John Keats 02 Paper Moon

by Dennis Liggio

  "Sorry, you're right," I said. "But that does restrict our actions. We may need to kill that thing... if we ever figure out how."

  "I don't mind killing that thing, it's not protected by the law. I just worry about who else we might hurt if we burn the studio down, as well as the property damaged."

  "How do we kill it then? Or just stop it? We didn't do well against it on the roof."

  Charlie frowned. "I don't think a gun is going to kill it. Which blows my mind."

  "Unless we get bigger guns," I suggested.

  "I'll keep that in mind, but that can't be our plan," he said. "Bigger guns is not a realistic plan."

  "So far it's all we got."

  Charlie shook his head dismissively. "You're a detective, you've got to have something else. You've been hunting Nick, seeing his life. You've seen the show, you've seen the puppet. What were your other leads? Maybe one of those has the key to knowing just what that creature is."

  "Honestly, this was the only active lead I really had," I said. "The only other thing I had was Nick's apartment, but that's going to be crawling with police in a few hours."

  Charlie nodded. "Once they get an ID, they'll search all known addresses. Probably the studio too."

  "I think it's time I abandon my job at the studio," I said. "Are they going to coming knocking here?"

  "Depends on if they connect him to Lindsey... I'd say when rather than if, but it depends who is working this one."

  I nodded. Then a question occurred to me. "Charlie, how come you never made detective? You seem smart enough. You seem to have a good enough head for this stuff."

  "Politics," he said with a grimacing smile.

  I nodded. From that, I knew to leave the issue alone. It still hurt him.

  "So you worked at the studio?" he said.

  "Part of my cover to search for him," I said. "From my client. Wanna hear all the gory details?"

  Normally, I am not the sort to share details of an investigation, finished or current. Some of that impulse is embarrassment of my methods, other times legality, other cases it's just privacy. In this case I was feeling glib, probably from the alcohol and the receding shock. And Charlie seemed a trustable guy, especially since we had a secret we were keeping together. If he got me in trouble, I could say he was also on the roof, and then someone might find the missing shell casing. So with a drunken retelling, I gave him the short short version of the case so far. I told him of Meredith, my time at the studio, and even the rendezvous with the nighttime puppet informer. The only thing I left out were my dreams and the crazy blindfolded girl who tried to gut me with a dagger because she thought I'd cause the world to end. For now, those were my exclusive secrets.

  He was getting tired and the alcohol was catching up to him, but Charlie nodded when I finished my account of my investigation. "It's an odd one, especially knowing what we know now," he said. "Some people at the studio probably know more than they're telling, but we don't know who and how much they know."

  "Or if they may even be allied with the... creature."

  "Let's just call it Hornswaggle," said Charlie. "That's its name, or as good as we're going to get."

  "Yeah, I guess because Nick didn't want to name it, I've been shying away from it."

  "I figure if it hasn't shown up when we called its name so far, we're fine," he said. "So we need to figure out what we're doing."

  "We?" I said.

  "We're both at risk, that alone makes us stuck together on this. But I know I need to find out about this for Nick's sake. And it seems like you also feel that way."

  I reluctantly nodded. After seeing Nick dropped off the roof, I just couldn't walk away. He deserved some sort of justice, even if I was scared.

  "So what are we doing?" he said.

  I shook my head. "Staying away from the studio for one. Other than that? I need to tell Meredith. I'll see if I can get anything from this laptop, but I doubt there's anything recoverable. The only other lead I see is Jennifer Daw. Nick mentioned her and said he learned about Hornswaggle from her. She may be our only resource. But I have no idea who she is."

  "I guess that's both our jobs," he said. "But we keep each other on the loop on this."

  I nodded. "I normally work alone in the field, but I don't mind someone having my back with a giant monster threatening me."

  "Likewise. You're not APD, but you're the only person who will believe me."

  I smiled. "I just hope this isn't a bad idea."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Hunting the monster, making it our enemy," I said. "Again, what if it doesn't want us dead?"

  "It said it wanted us dead, don't you remember that?"

  "What if that was situational? What if we were collateral damage? Maybe it only wanted Nick and only cared because we were there?"

  "So what?" he said.

  "Well, what if by finding out what Nick knew, we're making it want to kill us?"

  Thirteen

  In life, there's a lot of shit you don't want to do. To the point where you dread it. And often that dread becomes even more horrible than the actual thing you don't want to do. Sometimes you just need to be brave or diligent. You need to just do it. Then you find it wasn't so bad. But sometimes it really is just as bad as you dreaded it would be.

  I woke to the sound of my phone ringing. It kept going to voice mail, but then it would start ringing again. I was on Charlie's couch, having passed out sometime late. I had been drunk and not fit for driving. I also hadn't wanted to head home and find out whether the blindfolded girl, the Seer, was waiting for me with a new dagger and a renewed urge to kill.

  Checking my phone, I saw the caller was Meredith. It once again went to voice mail and it started ringing again. That made sense. Before I had gone to sleep, I texted her that I had news on Nick... bad news. I knew I needed to let her know before the police. But I probably had slept through them calling her or the news reporting it. My head still hurt, so I put off answering her call for a little longer. Charlie gave me a cup of coffee, looking similarly groggy.

  "You gonna answer that?" he said, nodding at my phone, which had sprung to new life with a new set of rings.

  "Eventually," I said with a wince.

  I did Charlie the courtesy of leaving his place before answering Meredith's calls. In the stark light of day, the rooftop appearance of Hornswaggle seemed so much farther away, a far off dream. However, the broken glass on the ground outside the building and police tape from the site of Nick's fall remained as a solid reminder of what had gone on.

  When I was sitting in my car, I finally answered the call.

  "Where the hell have you been?" came Meredith's voice, fast and insistent, a rushing left hook to someone with a hangover. Like me, for example.

  "It was a terrible night," I said diplomatically.

  "I would think so!" Man, she sounded pissed. "I got your text when I woke up. Then I had a police detective at my door! Do I even have to guess what your bad news is?"

  "Nick's dead," I said. "I found him, but it was too late."

  I heard a frustrated growl, and I think she might have kicked something on her end.

  "I know you're not happy to hear that." Even I think that was an idiotic thing to say, but at the time I was fumbling. "He was... confused. Nervous. But he was involved in something big. Something impossible."

  "Wait, you found him before he died?"

  "Yes, I found out where he was hiding out, but so did... someone else."

  "And you didn't protect him?"

  "I tried! Goddamn it, I tried..." I said, but I felt terrible. I was a little guilty about failing to stop the monster last night, but shock and whiskey had astroturfed that feeling. But now... I did feel shitty. Nick died in front of me and I couldn't do anything. I had tried. And that trying had amounted to nothing. I had gotten tossed away like nothing by Hornswaggle. What were we even thinking? We couldn't fight that thing.

  "But he died!" said Meredith. "And for all I know it was
your fault!" I knew she was in grief, I knew she was lashing out, looking to blame, but it still hurt.

  "I'm sorry, Meredith... but there are some bad things Nick was involved in."

  "Nick? Are you kidding? Nick wouldn't be involved in anything dangerous, not something that would kill him!"

  "There was something bad after him... something... something associated with the show."

  "What? What are you talking about?" she said.

  "Haven't you noticed how weird things are at the studio? Haven't you noticed something going on?"

  "W-what are you talking about?" I heard her sniffle up tears. I think I maybe had her curiosity, I had hooked her for a moment.

  "There's something strange going on. Something underlying everything there. Nick saw it, that's why he got out of there. Haven't you seen weird stuff?"

  "I-I don't know... maybe? What are you getting at?"

  "I think Nick was on to something. There's something dark there. Something sordid. And it all comes down to..." I paused. I was even wincing at where this was leading.

  "Comes down to what?"

  "See, everything involves a dark presence. And I haven't gotten all the details of it, but the source of it all is Hornswaggle."

  "What?" Her voice was shrill - angry, shocked, choked, disbelieving.

  "I know it sounds insane and is a lot to take in, I didn't believe it when Nick said -"

  "Hornswaggle? The puppet?"

  "Look, it's not just the puppet. I mean, it is the puppet, but it's also not the puppet. It's something much worse. If you -"

  "I don't know what game you're playing. I'm not sure if you're some sadistic asshole or if you are actually crazy. All I know is I regret hiring you. I don't know why you were recommended to me, but you're awful! You got Nick killed and you're trying to blame it on his puppet!"

  "But -"

  "No, shut up! You're fired! I don't ever want to hear from you again!"

  She ended the call.

  I admit, that could have gone better. In retrospect, I can think of at least a dozen ways I could have put that better, ways I could have smoothed over that conversation. I'd like to blame hangover, lingering fear from the rooftop, or that she was not in a very receptive state. But it was all me. I should have just played it safe - told her I was sorry, say I was following leads that might shed light on what happened. Instead, I fucked it up.

  I sat in my car for a long moment, realizing how I had messed this up. The job was over, but my life was still in danger from a demonic monster and an insane girl. I didn't even want to think about how much worse things could get.

  So instead I started up my car and drove to work.

  As I mentioned, my office was in the Arboretum area of Austin, on Jollyville. It was in a sleepy office park hidden by tall trees and surrounded by strip malls. Blink and you'd not even notice an office park was there, but you might notice the parking garage that lurked behind it. I enjoyed parking in the garage and avoiding the Texas sun; it could bake a car left out all day.

  I walked across the shady courtyard, usually empty on the weekdays save for smokers, health-conscious employees taking a walk, nervous applicants preparing for an interview, and occasionally, actual clients. Today there were just smokers, including an old man I saw smoking every time I came to work. It didn't matter what time, if I were here during weekday work hours, he'd be there smoking a cigarette. I wondered if he worked, or if his favorite pastime was smoking on benches in courtyards. It was nice and he had shade, so there were worse places to pass your days.

  Once inside my building, I grabbed the elevator. The building had stairs, but they only went down, you couldn't take them up. The elevator was pass card protected if you were going to floors 2 or 3 - I believe some tech companies had bought up those floors. My office was on 4, which you didn't need a card to get to, so all of us had lobbies. There was also a fifth floor, but I don't know if any offices were open on that floor. The lights were on up there and the climate control was going, but I never saw anyone walking around. It was useful for me, because if the bathroom stalls on 4 (all two of them) were ever filled, 5 had never let me down.

  My company, Endymion Investigations, didn't have that much of a presence to someone who got off the elevator. I hadn't paid to put the business name up on the directory by the elevator - surprisingly, the office management wants a grand and a half for that privilege. I figured if you were already there looking for my office, a directory listing was irrelevant. The entrance to my office was just a single door with a black sign with white text next to it - 408 ENDYMION. The door wasn't even the frosted glass with gold lettering of noir. Just a wooden door. Open at your own risk.

  I breezed through the door, relieved to see Sally at her desk. Three days a week she had morning classes. I could never remember which days those were. I was coming through the doors at 10:46 am, so even if she had morning classes, I probably would have seen her soon.

  Sally was some platonic form of the University of Texas student you'd think to see at a football game - blonde, fresh faced, perky, and of otherwise sunny disposition. Her very blonde hair was tied up in a pony tail, using a scrunchie - did they even call them that anymore? She was wearing a T-shirt and yoga pants, knowing that she didn't have to be particularly dressy to receive my clients, particularly on a day like today, when none were due. She sat at the desk, really just a painted piece of plywood with a chair behind it, but thanks to the miracle of office staging, it looked fancy. She sat behind her laptop, her phone face up on the desk next to her. I spied a near empty Starbucks cup lurking near her.

  As she saw me come into the door, she smiled - it really was the type to light up the room, as if she were starring in some working girl sitcom. "John!"

  "Hey Sally, do you have anything on Jennifer Daw yet?" After getting bitched out by Meredith, I had opened my contacts to text Sally to start researching Jennifer Daw when she got into the office. When I had the text app open, I discovered I had already texted her that while I had been up late drinking: TOMORROW MORNING - JENNIFER DAW - WHO WHAT WHEN WHERE AND WHY? It's good to know that shell shocked, drunk me was on the ball.

  "I do - but I think that's going to need to wait," she said, a bit of a wince in her voice.

  I immediately turned my head left, looking to see if I had an angry husband waiting for me. It felt too soon for Kirstie Manheim to have hired a divorce lawyer and started that process, so it had to be someone else. We have a tiny waiting area on the left, two leather chairs, a potted plant, a fake glass coffee table, and four laughably out of date issues of People magazine. I didn't notice anyone sitting there, the magazines fanned out from how I had set them last month. I think I recognized a layer of dust on them.

  "What's up?" I said, turning back to Sally.

  "Mr. French is here," she said.

  "Shit."

  "He's waiting in your office."

  "You let him in my office?"

  "He just went in there on his own authority," she said with a shrug. "I couldn't have stopped him if I wanted to. And what was I going to do, alert security?"

  I reluctantly nodded. "Okay, but once I'm done with him, I want everything on Jennifer. Got it?"

  She smirked and nodded, of course knowing I was the one slowing things down; Sally had never been behind schedule with anything any day of her life. I fully expect her to lead some company solving world peace while making billions of dollars some day. And when that happens I'll probably still be photographing cheating spouses.

  I dropped the bag with the broken laptop on the desk. "And see if you know anyone who can do anything with this. If the hard drive is even usable."

  Sally opened the bag and looked at it with disbelief. She then transferred the look to me. "Are you serious?"

  "I have no expectation of success, but maybe we'll luck out. " I shrugged.

  Pushing through my office door, which was again just another generic looking door, I entered the small room which is my actual office. It's
not big at all, but it had a window which looked down on that shady courtyard - albeit from four stories up. My desk was also setup facing the door, for the purpose of receiving clients, so I had to swivel to look out the window. My desk was a cheap ergonomic desk that I had modified to look more solid to the quick glance. My computer was the only thing on it - the actual computer on the bottom, a flat screen on top. Here is the one place I enjoyed having a full keyboard.

  In the client chair across from the desk sat Mr. French, the chair swiveled to watch me as I walked through the door and went behind my desk. I didn't pause to shake his hand, but none was offered either. Once sitting down, I tossed my backpack on the floor next to me. I woke my computer from sleep, then sighed.

  "What do you want?" I said. "The same questions, or do you have something new to ask?"

  "You look tired, are you getting enough rest?" said French, pulling out an individually wrapped toothpick and deftly skinning it of its wrapper. He put the pick in his mouth and the wrapper was cast vaguely in the direction of my trash but did not make it. It never had in all the times he had come to see me.

  "Cut the crap, French, we both know you didn't care about my wellbeing."

  "Ouch, hostile today. Definitely not enough sleep," said French.

  I said nothing and instead lazily twirled my hand in the air to signal for him to get on with it. This action involuntarily made my chair swivel a quarter turn and back, making the gesture feel even more sarcastic than intended.

  Scott French - often better known as Special Agent French - had been coming to see me about once a month for the last two years. He was a member of the FBI, so the first time I met him, I was really amused that someone who worked for a US government agency sounded like he was from France. That joke had become less funny every time I had seen him since, becoming just a really annoying irony. French was tall, square jawed, and looked better in a suit than me - his gray suit looked expertly tailored for French's solid frame. While French liked to tease me, there was nothing actually friendly in his manner. He had never been hostile, but neither did he ever seem actually personable. He thought I was hiding something from him - which I was, just not about what he actually had been trying to find out for two years.