MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2)

by James Schannep

  What the hell did you just stumble upon? It’s possible, in your shock, that you just let the murderer escape. Damn, should’ve snapped a picture. It won’t do much to exonerate you or help the police, but you won’t soon forget the man’s face. Or those crystalline, piercing eyes. The kind of eyes that look like they were carved from an ice cave or lifted from a lightning-infused Norse god.

  “Stay where you are,” a woman’s voice commands from behind.

  “Turn around slowly, hands where we can see them,” a man adds.

  Both have thick Brazilian accents. You turn slowly, keeping the revolver close to your chest as if you were protecting some dangerous secret, ready to face whoever it might be.

  The woman is thin, tall, with skin like soy milk and shimmering raven hair pulled back in a bun. She looks professional, like an American businesswoman, save for her oversized hoop earrings and long, lustrous eyelashes. The other is an average-looking man, skin bronzed, hair bleached to match.

  They both wear suits, but the man’s shirt is shimmering silk, teal green like the walls in the alley.

  Both hold revolvers, and both weapons are aimed at you. Their eyes blaze as they see the revolver in your hands.

  “Arma!” the man calls out.

  The woman yells at you in Portuguese, then, noticing your confusion, adds in English, “Drop the weapon!”

  • “You drop yours! Don’t make me use this thing!”

  • Drop the gun, hands raised.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Bête Noire

  You sprint after the assassin, who in turn chases the prime suspect in the murder of Jane Nightingale. You shove your way through dancing revelers, ignoring their shouts of protest, trying desperately to keep up with the two men.

  The crowd parts like a school of fish evading a predator.

  There before you is a brick wall with nothing more than a locked door. The bespectacled man finds himself at a dead end with nowhere else to go. He slams into the door three times with his shoulder, to no avail, then turns back to face his fate.

  The devil-costumed assassin pulls the two handguns off his pitchfork, as the center rod falls to the ground with a clang. His prey’s blue eyes follow the rod to the asphalt. It hits hard against the ground and bounces before finally coming to a rest. The man looks back up at the assassin—but not before flicking his eyes over to you in the briefest moment of recognition.

  With two shots from the left handgun and one from the right, the assassin kills the man, gunning him down right there in the public street. Women scream and the crowd pushes further away from the murder.

  Suddenly, you feel very naked and alone. You look around and realize there’s a large bubble of empty space on the street, with you smack in the middle.

  Before you can run, the devilish assassin turns around. The teeth painted atop his lips part to reveal the real teeth beneath them. With an impish grin, his handguns come up and you go down.

  THE END

  Better Left Unsaid

  Agent Danly turns progressively more red as you explain your previous night’s escapades. The vein on his forehead is ready to burst. You can’t be sure if he’s even heard what you’re saying—about the new information you’ve uncovered—because there’s never even a glimmer of hope that he’s happy with you.

  He crushes his coffee cup in his hand, sending the scalding liquid pouring over his knuckles without his so much as acknowledging it. When you’re finished speaking, the only sound is the grinding of his teeth.

  “That’s it. You’re off the case.”

  “Did you even hear what I said?” you plea.

  “This was Bertram’s stupid idea to begin with, and now this is the last straw. You’re endangering your own pathetic life, but worse, you’ve endangered the investigation.”

  “But!—”

  “I don’t care what you saw or what you think you saw; did you honestly believe any of this would be admissible in court? Or that we could use it in our reports? You’ve jeopardized everything. Now let’s go. I’m taking to you the consulate, turning you over to Security there, and putting you on the first plane back to the States—and you better pray I never see you again.”

  THE END

  Big Oil

  Though it’s getting later in the afternoon, both companies are able to meet with you. Bertram drops you off and tells you to have your contact’s secretary call him when you’re ready to be picked up.

  The office at BP’s headquarters is modern, clean, and reeks of money. Your contact comes out to meet you—an American businesswoman in a smart blazer and knee-length skirt. She’s in her forties. Her curly, auburn, almost maroon-color hair bounces lightly on her shoulders as she walks toward you on clicking high heels, her hand outstretched.

  “Marilyn Margaret,” she says. “We’ve got a conference room set up, if you’ll come with me.”

  You follow her to the glass-walled meeting room and help yourself to a cheese danish at the coffee bar (you haven’t had a proper lunch yet). It’s just the two of you, and she waits until you’re ready.

  “So, Ms. Margaret, you’re an American running the Brazilian branch of British Petroleum?”

  “Oh, I don’t run the branch. I’m the American liaison, and please call me Marilyn. We represent interests in most developed nations, and what we do here in Brazil attracts the attention of many shareholders. Now then, how can I help you?”

  • “Do you know why Viktor Lucio de Ocampo was blacklisted? Did BP have anything to do with it?”

  • “Can you tell me what BP hopes to gain by attending the Energy Summit?”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Blindfire

  The assault rifle kicks to life in your hands as you shoot with the weapon placed phallically at waist height. The drug traffickers who enter are greeted with a roaring audience to the lead-inspired samba they now dance. There were two of them, both now dead and bullet-riddled at your feet.

  You keep the weapon trained on the door but no one else enters. There’s a long silence, with no movement save for the wisp of smoke coming off your gun barrel and blood pooling from the bodies on the floor.

  “Nice work,” Irma says. She stands, nonchalantly shoots the boy on the couch, and watches as he dies. Then she turns to you, her revolver not quite pointed at you, but not quite pointed away. “Give me the rifle.”

  • Give it to her.

  • Shoot her.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Blind Pursuit

  Using your best mix of stealth and urgency, you shimmy away from the rooftop’s edge, scale down the back of the building, and sprint off in the direction you think the suspect might’ve gone. Irma rushes behind you, but soon you find you’re covering the same ground over and over again. Streets and alleys crisscross with no sign of him.

  A taxicab rushes by and crosses in front of another cab. The man could be anywhere by now.

  “Damn it,” you say.

  “We’ll get him,” Irma says, putting a hand on your shoulder. “It doesn’t have to be tonight. But we will get him. Give me the revolver. I’ll take you back to your hotel.”

  • “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  • “No. Let’s go back and see what else Detective Muniz might be up to.”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  A Bond Moment

  “You aren’t going to join your friends? Check out my surprise in the chapel?”

  You shake your head, eyeing him cautiously.

  “You are the smart one; I mean that.” He meanders over toward the edge of the precipice, stopping at one of the viewpoints of the city. “Beautiful, isn’t it? I love my city.”

  “What about the local police?” you ask. “Did you go to them for help?”

  “Corruption,” he says matter-of-factly. Then, looking at his watch, he adds, “I don’t imagine they’ll be much longer in the church. It’s not a very good surprise. Is it okay if I spoil it for you?”

  “Sure…”

 
He puts his hands together, palms flat, as if he’s in prayer. “The surprise is…” he says, opening his hands to reveal nothing. “There’s no surprise. I just needed them to go away while I make my exit. I’m not going in for questioning, not yet anyway. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a train to catch.”

  You move to block his path, looking over your shoulder to the train turnaround station, only to see the tail of the red train car leaving for the base. He’s missed the train, but you’re sure he doesn’t intend to wait for it to return.

  The two agents emerge from the chapel, spotting the pair of you on the viewing platform and rush back just as Viktor steps up onto the stone ledge serving as a barrier against the sky.

  Overlooking the city, he spreads his arms like the statue of Christ. Then, turning his head back to you, he says, “Boa sorte, e velocidade de Deus. Good luck on the case.”

  Then he jumps.

  You lunge forward in shock, your stomach swirling with vertigo, but he’s gone. You lean over the wall, fully expecting to see the man plunge down the mountainside to his doom—but instead he lands atop the red train car, having perfectly timed its departure.

  He waves up to you, and you just stare. The agents finally make it to your side, just in time to see him slip into one of the open windows of the train car, and the entire train disappear behind the bend of the mountain trail.

  “Goddammit, one of us should’ve stayed back here,” Danly says.

  “No shit, Sherlock. I expected you to back me up while I checked it out,” Bertram growls.

  “Back you up? You think you’re lead on this investigation? That’s rich.”

  “Blow me, Stuart.”

  “Ummm, guys?” you say, interrupting.

  The whole mountain crowd stares at the scene they’re making.

  “All right,” Danly says, composing himself. “Let’s forget that crackpot; we’ve got work to do.”

  “That work includes looking into this guy. He’s obviously a sociopath. His fiancée hasn’t even been buried yet and the guy’s all smiles.”

  “We follow the evidence, and if it leads to him, so be it.”

  “No way. We need to put this nut behind bars before he hurts someone else.”

  “Bertram, seriously, do I need to ask the RSO to officially assign one of us as lead?”

  “You might.”

  “This might just be a naïve rookie talking,” you say, “but couldn’t you guys split up and cover more ground?”

  They both look at you, blinking. Then they say in unison, “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Bertram says, “Let’s split up. I’ll follow the fiancé, you work with the local police.”

  “Fine with me. Just make sure you file your reports so we can cross-reference one another’s findings.”

  “You want some cab fare to get back to the garage?” Agent Bertram asks. “The car’s checked out in my name, so…”

  “I’ll be fine,” Danly says.

  They linger for a moment, staring at one another, before Bertram offers to shake hands. “Good luck, and I mean that,” he says.

  “Don’t shoot anybody,” Danly counters, managing a slight smirk. “The paperwork involved is worse than death.”

  • “And I’ll come with you, Agent Danly. I’ve always wanted to go behind the scenes of an investigation.”

  • “The fiancé might not be the guy I saw last night, but maybe he can lead us to him. Let’s do it, Agent Bertram!”

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  The Boogeyman

  You leap out of the car, arms raised high over your head, shouting gibberish, letting your tongue waggle in the wind for good measure. All in all, you think you’re pretty terrifying.

  But the kids don’t.

  They roar in laughter, their starved little bellies shaking in delight. All smiles and amusement, they come closer while you stand there, dumbfounded that your plan didn’t work. Before you realize what’s going on, the two with the spray paint cans begin to unleash their art form on your pant legs. You squirm away, but that’s like a scared mouse running from a kitten. These feral children laugh again and start to chase you.

  Out of panic for some way to fight back, you grab the lead kid’s soccer ball, run two steps, and on the third step, you punt the ball far over the wall. All six watch in surprise and despair as the ball sails out of view. That’ll teach the bastards! Now you’re the one who’s smiling.

  Instead of playful grins, they now look at you with glowering hatred. The lead kid reaches down to the ground and picks up a chunk of brick about the size of an apple. He tosses it up and down, catching it in his hand. And now he’s smiling again. The other boys get his meaning and pick up their own rocks from the ground.

  You want to run back to the car, but you won’t make it in time. Instead, you stand your ground and utter one of the six Portuguese words you know: desculpe—sorry.

  The lead kid winds up for a big pitch; you raise your hands to protect your face. When a giant CRACK pierces the air, you start to search yourself for blood or a wound. But when you open your eyes, you see the kid still has his rock.

  Agent Danly and Detective Muniz are back; the detective has his handgun pointed into the air, smoke curling away from the barrel. The boys run away while Muniz aims his revolver at them and shouts something in Portuguese.

  “What the hell, Rookie? I leave you for five minutes, and…” Danly says.

  Shaken, trying not to look like an idiot, you say, “Did you find anything out there?”

  “No. Asshole here took us to a pacified slum,” he says. Then responding to your puzzled look, he adds, “That’s a slum that’s been cleaned up. Christ, those kids would’ve had guns in any other slum. Come on, we’re headed back to the station.”

  • Return to the station.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Brazilian Triangle

  You form up, weapons drawn, so that each of you take a third of the 360 degrees of sugarcane surrounding you. Looking at your third, you keep the shotgun level and your finger on the trigger, watching as the leaves rustle and the cane sways. A loud slop-slap-slop announces a man trudging through the mud in your direction.

  He’s holding a hunting rifle and when he sees you, he starts to aim. But with a blast from the shotgun, you find out you’re quicker than he is. Gunfire erupts from behind you as both Agent Bertram and Maria engage their own batch of grileiros. You pump another shell into the breach and scan the sugarcane for further threats.

  With a guttural scream, Maria falls into you, disrupting the triangle formation and nearly knocking you over. Both you and Agent Bertram instinctively swing your respective weapons around and engage the two men shooting at Maria.

  In another two seconds, you’ve killed the rest of the grileiros, but it’s too late. There are six bodies bleeding into the muddy pools around the sugarcane. Five men, and Maria, the pilot.

  Bertram falls to the earth on one knee, ready to use his first aid and buddy care training. You look for more threats from the sugarcane, but the crop is silent.

  “She’s dead,” he says, rising slowly.

  Her mouth is parted slightly and her lifeless eyes stare up to the heavens. You hunker down and close her eyelids, shutting them for all time.

  “Come on,” Bertram says. “They’ll have left us a truck and we’re gonna pay this Sugar King a visit.”

  “What about the callback?” you ask.

  He shrugs. “What’s an hour more? Besides, I got the call after we’d already visited, remember?”

  You’d like to smile, but with Maria dead at your feet, all you can do is trudge silently towards the road.

  Bertram was right. The men left a pickup truck waiting on the dirt road. Checking his GPS one more time, he drives you to the plantation and in just ten minutes, you’ve arrived at the main house.

  You half-expected something out of the pre-Civil War Southern states, like a giant manor from Gone With the Wind, but you’re greeted with a much more utilitarian
structure. This isn’t a place where people live, it’s a place where people work.

  Still, it’s a massive set of buildings. A cafeteria, several barracks for workers, washing and refining stations, and of course, the main house of the plantation.

  Bertram slings his rifle over his shoulder and climbs the steps. “Come on, Hotshot. Let’s see if this devil’s home.”

  • Meet the king of this underworld.

  MAKE YOUR CHOICE

  Break-dance Fighting

  These men don’t look like any farmworkers you’ve ever seen. They wear loose-fitting dojo pants with no shirts, showing off their toned musculature that hasn’t an inch of fat. Already their bodies glimmer with sweat—they’ve been warming up for your arrival.

  The arena, if you could call it that, is simply an empty room where the performers stand on the periphery. The Sugar King and his Security team lean against a wall, and seeing as you’ve got nowhere else to go, you join him, along with Maria and Bertram.

  Maria leans in and whispers, “Capoeira is an ancient art, dating back to the time of slaves. It was illegal to practice martial arts, so the slaves disguised their combat as a tribal dance. It was handed down secretly for generations until only in the modern era it became known.”

  The Governor snaps his fingers and the show begins. Their movements are lightning-fast and incredibly precise. In an expertly timed display, the men flip and kick at one another, moving into a dodge at the same time their partner moves in for an attack, so that they fluidly “dance” together as one unit. They both kick at the same time, windmilling across each other’s bodies; if the timing was off by even a millisecond, both performers would be seriously injured.

  If you were an arts fan, you’d be reminded of Cirque du Soleil. If you were a videogame fan, you’d be reminded of Eddie Gordo in Tekken. If you were a nature buff, you’d be reminded of eagles diving through the air in courtship.