The Golem of Solomon's Way

by Jon Messenger

  Walking to the end of his sidewalk, he turned sharply and entered the very next gate leading up to the Inquisitor’s home. The curtains were still drawn, despite the early morning sunlight reflecting off the front of the stone townhouse. With great trepidation, the apothecary climbed the stairs and knocked loudly on the door.

  No one answered, nor did he hear movement within, though he was certain Simon hadn’t left. He knocked again, louder than the first time, but heard no response.

  Taking a deep breath, Luthor yelled at the closed door. “I know you’re in there, sir. Please open the door.”

  For the first time, he heard shuffling from within, though it was muffled and it went as quickly as it came. Still, it was enough to convince him that Simon was, in fact, at home.

  “I can hear you inside, sir. You should know that I won’t leave until we’ve spoken. If I have to stand here all day, banging incessantly on your door until you concede defeat and open it, so be it.”

  He raised his hand to knock again but paused as the door handle rotated slowly. He hadn’t heard Simon moving within the home, but the Inquisitor was now clearly standing on the far side of the door. It opened a sliver, and Simon’s ragged face appeared in the crack.

  “What do you want, Luthor?” Simon muttered. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  The smell of alcohol radiated from the Inquisitor, as though it were oozing from his very pores. His breath stunk of heat and scotch, a terrible combination that made Luthor wither in his presence.

  “I can see that you’re drunk, sir.”

  Simon’s head nodded slowly. “Good. Now we’ve spoken, so you can depart from my front step and leave me in peace.”

  The door started to close, but Luthor shoved his foot into the crack. He winced as Simon threw his shoulder into the door, crushing the apothecary’s foot between the door and its jam. With some force, Luthor pushed the door aside and Simon with it. The Inquisitor stumbled into the foyer before catching his balance.

  “I don’t recall inviting you into my home,” Simon curtly said.

  Luthor stared at his mentor in disbelief. The man’s hair was disheveled, draping over his eyes rather than slicked back across his head in its normal coif. Stubble lined his cheek and dark bags hung under his eyes, though Luthor couldn’t tell if that was from lack of sleep or intoxication. Likewise, Simon’s bloodshot eyes could have been the result of either malady. As the Inquisitor stared angrily at the apothecary, Simon’s nostrils flared with each deep breath.

  “Sir, you’re a mess. Have you slept at all?”

  Simon shrugged. “I’m sure that I have, not that it’s any business of yours.”

  “You’re drunk,” Luthor said, his voice condescending, as though talking to a child. “Don’t you think it’s a bit early in the morning for scotch?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Luthor,” Simon replied as he walked back into the sitting room. “I’ve been drinking the alcohol so as to not be inconvenienced with problems like thinking,”

  The room was incredibly dark, lit only by the slivers of light that slipped unbidden between the heavy curtains. No lights were lit, though Luthor’s eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. The Inquisitor sat heavily into a cushioned chair. Beside his seat, a rounded end table stood, on top of which stood a half-emptied bottle of scotch and a nearly empty tumbler. As though noticing the bottle, Simon refilled the glass and took another drink.

  “For what reason have you invaded my sanctuary this…” Simon glanced out the window inquisitively, “this morning?”

  Luthor took a seat on the sofa across from the Inquisitor. “The Grand Inquisitor has been attempting to contact you, sir. It seems he’s quite intent on finding out how goes your investigation into the murders.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  “I lied and told him we had the investigation well in hand,” Luthor explained.

  “Excellent,” Simon blurted. “Then you clearly don’t need me. You seem to have this well in hand.”

  “On the contrary, sir, we need you now more than ever. I lied to the Grand Inquisitor, but there will come a time in the near future when he sees through my ruse. We need your help.”

  Simon took another long drink, draining a full quarter of the tumbler. “No, Luthor, you don’t. You are more than capable of conducting this investigation on your own. Leave me be to wallow in my self-pity.”

  “That’s a surprisingly clear interpretation of your current predicament, but I can’t leave you be. We need—”

  “No, you don’t,” Simon sternly replied, his gaze matching the intensity of his words. “I don’t know what you don’t understand, but I’ve just lost someone very near and dear to my heart. I don’t think I’m asking too much to be left alone.” He threw up his free hand in disgust. “Dear God, why is it so difficult just to be left alone, to mourn in peace without being constantly interrupted by people thinking they are deserving of my time?”

  Luthor was stunned by Simon’s outburst. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how to respond. “This isn’t you, sir. This is the liquor speaking.”

  “The liquor may have lowered my inhibitions, allowing me to speak far more freely, but this is the most brutally honest version of me you’re likely to see in your lifetime.”

  “What I know, sir, is that no matter the pain you’re currently in, alcohol isn’t the solution.”

  Simon chuckled. “My dear Luthor, you’re a chemist at heart and in chemistry, alcohol is very much a solution. Now go away, I don’t want to see you.”

  “I know you better than to believe that.”

  Simon shook his head before taking another drink, his eyes never leaving Luthor. “Maybe you just don’t know me as well as you assume.”

  Luthor felt entirely on the defensive. When he had come to visit Simon, he hadn’t expected to be attacked at every turn. Every response he gave felt like that of a petulant child, refusing to believe the facts presented so clearly before him. “I don’t believe that.”

  Simon smirked condescendingly. “That’s the wonderful thing about the truth, Luthor. It’s like gravity, evolution, or the planet’s rotation around the sun. You don’t have to believe it for it to be true.”

  A silence stretched between the two men. Luthor had trouble matching Simon’s piercing stare, which hardly seemed to waver, regardless of how much alcohol the Inquisitor consumed. Eventually, Luthor stood, though he had no intention of so readily leaving Simon’s home.

  Correctly guessing Luthor’s persistence, Simon sighed. “I’m quite busy, Luthor. What do you need?”

  Removing his glasses, Luthor pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel his ire rising at Simon’s clear ambivalence. “What do I need, sir?” he incredulously replied. “Your fiancée was just murdered. I want to know that you’re okay, rather than just hiding yourself in your home, drinking yourself into a stupor.”

  Simon quickly drained the remainder of his glass before setting the tumbler down heavily on the end table. “I’m not just drinking. I’m… I’m keeping myself busy.”

  “With what, pray tell?” Luthor asked, his patience quickly reaching its end. “It looks like you’re wallowing.”

  “Just because your mind doesn’t grasp the subtle nuances of my profession, don’t presume I’m not occupied with my work.”

  Luthor threw his arms up in disgust. “Your work be damned, sir! You’ve just lost someone you love. It’s okay to feel, to be saddened by her loss. No one will blame you if your cold exterior cracked with some semblance of feeling morose.”

  Simon drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. “Forgive me, but what good would that accomplish?”

  “It would remind people that beneath that impenetrable exterior beats a real heart,” Luthor explained as he leaned toward the Inquisitor. “It lets people know that you’re a human and not merely an automaton.”

  Simon glanced up at his friend, but Luthor didn’t see empathy reflected in his eyes. The Inquisitor’s eyes were glassy and
dark. He lifted his arm from the chair and for a moment, Luthor believed Simon was reaching out for him. The apothecary extended his hand, but Simon reached past Luthor and retrieved the open bottle of scotch.

  Infuriated, Luthor lashed out, knocking the bottle from Simon’s hand. It crashed to the floor, its contents spilling onto the rug. The apothecary immediately regretted his outburst, and he raised his hand to his mouth.

  “Forgive me, sir. I don’t know what came over me.”

  Simon, his hand still outstretched, glanced at the ruined scotch. “That bottle was a gift from the Grand Inquisitor himself. I had been saving it to celebrate my pending nuptials but instead now drank as a consolation.” His glossy gaze rose to the embarrassed man. “I shall say good day to you.”

  “Sir,” Luthor stammered, “please accept my deepest apology—”

  Simon rose quickly from his chair, practically yelling at him. “I said good day, sir!”

  Seeing no other recourse, Luthor hurried from the townhouse.

  Luthor returned solemnly to his townhouse. The foyer was dark as he entered. He removed his hat and jacket and placed them on hooks. Dismayed, he walked into the sitting room and collapsed into a chair. In a fit of irony that wasn’t lost on the apothecary, he immediately felt that the situation demanded a drink.

  He had barely moved from his chair when the door opened once more and Mattie appeared. She looked slightly flushed from the heat of the day and the walking, and she stood rigidly in the doorway as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. Eventually she glanced over and noticed Luthor resting in the sitting room, his fingers laced before his face. His expression told Mattie all she needed to know as she entered. She shook her head in dismay.

  “He won’t be coming, will he?” she asked.

  “At the rate he’s going, I’d be damned well surprised if he was still breathing by this time tomorrow. No, Mattie, he most certainly won’t be coming.”

  She walked hurriedly toward him, pausing as she stopped beside him. Her brow was furrowed in concern. “What are we going to do? If the Grand Inquisitor wasn’t expecting an eventual conclusion to the investigation before, he most certainly will thanks to the letter I just delivered.”

  “We’ll have to conduct the investigation ourselves.”

  Mattie laughed softly. “You’ll have to excuse my laughter, but what do either of us know about conducting an investigation?”

  Luthor looked genuinely offended. “I’ve accompanied Simon on countless investigations over the past two years. I think I’m qualified to conduct this investigation on my own.”

  Mattie sat on the arm of the chair and patted Luthor’s shoulder. “Do you honestly believe that?”

  Luthor frowned. Admittedly, he lacked Simon’s abilities of deductive reasoning and interrogation, a keen mastery of observation by which the Inquisitor could discern lies from the truth. Still, he wasn’t sure he and Mattie were completely helpless. Her supernatural senses and his magic might very well span the gaps left in the wake of Simon’s departure.

  “We need Simon,” she said.

  “He won’t come.”

  She slid from the chair and knelt before Luthor, taking the apothecary’s hands in hers. “Luthor, we need Simon.”

  Luthor failed to meet her gaze, looking instead toward the window. Though he wasn’t sure she was right, he knew that the investigation would be a hundred times easier with Simon by their side. His detective skills and seemingly infinite knowledge would be invaluable.

  The apothecary smiled. “We don’t need Simon. We need someone just like Simon.”

  Mattie arched an eyebrow. “I assume you know someone who meets those qualifications?”

  “A forensic scientist equally versed in the ways of the constabulary? I have just the person in mind.”

  Luthor stood outside the Solomon’s Way police station, feeling apprehensive about entering. Doctor Youke Casan would be in the basement, toiling away in the morgue as was his wont, but prior to reaching the morgue, Luthor would have to pass, and potentially confront, Detective Sugden. A spot of magic at the crime scene had convinced the detective to allow Luthor to remain, despite a complete lack of credentials. Sugden had been cordial, to the point of outright friendliness toward the apothecary at the time. However, like all mind-influencing magic, the effects were short lived. Moreover, the person, upon shrugging off the effects of the spell, was filled with quite a different series of emotions. Namely, the victim of the spell maintained a general loathing toward the wizard in question. There was nothing that Luthor could tell the detective that would dissuade the man’s swelling urge to shoot him on sight.

  Taking a deep breath, Luthor climbed the steps and entered the precinct. As before, a police sergeant manned the front desk, looking mildly disinterested in his line of work. He raised his gaze as Luthor entered. Recognizing him, the sergeant’s eyes widened as Luthor approached the table.

  “I’m here to see—”

  “You’ll need to wait here,” the sergeant interrupted before standing and hurrying toward one of the many offices lining the wall of the expansive floor behind him. Luthor cringed as the sergeant reappeared, with Detective Sugden in tow. The detective smiled wickedly as he hastily approached the apothecary.

  “Mister Strong,” the detective reproachfully said.

  “Detective Sugden,” Luthor said, smiling in what he hoped was a disarming way.

  “Do you have a moment to speak?”

  Luthor gestured toward the stairwell. “I have a meeting with the doctor in a few moments, and I would hate to keep him waiting.”

  Glancing toward the stairs, the detective scowled. “I don’t think I need to remind you that neither you nor Inquisitor Whitlock have any formal authorization to be investigating these murders. This is a business best left to professionals like the constabulary.”

  “I understand completely,” Luthor lied.

  “What’s your business with the doctor, then?”

  Luthor cleared his throat. “Strictly a personal visit to a newly acquired friend, nothing more.”

  Sugden nodded before motioning for the sergeant to leave them. When the policeman was gone, the detective leaned closer so he could speak in a low but harsh whisper. “I don’t know what you did in the alleyway to convince me to let you stay, whether it was hypnosis or something far more—”

  “Let me stop you there, Detective,” Luthor interrupted loudly enough that it drew the attention of the other constables sitting nearby. “If you are insinuating in some way that I used sorcery, then I would advise you to choose your next words very, very carefully.”

  The detective blanched. The spell’s aftereffects might leave the detective heated but not in complete disregard of his faculties. Both men knew the risk of making an accusation of witchcraft. A false allegation would bring nearly as deadly repercussions to the accuser.

  “I believe you’re going to be late for your meeting with the doctor if you don’t go at once,” the detective said, though Luthor could hear the ire in his voice. “Have a good day, Mister Strong.”

  Luthor didn’t offer a reply as he walked toward the stairwell. His heart pounded against his ribs and his stomach leapt into his throat. He wanted to vomit. It had been a dangerous gamble, placing the detective on the defensive. Though it had worked, Luthor thought it in his best interest to avoid the police station for the foreseeable future. Forever seemed like the right amount of time.

  He maintained his composure as he descended the stairs, waiting until he was out of sight before wiping the sheen of sweat from his brow. The basement was far cooler than the upstairs, the cold seemingly radiating from the frigid morgue. The doors were closed, but the cold seeped from around the edges of the doorframe.

  Remembering his last experience, Luthor opted to knock before entering. Doctor Casan quickly invited him to enter, and Luthor pushed through the doors. The doctor was seated at his desk, files spread before him as he annotated notes from his recent work. The floor of the mo
rgue was gratifyingly empty, the corpses all housed in their shelves along the walls.

  “Luthor, it’s good to see you again,” Casan said, setting down his pencil. “To what do I owe this unexpected visit?”

  “I’ve come to ask for your help.”

  Casan raised his eyebrows. “I have the impression that this help exceeds that of a simple mortician.”

  Luthor ran a hand over his muttonchops. “I need your help solving these murders.”

  The doctor’s eyebrows fell as he furrowed his brow. “I thought that was exactly what I’d been doing.”

  Luthor gestured toward the empty chair across from the doctor. “May I?”

  “Where are my manners? Of course.”

  Luthor sat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I need you to take a more active role in the investigation, to become more than just the forensic doctor on the case. I need you to be an Inquisitor.”

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but that position is already filled.”

  Luthor glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting Detective Sugden to burst through the doors at any moment. “Perhaps we could talk elsewhere, somewhere away from the station?”

  “It’s probably for the best,” Casan replied as he stacked his papers neatly on the desk before him. “Detective Sugden hasn’t been very pleased with me lately.”

  Luthor sighed. “I’m glad to know it’s not just me.”

  “There’s a pub across the street,” the doctor said as he stood, took off his lab coat, and draped it over the back of his chair.