I lurched to my feet and held onto Marin's arm as we cautiously stepped on the rails and inched our way back toward the metal cave in the disorienting flashing yellow lights and darkness.
Bong!
Bong!
“Callia . . . that was the last Clockstrike.” Marin froze, his face pinched and set.
I frowned up at him and hobbled another step closer to the dubious safety of the big metal room.
“We're almost ba—”
“The train!” Marin's cry shivered goose bumps up my arms.
I glanced up in time to see the smooth, oblong machine flicker and shift before my eyes. Static fingers, tiny strikes of lightning, raced along its sides, smoothing away the shiny, silvery metal, replacing it with dark, rusted iron. Heavy iron train wheels flickered into being and the pointed spearhead front shifted and flickered with a heavy hum until it flattened and widened into the front end of a steam locomotive.
“Run, Marin! Run!” My scream kicked my pain aside, and I flung myself toward the opening. Marin scrambled after me, his breath rushing hot and panicked down my neck. Hands shoved me forward, and I tripped and fell off the rails into the cave. I stumbled into a graceless roll and collided with the wall, away from the train.
Marin stood still at the juncture of the tracks and cave, awe hiding the sheer terror on his handsome face as he stared up at the massive locomotive.
Why wasn't he running? Even now, it was gearing up, the vibrations replaced by the steadily climbing huffing and chuffing of a steam engine that had simply not existed minutes before.
“Marin!” I screamed at my best friend as he stood still before the train, unmoving. Steam blasted from the heavy black smoke stack and filled the room with blinding white.
He twisted to look at me, his eyes wide and horrified, but his mouth set. His gaze dropped to his feet, and I noticed then that his left foot was stuck in the narrow gap between the rail and the lip of the cave.
He knew he was going to die.
Oh, hell no.
My feet propelled me toward him without having to beg them to. I was numb, numb to everything but the pale resignation on his tanned face and crippling of my heart inside my chest. His eyes widened, his mouth opened to yell at me, to scream for me to get away, save myself.
What he didn't understand was that without him, there was no me.
I crashed into him at a full run, my smaller body hitting his toned, bigger body with all the force of a sparrow cracking into a too clean window. The pain was blinding, the rush of motion, of falling, was sickening and everything blurred and crackled with static. We hit something, or something hit us, I'm not sure which, but the sickening crack of our heads on something hard was the last thing I remember before darkness, full and thick, pulled me under.
Pain, sharp and stabbing, swept the darkness away like a too thick blanket. I blinked and wished I hadn't. Even my eyelids crawled with pain. My throat choked, and I sucked in an unsteady breath with lungs that felt as if they'd been deflated by an angry fist.
Marin.
I peeled my eyes opened and blinked as a bright, golden light blinded me. Sunlight?
“Marin?” I croaked.
My battered brain struggled to comprehend what my eyes saw. I saw the sky, the high sun, golden and warm, and a few puffy white clouds.
I sat up with a cry, and my shaking hands brushed against something warm and sticky beside me. Marin's leg lay draped at an awkward angle over mine. I pulled my hand away and stared at the scarlet smear across my palm.
“Marin!” My voice cracked as I shifted his lanky legs off me and knelt beside him. He was breathing, but unmoving, and blood not only stained his leg where it had caught between the track and ledge, but on the side of his head. I inspected the head wound first and breathed a light-headed sigh of relief to find it only a scratch racing from his ear to his forehead. I turned to his leg and swallowed as my stomach tried to stage a revolt. His ankle and calf was slashed in two separate places, most likely from the metal ledge. It was already swelling and purpling horribly, and I was grateful that he was still out cold.
I unrolled the long, red sleeve on my left arm and jerked a six-inch strip off. I wound that piece around the gash in his calf and tied it off. My right sleeve wound around his scraped and bruised ankle. I hoped it wasn't broken, but that was the best I could do. I sat back, shaken, against the stone pillar jutting from the forest floor we’d somehow ended up on. Between the sky and us, the sloping track raced down the mountain to the edge of the bay where the myriad of pillars waited their turn. The train was long gone.
“Please tell me this is a dream,” Marin spoke, breaking the shock-numbed silence with his weary voice.
I turned until I was sitting next to him and lifted his head onto my lap. His brown hair stuck up in tufts that had always been untamable, but I smoothed them down without thinking about it. I felt the steady weight of his gaze on me and swallowed.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m okay. Just a little sore. And it’s no dream,” I whispered. “The train must’ve hit us and knocked us clean off the track.”
He grimaced. “Where do you suppose the train goes? I’m not even sure what we saw.”
“I don’t know. I used to ask. No one would answer me, so year after year, I asked less often until I forgot to in the end,” I said quietly. “And here we are, surrounded by more questions.”
The realities of living had erased my sense of wonder like mountains worn by wind and rain. Like the mountains, I had been molded by my environment, and I had become what I was shaped to be by the outside elements. The strictures of society, my mother's death, my father's decline, and the need to keep my family alive had smothered that curiosity and replaced it with blindness.
What? Had I, even the entire island, been blind to all these years? At this point, the questions would have to wait once more. Marin needed help, and I needed to get the map to the Council.
“Go, Callia,” Marin said. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“I won’t leave you. You sure can’t make me,” I grimaced at his leg and stood. “Come on, let’s go home.”
I readjusted the utility belt after making sure the priceless map was still tucked safely inside and reached for his arm. I eased him to a sitting position, and of course, Marin toughed it out without a squeak of pain.
“Ready?” I dragged his left arm over my shoulder and hauled him to his feet before he could answer. He staggered, but quickly took his weight off me and onto his uninjured leg. “Come on. We need you down the mountain.”
“Callia?”
“Hmm?” I couldn’t work words passed the lump in my throat as we shuffled down the mountainside a step at a time.
“You really are brave.”
Tears blurred the browns and greens of the forest floor. We stumbled across a rabbit trail and followed it in silence for a long while before I dared to trust my voice to answer.
“I’m only brave when you’re with me, Marin,” I admitted. “Every other moment of the day terrifies me.”
“You did it, you know. You finished the map. You’ll be able to get food and take care of your pa now.” Marin said.
We staggered off the rabbit trail and onto a larger, more familiar one. We halted as the sea appeared below us, and in the distance, Sky Harbour hugged the mountain across the bay. There, where the path met the rocky coastline, a tiny rowboat bobbed on the rhythmic swells of the sea.
“No, Marin,” I tugged him forward.
He took a limping step, then a faster one, and another until we broke into a clumsy run.
“We both did it. We made it!”
Screams rent through the silent, crisp night air, ripping me from a sound sleep. That scream can only mean one thing. Murder.
As the captain of the only international traveling airship, I have witnessed many a crime. Murder though, is the only misdeed that leaves echoing screams and vivid images within one’s mind.
Slowly,
I stand, leaving the comfort and warmth of my bed and dress. I look upon myself to find the once snug fitting shirt and pants I wear are now billowy and loose. The last few trips across the skies have transformed my body. My once overweight frame has become taught and muscular.
We are living in trying times, and as such, almost all of my crew has been terminated from their positions aboard my ship. I am doing the job of ten men, and my body has been rewarded for my efforts.
Before heading to the deck of my ship, I stop in front of the small chalkboard at my door. The chalk states: 45 days murder free. I sigh and cross out the forty-five and start back at zero.
“Captain Jones! Captain Jones!” A young woman screams at me the moment I have one boot-clad foot out the door. Her skin is like porcelain up close, and I am momentarily stunned by her unnaturally perfect complexion, which lacks any manner of flaws.
“What has happened?” I ask, not bothering with pleasantries.
“It’s Mr. Crudley, sir. He’s dead,” she whispers as if saying the word aloud would be dangerous.
Jameson Crudley was by far the richest person aboard my ship for the journey, and if there were any poor people aboard, they, of course, would be the first to be questioned. As my luck has it though, I am not that lucky. Poor people can no longer afford international travel, so what kind of motivation would one wealthy person have to kill another?
“Abigail!”
The voice, belonging to a tall, blonde woman with a stern face, sounds in my ears like a high-pitched shriek. I twist my finger in my ear in an attempt to stop the ringing left by the woman’s shrill voice.
“What is it mother?” Abigail’s voice is soft and a striking contrast to her mothers.
“I heard you scream, I thought . . . but if you aren’t hurt, what has happened?” The older woman’s voice has softened some with the realization that her daughter is in fact fine and unharmed.
“My Crudley, mother. He has . . . he has—” Abigail doesn’t seem to be able to finish her sentence.
“Mr. Crudley has had an unfortunate accident that has ended with his untimely death. Mrs. . . . ?”
“Lenora Mac, Captain. What type of accident did Mr. Crudley have exactly?” she asks me, one eyebrow raised, so high it threatens to disappear into her bangs. She is fishing for information, this much is certain.
“Well, ma’am, I’m not sure yet. Abigail here caught me on my way out of my quarters, and then you showed up before she could tell me anything. If you would like to escort your daughter back to your quarters, I’ll fetch my first mate, and we will look right into it,” I say. After seeing the frightened look upon the women’s faces, I add, “I’m sure it is nothing to worry about, Lenora. Just an unfortunate accident.” I place a comforting hand upon the woman’s shoulder, force a smile onto my face, and catch a glimpse of Abigail narrowing her eyes at me in my peripheral vision. She knows something both her mother and I don’t, and I intend to find out what it is.
I watch as Lenora and Abigail make their way back to their quarters, which are far more luxurious than my own, and then head to the central deck of the airship.
“Rayall, you’re here already, good,” I state as I squat beside my first mate, who is examining the body of the late Mr. Crudley. “Find anything of interest?” I ask.
“I’m not sure, Cap’n,” Rayall answers, looking over at me. “Aside from this, only a few specks of dirt on his face. At least I think it is dirt, sir.” He hands me what appears to be a long blonde hair. Abigail’s face swims in my mind. Her hair is long, curly and blonde. The small plastic bag he hands me next holds a few small flecks of what look to be light golden sand.
“Have you checked him thoroughly? Was anyone else around when you got here?” I ask, fearing the crime scene would be contaminated.
“No, sir. I’ve only been here a few minutes, and yes, Cap’n, the pretty blonde was here. Screamin’ her lungs out she was,” he tells me.
“Yes, the screams I heard. Thank you, Rayall. Go and see to it that the rest of our passengers are still in their quarters, we don’t want anyone disturbing the evidence,” I say.
Rayall makes to leave, but I call him back before he gets too far. “Oh, and Rayall, please set up guard outside of Lenora and Abigail Mac’s room.” I say without further explanation.
“Sir?” he says obviously questioning my motives.
“I’d like to have a word with them when I am done with Mr. Crudely,” I answer, purposely being vague.
“Of course, Cap’n,” he returns with a nod of his head.
I take a look around the crime scene, but see nothing out of place, aside from Mr. Crudley’s lifeless body of course.
That does not mean there is nothing out of place though. I have investigated enough murders in my time to know things aren’t always as they seem.
I kneel next to Mr. Crudley’s body and inspect it closer. Rayall found one single gold strand of hair and some weird dirt, but I am almost certain there is more to his body than meets the eye. Call it gut instinct, or intuition, whatever you want. I know, without a doubt, that there are always, always more clues left behind than one can see upon first sight.
I let out a long sigh. Jameson Crudley was a good man. He had been on many flights aboard The Pegasus during my time of captaincy. He always kept to himself, but he joined me for breakfast and dinner at the same time every day and never caused a fuss. I considered him a friend, and I am riddled with a deep sadness that I will no longer travel with him.
“Who has done this to you, Jameson, old friend? Who would want to?” I ask quietly, obviously not expecting an answer.
I lean in closer then, spying something that doesn’t seem quite right. Jimmy’s breast pocket is bulging, and though he was a larger man, this bulge, in particular, is not the right shape to be a part of his vast body. I reach in, pull out something wrapped in a handkerchief, and open it wearily. I find nothing but a small, delicate, gold medallion inside. Could this be motive for murder? I examine the medallion closely and realize that it is encircled with small, glittering diamonds. One is missing.
Why would Jimmy even bring something like this aboard The Pegasus? He knew, as well as anyone, to travel as lightly as possible. The skies are not a safe place for treasures.
The single stab wound to Jimmy’s neck is smooth, and though only small, it has bled copious amounts. His hair is matted with dry blood, and the wooden planks beneath his still body are soaking with the shiny red substance. It’s going to be a bastard to clean.
From amongst the blood something glittering catches my eye. It’s a small blue stone. I reach for the medallion, which is already tucked safely within my pocket, and place the stone into the empty space within the medallion’s outer rim. It’s a perfect fit. I pocket the medallion once again, place the stone in a small plastic bag, and place everything Rayall gave me within the same pocket.
Looking around once again, I find nothing else of interest or out of place, and decide upon removing Mr. Crudley to the medical quarters of the airship. No need to distress any other wandering passengers.
“Doc Farmer? You in here?” I call out, my voice strained under the weight of the limp body slung over my shoulder.
“Cap’n?” he calls out from the back of his quarters, where he was most likely sleeping.
“Doc, got a situation out here, can you give me a hand?”
“Sure, what’s happ— Oh,” he declares as he becomes visible at the back of the medical quarters, still struggling with his dressing gown.
“Mr. Crudley here has met with fate, and he did not fare well. I’d like for you to do an autopsy.”
“Of course, Captain. Has anyone else touched the body, sir?” he asks, his brow furrowed as he helps me place Mr. Crudley upon the solitary gurney in the middle of the room.
“I’m not certain, Doc. I have, obviously, and possibly Rayall, and one of the passengers.” I shake my head in uncertainty.
“No problem, sir. Is there anything else?”
“No, that’s all I need for now. Report to me as soon as you can. I’d like to have this solved before landfall.”
The doctor responds with a nod, and I know I am being dismissed, so he can get to work.
I take one last look at Mr. Crudley and say a silent goodbye before turning my back on the medical room filled to the brim with old instruments, and odd mechanics, which only Doc Farmer knows how to use.
I start my questioning with the passenger whose quarters are closest to the crime scene. He’s an older gentleman, very quiet, very bald, and very round. He is a man of stature no doubt. My suspicion lies in the fact that he has not made an appearance all night, even though his quarters are situated not ten feet from where Jimmy was murdered.
“Mr. Panten,” I call as I knock on his door. I can hear scuffling and a groan from behind the closed door, as if he has been awakened by my knocking. Surely, the girls screaming would have stirred him sooner.
“What is it?” Alexandra Panten says, groggy in his still half-asleep state.
“Mr. Panten, there’s been a situation on board. Would you mind answering a few questions?”
Alexandra doesn’t answer, but waves me in, gesturing to the chintz chair in the corner. I take a seat and wait for him to join me in the second chair.
“What is going on Captain?” he asks, panic starting to seep through in his tone.
“Mr. Crudley has been murdered, Alexandra. Your quarters are the closest to the crime scene. Did you hear or see anything about an hour ago?”
Alexandra is clearly shocked, and now, wide-awake.
“No, sir, not a thing,” he says honestly.
“You were sleeping not ten feet from where he was murdered, Mr. Panten. Can you explain why you heard nothing, especially when young Miss Abigail was screaming bloody murder just outside your door?”
“Well, I don’t fly very well, you see, Captain. So I take a little something to calm the nerves. It makes me quite somnolent, sir.” Chagrin flushes through Alexandra’s expression.
I nod in understanding. A lot of people take calmatives these days. It’s not uncommon.
Cogs in Time Volume Three (The Steamworks Series Book 3) Page 12