Dead Man in a Ditch

by Luke Arnold

  Then I remembered the face. The broken Faery on the church floor. I was holding the last of her. Maybe it was nothing. But maybe it was everything.

  I wouldn’t do it to Amari. Of course not. So, I decided that I wouldn’t do it to her.

  I lowered my arm and put the pouch back in my coat.

  Then, there were lights. A carriage. Somewhere behind us, over the hill. Just enough to illuminate some of the road ahead.

  There! Tippity was stumbling up the road, heading straight for the city. I focused on the hate, and followed.

  He’d been planning this for a while. That’s why he’d been so troublesome on the last part of the road. When he slowed himself, it conserved his energy but cost more of mine to pull him along. He’d made me drag him halfway home, but I knew how to punish myself better than he did. I took hits for a living while he sat in a little room, mixing potions and muttering to himself.

  I would have caught him eventually, even if he hadn’t tripped on his own feet. As soon as he hit the ground, my boot landed between his legs without breaking stride. This time, he was ready for it. He grabbed my calf and wrapped himself around me, bringing me down with him.

  Apparently I wasn’t the only one with a belly full of hate. We rolled along the path like lovers, trading kicks, slaps and scratches instead of kisses. I couldn’t risk letting him go. When his fingers dug into my face and clawed at my eyes, I held on. When he sunk his teeth into the soft flesh between my thumb and fingers, I just pushed back and choked him. This was my business, not his. Whenever he actually landed strikes, he couldn’t turn them into a real advantage.

  There was a rumbling in my ears. The carriage. But it was sounding way too loud. I found myself on my back with my arm around Tippity’s throat and realized the lights in my eyes weren’t stars.

  “Out the way!” shouted a voice, and a chorus of horses neighed in agreement. The light moved left, so I rolled to the right, keeping Tippity locked in my arms. We hit the edge of the road and tumbled into scrub as the carriage corrected its course and continued on towards the city.

  “Lunatics!” yelled the driver, without slowing down. I suppose he couldn’t. Not with the other carriage traveling right behind him. And the one behind that. And the trailer, pulled by mules. And the unbelievable marvel that followed them all.

  The last vehicle in the convoy had no horse. No mule or bison either. It was roaring like an animal but there was no animal involved. It was a truck. Automatic. Rumbling down the road, towing a metal carriage that was twice as big as my office.

  We watched the caravan move past, both of our mouths gaping open. I’d never seen anything like it. Not even in the old days.

  Tippity shouted after them, asking for help, but his voice was hoarse and the truck was too loud. I grabbed him by the throat and pulled tight until the bastard passed out.

  15

  “I’m fucking freezing!”

  “That’s your fault, Tippity. I gave you a nice little leash made from vine but you went and bit through it, didn’t you? So, now you get this.”

  While he was unconscious, I’d ripped his cloak down the middle and twisted it into a replacement collar. It was shorter than his old one but that meant he was in easier slapping distance. I had him yoked tight, with the material twisted up so it wouldn’t tear. When he tried to lag behind, I put him in front of me and kicked him forward till he met my pace again.

  The cold helped. With his cloak off and the rip in his trousers, he actually was freezing. Judgment was waiting for him at the end of the journey but it would be better than death on the road. By the time Maple Highway turned back into Main Street, he was as relieved as I was to be back in the city.

  The sun was up and it was amazing that nobody stopped me. No one even tried. I guess it was the balls of it. If I’d tried to be discreet, someone might have stepped in to see if the poor Warlock needed help. Instead, we were squabbling like siblings every step of the way. I’d kick him in the ass, he’d swear and spit, so I’d slap him in the back of the head. We looked like a couple of overly committed street performers who’d got caught up in the show.

  The police department was way uptown so I went straight for the jail. I wrapped Tippity up in the cloak, pinned his arms to his sides, and kicked the front door till somebody answered.

  It was a Dwarfish boy with no beard who couldn’t hide the fact he was asleep on his feet.

  “Uh… what seems to be the… uh…?”

  “This is Rick Tippity, responsible for the murder of Lance Niles, an unidentified Warlock, and the desecration of untold Faery corpses.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” screamed Tippity. “I—”

  I punched Rick in the face. The cop reacted like he was the one who’d been hit, and stumbled back inside shouting, “Doris!”

  A moment later, a lady Ogre joined him.

  “He says he’s arresting this guy for murder.”

  “Bullshit! This man assaulted me!” shrieked Tippity, hoping to save his skin with a convincing performance. “I have no idea what he’s talking about. Please get this maniac off me and lock him up!”

  Doris wasn’t any more skilled in decision-making than her sleepy partner but I was tired and cold and I wanted to get it over with.

  “Lock us both up,” I said. “Separate cells. Then call Detective Simms and tell her Fetch Phillips found the killer.” I pushed Tippity through the door and the cops politely moved aside. “And tell her to bring some coffee.”

  After an hour, Simms still hadn’t made it downtown. Typical. Even when I do their job for them, the cops won’t wake up early to help me out.

  Tippity had screeched his innocence for fifteen minutes then fallen back into indignant stoicism. We both sat silently, in neighboring cells, falling in and out of sleep. I must have dozed off for a while because when my eyes snapped open, Simms was standing in front of me. Richie Kites too. My cell door was unlocked and a hot cup of coffee was pushed into my hands.

  “This the pharmacist?” she asked.

  “That’s him. I caught him cutting open corpses in an old Faery church. Tried to blast me with fire and ice again, the same two spells that killed the victims. I don’t have much more than my word and missing eyebrows. Oh, and this.” I took the glowing red globe out my pocket. It was just as warm as the first time I held it. “This is what Tippity was taking out of the Fae. I guess it’s evidence but just… make sure you take care of it. I don’t know what it is. Not really. But maybe there’s still something inside…”

  “It’s okay,” said Simms, taking it from me with as much care as I hoped she would. “We took apart his drug store and found his lab. He has a bunch more of these, along with plenty of other evidence that matches your account. We’ll take good care of this, I promise. Now, let’s take you uptown so you can put it all on record.”

  They had a carriage waiting. A nice one. Simms even held my coffee and opened the door while I took a seat. It was better treatment than the usual boot-heels, phonebooks and lights in my face.

  At the station, the hospitality continued. They brought me breakfast and more coffee. While I gave my account to the records guy, he kept saying things like “take your time” and “that’s very helpful”. It was goddam spooky and when it was all through, I was happy to be out of there.

  They organized the coach again, and Simms joined me on my ride home.

  “That was good work, Fetch. I know it didn’t come easy.”

  “If someone turns in a couple of eyebrows – brown, fuzzy, in need of a pluck – can you push them through my letterbox?”

  “There will be a reward. An official one from the city. But we’ll have to hold a trial first. In the meantime—”

  She held out a roll of bronze bills and, instinctively, I pushed them away.

  “While I do believe the city pays you too much, I’m not going to dig into your personal salary.”

  She glared at me like I’d just spat in her face.

  “Don’t make this
harder than it already is, Fetch. This money is so you can keep yourself off the streets, go to a doctor and get a warm meal. You’re our prize witness against Tippity and I don’t want you dying before the trial. When you get your reward, you can pay me pack. Deal?”

  I took the roll.

  “Deal.”

  The carriage stopped right outside the door to my building and I shooed Simms away when she tried to help me down.

  “Call a doctor,” she repeated. “This city’s too dirty to go walking around with wounds like those.”

  “I read you loud and clear, Simms. Just let me drink a few barrels of whiskey and sleep for a year, then I’ll get myself stitched up.”

  She glared again, but there was actual concern in her eyes. I gave her the sincerest nod I could manage without my head falling off, and she closed the door and rode away.

  I looked up at number 108 Main Street, Sunder City; a gray-brick façade, spotted with barred windows and Angel doors. There was a rusty revolving entrance and a conspicuous tin chamber pot lying out front. I picked up the pan, dusted it off, and examined the dent on the side. It wouldn’t take too much work to hammer it back into shape.

  I pushed my way inside and each stair was a mountain. Five floors up was an eternity and if it hadn’t been for the handrail, I never would have made it. My fingers could barely hold the keys. I must have stood outside for a whole minute, fumbling with them, before I realized the door to my office was already unlocked. There were scratches on the frame where it had been forced open.

  I kicked it in and called out.

  “Anyone in here? Answer me now, because I’m too tired to ask any more questions before I start throwing punches.”

  But there was no one. Not even the ants. It was all the way I’d left it, except for one thing.

  A package about the size of a brick was sitting on my desk. It was wrapped in black cloth and tied up with thick green string. The shape was curved and unusual.

  There was a little envelope attached to it. Inside, all it said was: “A gift, from a friend”.

  I cut open the rope, unrolled the cloth, and unpacked something I’d never seen before.

  It was made from cold metal and dark polished wood, screwed together with steel bolts. The metal part was a piece of pipe half an inch in diameter. It was welded to a kind of gear that didn’t turn when I pushed it but looked like it would rotate if given the right kind of leverage. Sticking out from the gear was a spike. No. A small lever. Similar to the switches I’d seen on automobiles and pre-Coda magical torches. I played with the switch, gently, careful not to turn the contraption on before I knew what its purpose was. The wooden part slid smoothly into the palm of my hand, telling me just how it wanted to be held.

  It was heavy, but balanced like a well-made sword. The wood in my grip was thick to offset the length of the pipe. I looked in the hollow end, wondering if something was supposed to go inside. Perhaps there was another part of it somewhere; a piece that fitted into the piping and locked in place. I searched back through the packaging for instructions but there was nothing else there.

  When I lifted up the tool, and held it in the way that felt most natural, my index finger rested on the switch.

  So, I turned it on.

  BANG!

  An explosion went off in my hand and I screamed, dropping the machine on the floor. My wrist ached and my eardrums pounded against my brain. They must have heard the sound all the way up Main Street. I was worried I might never hear again.

  The machine sat on the floor, motionless and unassuming, like it hadn’t just let off the loudest sound ever made. The smallest wisp of smoke floated up from the pipe and it smelled like… something familiar that I couldn’t quite name. A memory from somewhere far away.

  I didn’t want to touch the machine but there was no way I was going to leave it there on the floor, watching me and waiting to explode again.

  I opened the bottom drawer of my desk, cleared out the old bottles, wrapped the machine back up in the cloth, tucked it inside, closed the drawer and locked it.

  There were people out on the street. I could hear them shouting at each other, wondering what had happened. I wanted to look and see but if I poked my head out the window, I might give them a target on which to fix their curiosity.

  I waited for my heartbeat to slow or my ears to stop ringing. After a minute, nothing changed so I pulled my bed down from the wall and climbed into it.

  I was shaking. Not just from the shock, but because of the hundred thoughts that were slamming their way into my skull: ideas and revelations that were coming too late.

  When I’d pulled the switch on the machine, just before the sound of the blast forced my eyes closed, an explosion came out the end of the pipe that pushed back my hand with a shocking amount of force.

  It was bright. Just a flash, but full of yellows, oranges, blues and reds.

  There was no mistaking it.

  I’d made fire.

  16

  There were plenty of dents in the floor under my desk and even more holes in the bug-eaten rug. You might think that it would be impossible to notice a new one, but I’d spent so many days staring at the space between my feet that the fresh spot stood out like a sinkhole in the middle of Main Street.

  The divot went through the rug and an inch into the floor. When I held my lighter over it, I could see something shiny at the bottom. I got out my knife and was under the desk, lying on my side, when I noticed a pair of shoes standing in the doorway.

  They were pointed and elegant, holding up a couple of thin legs in charcoal tights. I stared at the legs for a while, wondering how long they’d been there and what kind of person they might be connected to. They weren’t moving. Maybe they weren’t connected to anyone. Maybe they were just a couple of legs, off on their own, out for a walk.

  “I’ve come to see the Man for Hire.”

  The voice was educated but touched by fatigue, like a classic book in need of rebinding. I popped my head over the desk.

  “That’s me. Sorry. Chasing termites.”

  “You have termites?”

  “Sure. Just look at my divan?”

  “I don’t see any divan.”

  “Exactly.”

  I waited for a laugh. Or a smirk. I got neither.

  “Please forgive me, Mr Phillips, but I recently lost my husband and pleasantries such as polite laughter are still beyond me.”

  She was an Elf. It was impossible to tell her age due to the fact that the Coda killed all tension in Elven skin. The ageing process that Elves avoided for so long had finally caught up with them. Her small frame was enlarged by a black fur coat and her hair was wrapped in a black scarf. She wore sunglasses, pearl earrings, and a gold wedding band.

  I stood up, dusted off my knees, and moved my chair back to its place behind the desk. “Please,” I said. “Have a seat.”

  You can tell a lot about a lady by the way she walks. Sure, her joints would be tighter than they once were and her bones would be creaking without magic, but when you’ve spent a century refining the way you move in the world, you don’t let a bit of arthritis bring you down.

  We took our seats and she smiled like I was an old friend, instead of some dirty, five-buck gumshoe with a bloody cloth wrapped around his head. I tried to offset my appearance by taking a pad and pen out of the drawer and placing them in front of me, acting all professional.

  “How can I help you?”

  She bit her lip and looked troubled. The hair beneath her scarf was pure white.

  “My name is Carissa Steeme and my husband, Harold, went missing three months ago.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs Steeme.”

  “Harold and I were married for almost a hundred years. Our home was in Gaila but we moved to Sunder after the Coda. It was Harold’s idea.”

  She pulled a photograph out of her pocket and laid it on the desk between us. It was Harold and Carissa, younger and full of life. Again, it was impossible to tell
their age because their bodies were full of magic. Both of them were finely dressed, like they were at some formal event, but sporting more style than your typical Elven couple.

  Traditionally, the High Race draped themselves in flowing robes made of silk and satin. Carissa’s outfit was cut from the same cloth but it had taken a trip through a poppy field and been dipped into a rainbow. It also showed off more skin than traditional Elvish dress.

  “Mr Phillips?”

  I looked up.

  “Mmm?”

  “My husband is the one on the right.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  He was dressed more conservatively than Carissa but still sported a few extravagant touches. His hair was dark brown. Eyes green. He had rounder features than your average Elf and his skin was olive. Carissa was quite pale, and they made a complementary couple.

  “Why the old photo?”

  “It’s the most recent one I have. After the Coda, we weren’t rushing to be in front of the camera.”

  I put the picture down on the desk.

  “Three months since your husband went missing? Why wait so long to try and find him?”

  A touch of frustration rose up in her, but she swallowed it. I liked that. Most clients who come through my door resent the fact that they might need my help. To make up for it, they make a big show of how stupid I am before deigning to offer me the job, overlooking the fact they know why they’ve come to talk to me and I don’t. It was nice, for a change, to meet someone with restraint.

  “I only waited four hours before I called the police. Harold was always responsible and he knew that I was waiting for him. He left work on the Friday and never made it home.”

  “What did the police say?”

  “They told me to wait a few days, so I did. I called his office, his friends and his colleagues but nobody knew anything. After a week, the police decided to help but they didn’t do anything I hadn’t already done. After a month, I mourned him. After two months, we had a memorial. I know how this city works and I know what this world has become. Harold never dropped the habit of wearing his old jewelry. You could spot him from a mile away: nice clothes and sparkling ears, shuffling along without any meat on his bones. He was a glittering target and it wasn’t a complete shock that someone would take advantage of him.”