The Adventures of Deacon Coombs (5 page)

In retrospect, he recalled that Investigative Research Adventures had praised him: “His brain rarely shifts into neutral. It always churns, deduces, ponders, learns, and concludes.” Candide had written of him, “Once Deacon Coombs is summoned, a criminal’s days are numbered.” It was clearly an exaggeration, but he had not contacted Candide to correct the overstatement. His ego had talked him out of it.

He sipped the last of the Menzel juice and then shuddered.
What
is
egging
me
to
recall
these
triumphant
flashbacks?
I
have
authored
testaments
to
my
profession;
the
cases
solved
are
proof
of
my
fame
. He had the undaunted respect of many peers, and those who displayed disrespect did so out of jealousy.

It
was
I
who
recovered
Queen
Btavia’s
stolen
jewels,
I
who
fingered
the
psychopathic
murderer
of
Indochina,
I
who
caught
red-handed
the
master
forger
of
the
Planetary
Treasury.
And
yet
where
will
I
be
in
ten
years?
Bored?
Displaced
by
some
younger
hotshot?
Someone
brighter
than
me?
Relegated
to
the
dreadful
position
of
job
share?
Just
a
passing
fad?
A
past
curio?
Was
it
these
insecurities
that
triggered
this
nostalgic
justification
of
talents?
Or
perhaps
this
unknown
assignment?

He smiled.
Maybe
this
trip
will
be
the
pinnacle
of
my
career!
An
award.
Recognition
by
the
High
Council!
By
the
entire
Alliance.
No!
It
is
as
my
midnight
visitor
said—grave
circumstances
that
demand
my
skills.
An
awkward
consultation.

The plane bounced. Deacon checked the weather screen to find that they were passing over storms that projected thunderheads up to the thirty-thousand-foot level. The white body raced through the stratosphere to its destiny while Deacon slouched to brace himself for another shot of turbulence. While other passengers were oblivious to the storm and unaware of his presence, a solitary cloaked figure sat at the rear of the plane, intently watching over Deacon Coombs.

The craft commenced a rapid descent. In its path were more unstable air pockets that shook the plane. He considered establishing contact with the lady next to him to take his mind off the bumpy ride, but he was disappointed to find her engaged in dialogue with another passenger. There were those fleeting moments late at night when he longed to feel the affection of someone close. His true friends, few in number, had married and lived distant from him. After the sudden death of his parents a few years previous, he had no family to turn to in his hours of need. Among his close repertoire of friends, there was no confidant. Therefore, this trip brought a hope to him—that he might make an acquaintance that in time he could call a friend.

In containment

The ship docked, the passengers departed, and, as instructed, Deacon waited until everyone else had deplaned. Then he arose and strolled along the busy corridor. He had made it only two hundred feet when his path was blocked by two uniformed Owlers in official blue attire.

“Deacon Coombs, we are instructed to escort you to your accommodations. Please follow us.” They presented identification tags to him accompanied by a sealed envelope. Deacon decided to read it immediately and so withdrew the contents, which contained a letter of welcome by the Alliance signed by Landrew. With one officer ahead and one behind, he was led down an escalator and into the subway, and from there to a black metro car with four seats, where the security escorts barked instructions to the Owler driver. As they sped into the wormhole, the robed stranger from the plane emerged from the shadows and watched. He had completed the mission to deliver Deacon Coombs safely to Liberty City.

The metro car wound its way underground, twisting and weaving. Deacon longed for glimpses of the city, but they followed a three-lane trail of dimly lit concrete and steel. In an instant, they came to a halt at an intersection as two vehicles flashed by at high speed through a perpendicular crossing tube. Arriving at the hotel minutes later, the metro car rose vertically up the center of the hotel, skirting foliage that reached skyward in the atrium of the lobby. Deacon was astounded by the array of multicolored waterfalls that cascaded to ground level. The entire scene was capped by a mirrored dome that gave the illusion that this building was much higher than its eighty stories.

As he stared at the sight, an ugly thought surfaced. His forte was deductive reasoning. Too often people in high places expected him to perform favors for them or let their personal ambition get in the way of his duties. Dearly he hoped that this would not be the case, for he had other clients to satisfy, other duties to execute at Moonbeam.

The thirty-third floor

As he emerged from the cab, Deacon saw that the lobby below as a hive of crawling activity. The circular hotel had dramatic views from all angles. But suddenly the two security guards blocked his vantage so that he was forced to enter his cramped room, which was pleasantly completed in his favorite motif of blue walls and gray furniture. On a night table stood a bottle of Menzel nectar, in a drawer lay some of his favorite writings, and on the table were meat and veggie slices for dinner. The Owler spoke succinctly: “Please be prepared by eight o’clock this evening to depart for your meeting.” Here he was, thousands of miles from home, being drawn into a web of suspense.

As the door closed with a chink, he replied, “I’ll be ready.” No one heard his response. A further thud sealed him inside. He wished to take a stroll of the magnificent lobby and the streets of Liberty City to join the throngs, to be surrounded by people of a million races, but he discovered that the door was locked from the outside. He was a prisoner. He displayed his frustration by kicking the door. It would have been futile to lodge a complaint.

Gazing out the window, he was confronted by towers of glass, with no sight of street level. Every direction was blocked by a skyscraper casting a dull look back at him. So far, this trip was stale. So he sat to read, eat, and sip his precious Menzel nectar, which he savored for the second time on this day. Later he passed time by cleaning his fingernails. He had shaved his blond peach-fuzz quills from his face earlier before departure, so it would not be time for another shave for days. Hours later, after his dinner, a knock interrupted him just as he was about to nap. He checked his handheld device. It was time to meet his summoners.

The metro car descended and, as before, entered an underground tunnel in the pit of the city. After twenty minutes, they emerged in a forested area with majestic low-rise stone buildings dotting the landscape. Suddenly he saw in front of him the revered rows of gargantuan marble structures—the history museums—flanked by fountains and statues.

There were memorials to Donsetter, the great general; the famous Asiatic president Bulgamov; and someone else of long ago, Lincoln. The view was lost as the vehicle turned directly in front of one of the enamel buildings. His heart palpitated as he recognized it as the History Archives Library. It encompassed twenty acres of land, if his memory served him correctly.

After anxiously exiting, he climbed thirty granite stairs. He turned in time to see the sleek black metro car disappear, leaving him alone. He examined the structure. Six pillars, each eighty feet high, bearing immaculate carvings of graceful birds. Through the crack between two columns, he noticed a thin vertical ray of light that guided him to one of the enormous copper doors that was slightly ajar. This building bore the scars of hundreds of years of pollution, which had eaten away at the stairs and pillars, leaving unsightly pitting. Upon closer examination, he concluded that the speckled look was also the result of some of the damaged blocks having been replaced with newer, whiter stone and unoxidized metals. Guards were staring out of the shadows.

On the huge doors were inscribed greetings from all alien life forms in the Tetrad Alliance, including the universal greeting of “Villya” in bold letters. A tingle swept up his spine as he entered a voluminous lobby where circular staircases graced each of the four corners. Four granite columns reached defiantly to alpine heights, each column representing one of the four suns of the Tetrad Alliance.

To his left, one of the staircases was bathed in fluorescent yellow lights, so he took the cue to follow that path, the sound of his footsteps rebounding like a hammer’s glance on the polished floors. The air was invigorating. His stomach was ripe with fluttering sensations.

Busts of famous figures from Alliance history greeted him as he ascended. Scientists, philosophers, politicians, philanthropists, writers, athletes, authors, explorers, businessmen—he recognized the majority of the names. In the excitement, he soon found himself at the top of the stairs, realizing that he had not cherished the climb to his satisfaction. Now a long, narrow corridor was in front of him. An open door at the end was obviously his destination.

Deacon decided to linger. Looking into a mirror to comb his hair, he became aware of the figure on the other side. The precautions caused him to relax. To his left, a Vergotti sculpture confronted him. The bust was representative of the works of Vergotti’s era. The expression carried an intense look, characteristic of the period when Earth was building a new life out of nuclear ashes. The emerald eyes sparkled; the granite jaw protruded in confidence. He thought from his recollection of history that this bust was probably Yavetnikov, the first leader of Earth’s global unity program.

In their presence

“Villya, Deacon Coombs. It is indeed a pleasure to meet you.” Deacon turned to recognize Rande, a short, silver-haired, wiry being who served as the private secretary to Landrew and always wore an ever-present melancholy frown. Deacon moved to shake his hand.

“Good evening, Rande. The pleasure is mine.”

“I trust everything has been to your satisfaction.”

“Yes,” Deacon replied affirmatively rather than complaining about his short imprisonment, although he did add, “I do hope that this journey is not in vain.”

He was silenced as he entered a large boardroom to stand stupefied before the members of the High Council of the Tetrad Alliance. Never in Deacon’s wildest reasoning had he suspected that this assembly was to be conducted with High Alliance members in person. A sweat broke out over his forehead as Landrew moved forward.

“Deacon Coombs—how great an honor it is to finally meet one of the greatest sleuthing minds of our times,” Landrew said in a commandeering voice. His handshake was firm. His smile was resilient, just as Deacon recalled from photos.

Deacon felt a twitter in his arms as Landrew’s black hulk towered over him. “The honor,” he said, “is… is… I’m sure belongs to me. I’m humbled to be in the presence of the supreme beings that control the decisions of our worlds.”

The members sat around an elliptical, polished pink feldspathic table. They all stared intently at him while Deacon surveyed them with eye-to-eye contact of each host.

“Permit me to facilitate the introductions, Mr. Coombs.” Deacon stood on his spot while Landrew circulated around the room to identify his committee.

“May I introduce Princess Xudur from Zentaur.”

Her intimidating, pensive glare was fixed on Deacon, shattering his short-lived confidence. The muscular, scaly creature nodded her imposing, obtuse green head in recognition. Her snakelike eyes, thin nose with slotted nostrils, and clawed hands typified the reptilian appearance of the Zentaurians. Her mouth, upon opening, exposed bloodred fleshy tissue inside.
How
revolting
to
kiss
that,
Deacon thought. Princess Xudur said in a low growl, “Villya, Coombs.”

“The pleasure is mine, Princess,” Deacon replied.

Her webbed hands were an indication of the fondness for water by Zentaurians, an aspect that had not disappeared through evolution. Razor-sharp platinum teeth, present because of the tough game on Zentaur, gave him a further fright.