youngsters; and the woman to his left stole another glance at him. Suddenly, a smile crossed his face. He wondered what would happen if he were to stand up and profess himself as Deacon Coombs. Thieves, murderers, liars, forgers, madmen—all had met the wrath of Deacon Coombs. There was the assimilation of facts, the analysis of matter (soils, skins, excretions), the examination of the crime scene, the astute revelation of motive.

Disbelief, he decided, would be the reaction of this group. “Perhaps I would be labeled mad.” He sat back and nestled his head into the headrest, closing his eyes, thinking about how he viewed his isolation at Moonbeam as a blessing since many of his foes had never confronted him in real life. A curious public craved an in-depth exposé of his life. He had never granted it. Instead, there were articles from the gossipmongers that exaggerated his feats and occasional photos.

A buzzer sounded to waken him. The entrée had arrived. The robotic device lifted the fragrant delicacies onto his tray first and then dispatched the salad. Sipping the frigid juice, he realized how his tradition had been broken; he had abandoned Moonbeam to solve a case for wanton politicians.
And
for
what
drama?
he wondered.

Left
behind—my
library,
stretched
with
books
to
the
eighteen-foot
ceiling,
with
accumulated
texts
on
characteristics
of
all
known
human
races.
The
bulk
of
my
cases
have
been
on
Earth,
infrequently
aiding
other
planetary
policing
agencies.
Once
on
Globiana,
the
only
other
planet
I
have
visited,
the
police
declared
my
treatise
on
human
races
as
required
reading
for
all
novice
agents.
He continued his cogitations about Globiana and sorrowfully thought about the untimely death of his friend Geor.

Left
behind—my
soil
laboratory,
the
site
of
categorizing
all
the
uniqueness
of
soil
profiles,
including
associated
bacteria.
Many
a
time
a
crime
scene
revealed
out-of-place
characteristics
to
finger
the
criminal.
The
feldspathic
sands
of
Jabu,
the
bacteria
of
Aralia,
the
waxes
of
Holtzgghen,
and
the
muds
of
the
Congo
delta
all
aided
in
exposing
recent
villains.
Oh,
how
I
treasure
those
moments.

Left
behind—my
televiewer,
which
transports
me
to
the
3-D
scene
of
any
crime
in
the
Alliance
regions.
Content turned to anxiety. “And what mystery am I to solve now?” he said aloud, though quietly. “Safety of the Alliance? Huh.” One of the girls in front turned her head at his loud expulsion of “Huh” to curiously observe him.

Deacon now became aware of how elegantly dressed the lady across the aisle was. It was his turn to assess her. Her face placed her at forty years, but her wrinkled neck and liver blotches on her hands betrayed her older age. The indentations on her fingers revealed the recent discarding of rings, perhaps the result of a relationship with a jilted lover, or an indication of a recently deceased spouse. Maybe she was luring new possibilities with her extravagant dress and jewelry. Maybe rich jewelry had to be sold because of hard times.

The pitch-black hair, the proud bones of the forehead, the dark eyes and long eyelashes, and the skin coloring all made him believe that she may be of Native American descent. If so, how rare, as interbreeding had long since done away with pure Native American blood. She turned and smiled as if to open a dialogue. This was not a time to make new friends, so he briskly looked away to disappoint her.

He dug into the greens. As he chomped, he recognized how fallible he was.
What
possible
mystery
could
the
Alliance
summon
me
for?
Is
it
solvable?
Any
failure
will
be
widely
publicized.
He recalled the school yard murders in Euro, which to this day were unsolved. In his quiet moments, as now, he sadly recounted his face-to-face encounter with the killer, Guinez, as he too late recognized his identity. Then there was the conniving Wentee, his own personal Moriarity, who had outwitted constables around the world and universe and was still unleashed, whereabouts unknown, in the Alliance somewhere. Many times Deacon had unveiled him as the perpetrator only to have him elude capture by local authorities. Wentee was a true master of disguise, but on one occasion, he was brought to trial. However, a bribed officer was never seen again after abetting Wentee. Deacon sighed.
Geor
was
the
only
politician
I
ever
trusted,
the
only
person
to
convince
me
to
leave
Moonbeam
and
Earth
. He closed his eyes in a moment of silence and respect for Geor.

Deacon opened his tattered brown-skinned briefcase and stared at
Protecting
the
Being
, his greatest achievement in publishing. He never traveled without it. This voluminous work cataloged the protective coatings of all living beings. Fur, skin, fiber, hair, secretions, scales, mucous, oils, cutin, and many others were described in infinite, enthralling detail. Deacon had a solemn wish.
I
hope
this
text
withstands
the
test
of
time
.