“Uh. Not really. She was in charge, made that clear. Kind of a looker, kind of nuts, if you ask me. Didn’t seem dangerous or anything.” Caputo scribbled some more.
“And Mr. Church?” He kept his tone casual. He couldn’t help but glance up to study Jake’s face. The heavy brow furrowed as Jake attempted to recall it.
“Kind of a jerk. He was a little insulting. I mean, more than some. Less than others, though. The property hasn’t been kept up. It’s not that it’s a bad lot, just that the land itself is situated-” Caputo cut him off with a wave of his hand. Jake gulped, glancing back between him and the cars. Caputo knew the signs; Jake was about to spill something.
“You don’t think they had something to do with it? I thought Gill jumped.” Jake’s eyes were now firmly upon Caputo’s face, almost desperate. Caputo could sympathize. Murder mysteries were all fun and games until people you knew became the body. Caputo flipped his notebook shut with a faint slap of leather on leather.
“I’m just trying to piece together what happened. It was a terrible day for everyone.” Jake’s brows contracted again as he tried to make sense of the answer. Caputo turned to leave, his business concluded.
“You should talk to that other guy,” Jake called out as Caputo was descending the driveway. “Kellman.”
Caputo dismissed him with a wave, getting back into his car. He slammed the door and turned the engine over aggressively. Kellman had been less than useful when Caputo had tried to connect the dots for him. All he needed now was one more dot of his own, one more question, and the whole business would be settled.
Unfortunately for him, every thread he had chased for that last dot had come up cold. He had spoken to McMannon and Smith, Gillman’s partners. He had spoken to Eliza Durer, Chairman and CEO of the Heritage Group. He had even spoken with Linda, the grieving secretary. All of them had spoken at length, answered all of his questions, and given him nothing to go on. There were no other threads to pull that Caputo could see.
He mulled it over as he departed the quiet suburb, trying to find his way amongst the cul de sacs and circular roads. The way he saw it, he only really had two choices. If he went back to the people he had already spoken with, there was every chance he would be able to find out something new, something that might put a ringer on Church. There was also a possibility that after being questioned three times in two days they would take it upon themselves to discuss the matter any number of his higher-ups, especially the well-to-do ones. And after speaking with Kellman, Caputo was not acting in what they might term an official capacity.
Caputo bit his lip as he turned back onto the highway, heading for Slendervale proper. His only other option was to speak with Church himself. If he could get Adam to lock himself into a story, or a contradiction, he’d have everything he needed. Kellman would have no choice but to make him a suspect in the Gillman case, he would have to take the Susan Church case off his desk, and Caputo could congratulate himself on a job well done. Or at least well delegated.
As Caputo wound through the Slendervale streets, going easily against the flow of traffic, he rehearsed the scenarios. What he would say, what Church would say, and how he could get the man to ensnare himself. He would play it tough, Caputo decided. Adam, although never charged with a crime, had left a light paper trail growing up. It wouldn’t be the first time he had talked with an officer of the law, just the first time his freedom would be in jeopardy. If he was going to pierce through the thick skin enough to get him to stumble, Caputo was going to have to rattle him.
And so, grotesque bellhop in tow, Caputo found himself outside Church’s door. He knocked firmly on the frame three times with the underside of his fist.
“Just a minute!” He heard called from within.
Caputo ground his teeth. A show of force would be just the thing. Let Adam think Caputo had already figured it out, was already coming for him. If he thought it was all over, he’d try something desperate. Maybe it was another lie, only half thought out, or maybe he’d try to throw De La Poer under the bus. Caputo motioned wordlessly to the bellhop, who produced a key from inside his grimy jacket.
The door unlocked, Caputo slammed it wide with a bang as the door overpowered the small spring against the wall. Church sat on the bed in white briefs and an undershirt, holding in his hands what appeared to be a black bow tie. A tuxedo was draped over the other half of the bed, open plastic crinkling in the artificial light.
Church’s eyes grew wide as Caputo entered the small room, reversing his stroke and slamming the door shut on the gargoyle behind him. He wanted the bastard alone, defenseless.
“Caputo, can you just give me a sec here?” The voice was pleading, but the eyes were frantic, searching. It reminded Caputo of something… Like a frightened rabbit caught in a trap. He smiled internally. That was exactly what it was.
“Gillman.” Caputo growled. Adam shot up.
“Gillman! Did you find her?” The eyes were wild bloodshot. “Did he take Susan? How is she?”
Caputo was momentarily stricken with how haggard the man in front of him was. In just a few days he had seemed to age a decade. His skin was sallow, and the eyes were dangerously sunken into the skull. The face, while clean-shaven, had an unhealthy pallor, accentuated by the brown eyes darting nervously around. It looked like he hadn’t slept in days. The sins he had committed were clearly etched on the bastard’s face.
“Is that what happened?” Caputo strode forward with both hands looped into the belt on his waist. His elbows were cocked wide, leaving enough of a gap between his suit and his body that the handle of his gun was clearly visible to Adam, still holstered underneath his arm.
“You thought you could blame Gillman for what you did to your wife? Convinced yourself he killed her so you could try to sleep at night?”
Adam’s eyebrows contracted dangerously, his hand clutching the undone bow tie in a clenched fist.
“Did you find her? Is she…” The brown eyes looked up pleadingly at Caputo, when they weren’t darting back and forth around the room.
Caputo clucked his tongue. He had to try a different approach. The man in front of him was holding onto a tenuous thread of sanity, but with the right push, Caputo was sure he’d fall in the right direction. He craned his neck over the tuxedo on the bed, spying a small white card which he suspected might help in the work.
“Forgive me,” Caputo read aloud, “I had to give it my best guess as to the fit. We’ll have one made after tonight. R. Francis De La Poer.” The words struck Adam like a slap in the face. “Have one made? You’re making all kinds of friends aren’t you?” Caputo said mockingly. “Did he come to you? I know all about your wife’s little article, Adam.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” That had obviously touched a nerve. Caputo stepped closer, arms still cocked wide.
“Or was it you? Did you go to him?” Caputo moved ever closer as his quarry retreated against the far window. He stood as tall as possible, looming. “You did, didn’t you? You fucking bastard. What did you ask him for, once you got rid of your wife for him?”
“Shut up!” The animal of a man in front of him was screaming. All Caputo needed was him to deny it. To say it had been Francis' idea, even if he denied killing her. The words were so close Caputo could almost see them hovering the the air between them.
“Was it that whore daughter of his?” The screams continued, unheeded. “Or was it something else? That nice cushy job you’ve got. A corner office, I hear.” Caputo could feel the tension building. All it needed was one more push, and it would all come pouring out. “What? Are your balls that small? You couldn’t take being a such a fucking loser that you thought you might trade her in for a nice title and a starting bo-” Caputo’s next words were lost in the sound of flesh striking flesh.
The world went white for a moment, and he found himself lying on his back. Blood pricked his tongue. Assault worked just fine; it was enough to bring the bastard in, at least. And Caputo wo
uld, once the damage to his nose was settled a few times over.
Struggling to pick himself up, Caputo made the move for his gun. Adam was standing over him now; Caputo had to put him back against the wall. Something was wrong. His hand was caught somewhere. Caputo writhed desperately, the adrenaline surging through his blood slowing the seconds to a crawl.
Adam stared down at him, eyes wide and wild, his face contorted into a terrible expression of malice. The lips were twisted in a freakish grin, so wide against the skull that they threatened to tear it in half. White froth fell from the corner of the mouth where it hung, in the air, just over Caputo’s struggling form.
Caputo wrenched his right arm hard in the direction of the holster on his hip, but it wouldn’t respond to him. The beast over him twisted, reaching for something outside of Caputo’s field of vision. Caputo strained harder, feeling an intense pressure on his thumb. He looked down, his eyes dragged off the blurred form above him and taking in the sight of his hand, now trapped against his hip, still gripping his belt at the thumb. Caputo tried to relax the muscles in his back, to relax against the floor and free himself, but his tightened muscles refused to obey him. His right arm spasmed again, still trapped but driven instinctively by the presence of danger. Something shifted in the air above him.
All Caputo had to do was lean back. He willed his stubborn body against primal instincts formed when man was still new. Slowly, all too slowly in the passing moment, did he finally feel himself sinking lower. His back hit the carpet, softly. If he made a sound, it fell upon deaf ears. The tight pressure against his thumb waned, and Caputo wriggled it free.
The shadows on the ceiling seemed to move with their own life, oddly in sync with the glacial struggle happening below. Caputo wasn’t a religious man. He wasn’t anything. But when he saw the darkness writhe above him, he knew that he was not alone in the cage with this animal. Something was trapped, confined to those shadows. It was hateful; it despised him with an animosity that broke over him in waves. As his right hand closed around the rough plastic grip of his gun, Caputo thought to himself that the darkness was laughing at him.
Chapter Thirty-One
Esmeralda De La Poer flashed her eyes dangerously at her husband. She didn’t fight with him often. She was stronger with him at her side, but when she made a stance she never backed down.
“No, we take the safe road. Keep him here. Drain him, as long as it takes for this to work. You want to risk it all, Francis, and for what?” Francis didn’t respond, but regarded her with a steady gaze. “For nothing. No reason at all.”
“We have everything we need.” Francis was speaking as calmly as he could, given the circumstances, but he couldn’t conceal the naked lust that crept into his voice. “He has no more resistance, no reservations. What little fight is left in him is entirely his own.” Francis' eyes lingered on the small, wooden box that rested in between them, about the size of a shoe box.
“All the better then. But this girl is our leverage.” She moved her arms frustratedly, trying to search for the right words. The green silk shawl that hung casually from her shoulders rippled through the air with her. “She’s the ace up our sleeve. I won’t let you throw her away like that.” A shadow darkened Francis’ eyes.
“It’s our best chance. Now, when the moon is new.”
Esmeralda sighed deeply, shaking her head.
“Not her, then. Someone else. One of your… Creatures.” She spat the word.
“We will need everyone for the task ahead of us. Unless you want to start spending your days tending bar and cleaning up everyone else’s mess!” Francis’ voice grew louder as he went on, finally reaching a thunderous volume. “A thousand years,” he rose from where he was seated across from her, shouting down at his wife’s calm, collected form. “We’re there! Right there!” He stood over her, stiff as a rail, eyes flicking over her face. After a long, tense moment, he took a deep breath and let his shoulders sag.
“It was this close once, and only once. It all fell to pieces at the last second. People are looking for him. For both of them.” He said, his eyes falling closed. Esmeralda’s gaze bore into him accusingly. “And yes, that was my fault. For underestimating Ubasa. But we’ve done it, haven’t we? We got here, this close to everything. I won’t lose it all at the last moment.”
“You’re afraid.” Esmeralda's voice was somehow sympathetic and scornful at the same time. Francis opened his eyes, paced a few steps in one direction, and then in the other. He didn’t meet her gaze.
“Yes. They’re going to be coming for us. Even if they haven’t been already. That,” he nodded at the box on the coffee table. “Will lead them right to us. After years of staying hidden, outside it all.”
“Francis, I thought you…” Esmeralda’s voice caught in her throat.
“Had a plan?” He offered when she didn’t finish. Esmeralda nodded.
“You always do.”
Francis smiled. It was a sad, resigned smile.
“No, love. I didn’t expect a fight over Adam. I didn’t think it would break him. It lost us chances we might have had. Now we have only one. Tonight.” His eyes grew dull as he stared into the middle distance. “Le Dragon Rouge.”
“With the girl?”
“Who else?” Francis asked, still lost in thought.
Esmeralda rose silently. Her arms encircled his waist from behind. Resting her chin on his broad shoulder, she sighed.
“You know,” she whispered, her voice heavy, “after all these years, even after your mistake...” She paused, almost unable to go on. “I think I might actually love you.”
Francis chuckled. Esmeralda released him. Just as quickly as it had come, their moment passed. Francis pulled down sharply on the lapels of his tuxedo, straightening them out of habit.
“Summon the witches. All of them. And go collect Lilith, from wherever she’s run off to.”
Esmeralda nodded, and left Francis alone in his office.
His eyes wandered over the four walls he had scarcely left in the three decades. It had been a difficult path he had set out on, and he had worked tirelessly to stay on this course toward his destiny. Francis alone could not shake the earth, he knew that. He was destined for something else.
“A herald,” he whispered softly, his words greeting the still air.
Francis lived fully, aggressively, and never lost sight of his goals. Others might have found it fit to live small, meaningless lives in ignorance and superstition. Francis had become all he could be. He had brought wealth and power to his family. He had stomped over his enemies without even a second glance to see if their bodies twitched. He had not wasted his days, nor had he ever allowed himself to be sacrificed for the needs of another. But this act, he knew, would make him a martyr.
Stooping, Francis slid open the small slat of wood which closed the box on the table before him. There, encased in a mold of red velvet, was the sum of the fixations of his entire life. Granted, it was not much to behold. Inside sat long iron dagger, sheathless, as it had been the day it was forged. A plain crossguard separated the ebony handle from the double-edged blade. It was well kept, despite its remarkable age. Swirling characters were engraved upon the blade, smooth curves juxtaposed with jagged edges. They seemed to move and breathe under his gaze, striving to break free of the matter around them.
Francis lifted the blade free from its confines reverently. It was the last piece, the keystone of the archway to which he had dedicated his entire life. His breathing stilled as he caressed its figure. It may have been a small thing, but a keystone it was. And the portal it completed would swallow all the earth, bring all that remained of humanity into a heretofore undiscovered existence.
One last toast, Francis decided, to the New World.
“Sine Fine Imperium Dedit.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Adam checked his watch with a scowl. No one ever told him anything. They would call and he would listen; they beckoned, and he followed. He didn’t know w
hen the auction was, or where it was, or how he was getting there. No one had bothered to inform him.
He stood up and paced the length of his room, walking a small circuit from his wife’s suitcase against the far wall, to the closet which bordered the bathroom.
Coffee? He glanced over to the coffee maker. The little half-sized pot wasn’t in its usual position in the contraption; the maids must have taken it. He resumed his pacing irritably, checking his watch for what must have been the hundredth time. The slick fabric of his tuxedo slid against itself as he paced, producing an annoying whine.
Adam wished they would hurry up and get here, he had to go to the bathroom. He immediately berated himself. He didn’t have to go to the bathroom. Didn’t need to think about bathrooms, or tubs, or the way clear plastic shower curtains strained tight against a heavy load. He just had to think about auctions. He focused on the annoying whine produced by the tuxedo, fixating on the way different tones were produced by the same motions.
A knock sounded at his door. Adam leapt to answer it. He swung it open wide, surprised at the discordant tone it struck when it hit the spring stopper. Adam stopped to study it. It was bent violently upward. Those damn clumsy maids; they couldn’t be counted on for anything.
“Adam?” The voice was soothing, matronly.
Adam wretched his attention away from the bent spring and thoughts of maids and their imagined offenses.
Esmeralda and Francis stood before him, dressed in formal wear. The hall behind them was dim. Esmeralda was studying his face with a worried expression. Francis however, was staring past him, toward the door just inside the hallway of his room. The doorway to his bathroom.
Adam jumped out into the hallway in a panic, shutting the door behind him. Francis blinked down at him and smiled when his eyes focused on Adam’s face.
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