Wednesday, July 19, 2017

200 Souls - Issue 2: Tables and Chairs

Night. Dark. My favorite time of day. I stood outside the gates of a mansion looking in. In front of me, the iron bars were tall with spikes at the top. Beautiful, but practical defense from the outside world. To each side of the gates stood slick concrete walls, twice my height.

"Not exactly welcoming, is it?"

I looked to my left. Beside me, my constant companion Thornton, the spirit of a Victorian gentleman, had materialized. He wore the garb of his era, but with a dumb bowler hat atop his head, and a stupid push broom mustache on his pale face.

Not that I was much better. Dressed in the outfit I'd killed Thornton in all those years ago, I looked like a ponce.

"Perhaps, I should ring the bell," I said with a smirk.

"You know, you're not nearly as charming as you think you are, Ian."

This last came from the third part of my traveling party. Neska was tall, black, athletic, with long hair pulled back into a ponytail. I had saved her life sometime back and she'd been a leach, stuck to my side ever since. But she also owned a bar where I could drink for free, so I called it a worthwhile investment.

"Dear Neska, I was con man before I met Thornton. I've talked many a lady out of things they'd never thought they'd part with. I am that charming."

"Do you two think we could get back to the task at hand?" Thornton interrupted.

I raised my hands in innocence, and then gestured towards the wall. Thornton began spinning around in a ghostly mist, which lifted Neska and I up to the top of the non-spiked wall. From there the two of us hopped down to the ground below on the other side.

The landscape was beautifully kept with trees and bushes, flowers and pathways, all strategically placed throughout the trimmed lawn. Surprisingly, for a place with such an impressive wall, there didn't seem to be any security guarding the residence. Even still, we played ninja, sneaking from cover point to cover point till we reached the house.

As we were not exactly invited, we opted not to go for the front door, as we weren't likely to have the warmest reception. Instead we trailed around to the left side of the house. There I found a window and peered in to scope out the place.

"What do you see?" hissed Neska.

"Nothing," I hissed back. "The room is dark."

"You know, I could just go in and have a look." Thornton stated.

As a spirit, no one but Neska and I could see him. Me, because I'd killed him, and Neska because...well, I still hadn't figured that one out yet.

"I mean, I guess we could do things the easy way," I shrugged.

Thornton tipped his ridiculous hat and disappeared through the wall. I sat on the ground against the house and Neska followed my direction.

"Tell me about one of the souls you've saved," said Neska.

"Well, there was this one lady, who was on a mission to avenge her sister. Tried to take down the head of a cartel by herself. Pretty bad ass fighter, but way in over her head."

"Ha ha," said Neska. "I mean someone other than myself."

"I don't like talking about my debt."

"We're out here right now trying to pay off a piece of that debt. It's not like it's a secret. 200 souls to save, hundreds of years you've lived, and I was only 14. How hard can it be to save a life?"

I sighed, and picked at a blade of grass beside me.

"Thornton has all these rules. Because I'm paying for his murder, blood has to be paid with blood. So I can't just become a paramedic, or save starving children in Africa."

"Tell me about one of the others," Neska implored.

"My number two was a young girl by the name of Sally McTaverish. Ever heard of her?"


"She would have been Jack the Ripper's last victim."

"Wait, what?" she asked.

That question went unanswered as Thornton had reappeared beside us. He was shaking his head and bore a scowl on his face. He was doubled over like he was winded.

"No good," he said, panting. "There's a lot of innocents in there. Staff, who might get hurt if we do a straight assault on the place."

"Why the hell are you panting?" I asked. "You don't have lungs."

Thornton stood up offended.

"Force of habit."

"Force of habit for a fat man. If I hadn't killed you, your diet would have. Would you have haunted roast chicken and bread then?"

"Gentlemen..." Neska soothed.

"Right, right. So how do we go about our mission?" I asked.

"There's a skylight over the dining room where everyone seems to be meeting. We'll have to wait till it's between courses and drop down from there."

"You sure you can handle that, fatty?" I remarked.

I think if a ghost could turn red, Thornton would have. What followed was a short exchange, mostly profanity ridden, so I'll spare you the details. After it ended we made our way to the back, where a trellis with ivory grown over it, led all the way to the roof. The mansion was big, but only about three stories high, so we were up top pretty quickly.

The dining room was toward the middle, so we made our way carefully along the different levels of slanted shingles. In the middle, as Thornton had promised, was a skylight. It was basically a multi paned, security glass dome. Completely unbreakable and with no perceivable entry points.

"Well done, Thornton. None of these windows seems to open up," I said.

"I know. I figured I would phase the two of you."

I groaned.

"What do you mean by that?" asked Neska.

"If you let him tell you, he'll just say he can turn us invisible. In reality he merges our bodies with his essence, till the atoms become spaced far enough apart to slide through the glass. It feels creepy, like having your insides dripping with honey."

"Forget I asked," said Neska.

We laid out on our stomachs to survey the terrain. Below us I could see a long table with at least twenty men round it, eating, drinking, and presumably, being merry. Thornton pointed a pale finger towards a man sitting at one end of the table. He was portly, with a large, bald head, and expensive suit.

"I'm here to save Lex Luther?" I hissed.

"His name is Francis Derrywater. Though he's known colloquially as 'Frank.'"

"Who are the rest of the men?" Neska asked.

"Good question," I chimed in.

"I don't know. All I can tell you is that one of them is here to kill the rest of them."

"A murder mystery. You brought us to a murder mystery dinner."

"I kind of always wanted to attend one of those," said Neska. "Just, you know, without anyone really dying."

"Nesk, Neska, Neska," I shook my head. "Why did your parents name you Neska?"

"What?" she responded.

"I looked it up. It means 'girl' in some weird language. What kind of parents name their child 'girl?'"

"This is hardly the time."

I shrugged. "Fine. To be continued. Shall we go?"

Thornton began swirling around us, then inside us, till came the familiar honey dripping sensation I spoke of. Slowly he lowered us through the windows and onto the middle of the table where he separated from us. To the men at the table it appeared like two people had suddenly materialized as centerpieces. I judged from the speed of the guns appearing in their hands, that they were not thrilled at our magic trick.

There was a lot of yelling and talking, most of it at us, but some directed at their bald host. He was waving his hands to calm everyone down. When it was clear he was being ignored, he did that whistle where you use your fingers. I've never been able to do that. It seemed to get everyone's attention, though not a single gun was lowered.

"Who the eff are you?" Francis asked in an unsurprising New York accent.

"Me?" I responded. "I'm Ian Caliber. And this nice lady beside me is Neska, which means 'girl' in some language or another. But I'm guessing that doesn't really answer your question."

"You guessed right," growled a man with the thickest neck I'd ever seen. He wore a gold chain that was barely holding it together.

"I'm here to prevent a murder from happening," I stated, then paused for dramatic effect.

The effect was not what I was hoping for as all the guns started cocking around me.

I whispered to Thornton out of the side of my mouth, "if something goes wrong, protect Neska."

"You know I'm strongest around the suit your wearing. Protecting her doesn't guarantee I'll be able to save her," he answered back.

"I'm not losing my 14th soul."

He nodded and began swirling a protective shield around Neska.

"What the eff are you talking about?" asked Francis.

"The eff I'm talking about murder, Francis," I responded.

"It's Frank. Nobody calls me Francis."

"Well, they should. It's a lovely name. But that's besides the point. I received an anonymous tip that someone planned to murder you this very night." Another pause for dramatic effect. Another wasted effort, as Francis kept right on talking.

"And who are you that you'd receive such a tip?"

Good question, " I thought to myself.

"Good question," I said aloud. Oh, right, I have a bad habit of vocalizing my internal thoughts. Luckily, Neska, was quicker on the draw than me.

"He's a private detective. Very famous. Surely you've heard of 'Caliber & Caliber?' He's the first Caliber in the title."

There was some muttering as the men around the table, each not wanting to be seen as ignorant, agreed they'd all heard of me.

"So what's with the magic act, suddenly appearing and whatnot?" This last came from a man with dimples in all the place where dimples shouldn't be.

"We couldn't exactly ring the bell and announce ourselves, now could we?" Neska again.

"Exactly," I chimed in. "We'd risk you not believing us, and then the murderer could have carried out their intended deed."

"Okay. So, you're here now. So who the eff is this murderer, and who the eff is he supposed to kill?"

"Francis, you sure do love your 'effs,' don't you?" I said.

"It's Frank. Effing get on with it."

I wanted to. I truly did. As I looked across the faces and drawn guns of the men at that table --soup bowls in front of them cooling quickly, or warming possibly, as it looked like it might have been a gazpacho-- I was at loss as to where to go from there. Thornton, wonderful, powerful ghost that he was, had not provided me with a name for the killer. Hadn't even pointed him out to me. I was going to have to stall.

"One of these men here, Frankie. One of these men you've invited into your humble home, intends to kill you." I paused for third attempt at a dramatic pause. Payoff.

The men looked at each other, each wondering if one of them was a killer. I studied the faces, hoping one of them would give something away, but they all had the same gobsmacked faces. This was not good. I'm not really a detective. I'm more used to fighting my way out of situation. Killing anyone in the way of my goal. This...this was work.

"Do you mind if we step down from the table?" Neska asked. "It's really distracting being up here."

Francis nodded and we made our way down. I placed a hand on Dimples' shoulder as I slid my leg around a man with a face flushed from obvious alcoholism. I was happy to see that the guns had mostly lowered, even if they hadn't disappeared. Neska, on the other hand, had men parting and helping her step down. She could have snapped their necks as easily as I could, and they were helping her down like she was an innocent young lady, just because she was a she. Men are stupid.

"Comfortable?" asked Francis. "More at ease? Perhaps now you could tell me who the eff it is that wants to kill me?"

Anytime, Thornton, I thought.

"Anytime, Thornton," I vocalized. Damn it.

"Who the eff is 'Thornton?'" Francis demanded. "What is this?"

"Poison," came a familiar whisper in my ear. Thornton was still cloaked around Neska, but he was still able to communicate with me.

"Poison!" I declared. I started walking around the room gesticulating wildly at the table.

"Everyone has poison in their meal, except one," Thornton continued. "Find that one, and you have the murderer."

"Who's poisoned?" Francis asked.

"All of you," Neska stated. Thornton had also been whispering in her ear. "All of you, except one."
Neska let her own dramatic pause take hold. She was one for one on her drama.

Paranoia was clearly setting in as around the table each man was wondering if there was a killer sitting next to them. Again though, no one gave any sign or tell as to give them away. One younger guy, who looked like he had to be an accountant, was on the verge of a panic attack. He whipped out an inhaler and began puffing away.

"Calm the eff down," Francis said. "Obviously, we're not poisoned or we'd all be dead."

At that moment, Flushed Face keeled over in his soup, face first. Dead as the proverbial doornail. I noted the level of his glass that had been previously filled with wine.

"Nobody drink any of the wine," I said. "It's poisoned. Your alcoholic friend, couldn't resist. Even after we just said it was poison. I mean, seriously, I'm sorry your friend is dead, but that was pretty stupid."

"Everybody dump your wine," Francis ordered.

"Stop!" Neska said, waiving her hands.

"What? Why?" Francis asked.

"Because, that's our key to knowing who the murderer is." I answered. "All except for one of you has poison in your glasses. The one, who is attempting to kill the rest of you."

There was an audible gasp. I felt sort of proud. Sure, I hadn't solved any mystery, just regurgitated what had been told me by Thornton, but I still felt like a proper detective. Instead of the killer I actually was. Today, there would be no murder. I mean other than the alcoholic. Today, I got to feel like a hero.

"We need to call the police, and have them come and run tests, so that we can find who the killer is," said Neska.

"I don't effing think so," spoke Francis. "I'm not risking any owned cops meddling with the evidence, when my life is on the line."

"Whoa, Francis, what do you intend we do?" I asked.

Francis answered my question by pulling out two pistols and pointing them at the guys at his table. Everyone else responded in turn by brandishing their own dual pistols. Apparently to sit in at that table was a two gun minimum.

"What are we doing here, Frank?" asked Thick Neck.

"We are not doing anything. You guys are going to drink, one at a time, until the guilty party is revealed. Since these clowns have already stated that I was a target, I'll be sitting it out."

I nodded my head. Made sense to me. No risk of redirecting blame. The killer is found and handled right there. I looked over at Neska. She looked like she was going to be sick. I gathered from her reaction my way of thinking was probably not the socially acceptable way to feel. Clearly, this was not her kind of party.

"Neska," I whispered, "I think it's time for you to leave. Whichever way this goes down, you don't need to see it."

"Not a chance," she whispered back. "I said I wanted to help. I'm here to help."

"I told you, you could be with me for the good, and for the bad, but not the ugly. This is getting ugly."

"And I told you to shove it. No matter what, this is for a good cause. Besides, I solved this while you were busy playing the showman," said Neska.

"Oh, yes?" I asked.

"Didn't even occur to you after the one dude cacked it, that just because no one else died, doesn't mean the killer didn't already drink from his glass."

"Oh," I said.

The men at the table seemed oblivious to our conversation. I shrugged and sauntered over to Dimples and placed my hands on his shoulders.

"Guys, guys, guys. This is a stalemate. No one's going to willingly drink poison to prove their innocence. We're going to have to think this through logically." I said.

"What do you propose?" Francis replied, not lowering his guns.

I scanned the table until I saw it. One glass, in front of a man with a proper beard and beady little eyes, slightly lower than it should be. A dirty edge of the glass confirmed it had been drunk down to that level.

"Well?" Francis demanded.

"My colleague pointed out to me that one other glass at the table has already been drunk from. See the glass in front of Proper Beard over there? I suggest he have another drink since the first didn't seem to effect him.

All eyes, and guns, turned towards Proper Beard.

"Hey, yeah, come to think of it, I saw him take a drink right after it was poured," said The Asthmatic Accountant.

Dimples and Thick Neck joined in with their own recollections.

"Why, Rodney?" Francis asked.

Proper Beard, or Rodney, as I guess he was called responded, "Frank, we've known each other for years. You know I would never-"

"Then drink," Francis cut in.

Rodney looked around at the table. He was a cornered rat. Even with the two guns in his hands, he would never make it out.

"Alright. Call the cops to come get me," Rodney finally answered.

"You know we can't have that kind of publicity, Rodney," Dimples spoke.

"Yeah well, if you want to kill me, just know I'm taking some of you with me. Including you Frank."

"Come on, Rodney," Frank implored, "if you go easy, I promise it'll be quick and painless. Think of your wife and kids. We'll make sure they're looked after, after you're gone."

"No deal, Frank," Rodney answered.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, or in this case, my point of view, I had slowly and calmly edged my way to behind Proper Beard's chair. The knife in my inside pocket had been calling to me. I had wanted to end things with no more bloodshed, but while saving lives may be my business, I'm no saint. A quick flash of light as I pulled my friend from my pocket and inserted it in the back of Rodney's chair. My aim was true and I found his heart.

No shots fired. No more loss of life.

Francis looked at me stunned.

"You're a detective?"

"The effing best," I responded.

Outside the air was cool and I breathed in deep. I've been alive centuries, kept going by the debt I owe to Heaven or Hell or Thornton. One thing never changes though: it feels good to breathe.

I offered to dispose of the bodies for the men, but they said they had other ideas. Thanked us for service, and offered to pay us for all our help. I assured them I don't do it for the money, and on my way out pocketed a few valuables I liked the look of. Saves them the paperwork for direct payment.

After a night like that, I was ironically, pretty thirsty. Is that irony? I don't know, ever since that one song decades ago, I forget. Something said that's the opposite of the intention right? I guess not, or maybe, who knows. Point is I ended up at Neska's bar, Thornton at my side, her pouring me a whiskey. We sat in silence for a few minutes till I finally broke it.

"So why'd your parents name you Neska? Seems insulting to just call you 'girl,'"

Neska rolled her eyes at me.

"My mother was Basque. Though, I think a better question is why are you googling me? Are you stalking me? Do you 'like-like' me?"

"I withdraw my question," I said, then looking at the TV that was muted on the screen, "hey, turn that up."

It was a news crew at Francis's house. We couldn't have left there more than an hour before, and there was already a news team. They weren't kidding when they said they had other ideas. In the background, I saw several of the men who had seemed completely calm when I left, wandering around, looking like they were ready to break down. Talking with the reporter was Francis himself.

"Poor Jeremiah," Frank said, "he drank before the rest of us and he died as a result. But, if he hadn't, we might all have been poisoned."

"So what happened then?" asked the reporter. She was an Indian lady with a happy face. Possibly too happy for murder.

"We all pushed aside our drinks, at which point, Rodney Smith, close friend of mine for years, pulled a knife and tried to stab me. Thankfully, the rest of my guests fought him off. It cost Rodney his life in the end."

"Do you have any idea why he might have wanted to kill you?" the reporter asked smiling.

"I can't say exactly but I think it may have had something to do with my planned announcement tomorrow."

"What announcement is that?"

"My intent to run for President."

I looked over at Thornton who appeared worried, then back to the screen.

"You heard it here first folks. Billionaire Frank Derrywater, who just survived an assassination attempt, plans on throwing his hat in the ring for President."

On screen Frank was smiling wide. Beneath him read his title card: Frank Derrywater, CEO of Derrywater & Locke Enterprises.

"Isn't that the company that manufactures all the weapons for our country?" Neska asked. "Like missiles, and machine guns and stuff?"

I looked back at Thornton who was clearly bewildered.

"What the hell, Thornton?" I asked.

"I--I made a mistake. I don't know what happened," he responded.

"I know what happened." I fired back. "You just effed a lot of people, and none of them better end up on my tab.

To read issue one click HERE To read up more about who was at that table click HERE

No comments:

Post a Comment

Related Posts with Thumbnails