“Really? Everyone I talk to says you’re the brains of this operation.” He waved his hand back and forth in front of his face. “Don’t get me wrong. Everyone loves Trey. But you’re the guy. You know. The one who gets the job done.”
“That is accurate under normal circumstances. But not on this case.” Darc looked down at his hands, realizing that he did not know what to do with them. That had never been an issue before. When he had no need to use his hands, they rested at his sides. But now they felt awkward, like foreign bodies somehow attached to the ends of his arms.
Van Owen’s face grew less animated. An indication of the attorney growing serious? “So what makes this case different?”
“I do not know.”
“Huh,” Bryce muttered. “That can’t be easy for a guy like you to admit.”
“It is neither easy nor difficult. It simply is.” Even as Darc said the words, a part of him rebelled, the logic spirals within him twisting in their discontent. They were never wrong, the patterns clamored. Darc was uncertain what was happening inside of himself. This inner turmoil was disconcerting.
“Whatever,” the attorney said, pulling from his beer once more. “Sounds like girl trouble to me.”
“Explain.”
Bryce finished up his beer and grabbed another from off the table. “Sure. Okay. Whenever I’m off my game and I can’t figure why, it’s always a girl.” He reached over and punched Darc in the arm. It hurt. “There someone you’ve got on the brain?”
“Yes.”
“See? Girl trouble. Knew it.” Van Owen pounded the table with his fist.
“Is there a solution to this problem?” Darc interrogated. If the lawyer were correct in his assessment, perhaps he had a cure for this mental disorder.
“Uh, yeah. It’s right in front of you.” The Deputy Attorney pointed at the remaining mug of dark stout. “Nothing like a night of drinking to get your mind off the one you can’t have. Get a little tipsy, sing a few songs, throw a few punches… It’ll get her out of your system. Guaranteed.”
That did not sound logical. The twisted threads of light within wound themselves tighter, rejecting the proposal. However, this was a scenario that seemed to fall within the gray spectrum of emotional non-logic. In those areas, the glowing paths failed, leading into tangled, barbed roads that ended in sorrow. Maggie leaving. Trey’s increasing frustration with him. Mala rejecting his offers of social interaction.
A quick calculation of the risk to the brain from moderate drinking of mild alcoholic beverages yielded results that landed in favor of the experiment. Contrary to popular conception, alcohol consumption did not result in the destruction of brain cells. Indeed, most contemporary research asserted that, in small amounts, adult beverages could actually increase cognitive ability, including memory.
The largest risks to him this evening would be overconsumption, with its attendant behavior modification due to a lowering of social inhibitions. There was also the possible acetaldehyde intoxication, hypoglycemia, dehydration, or glutamine rebound, all of which were commonly referred to as a hangover. The effects were temporary, and therefore negligible. At least the dehydration could be mitigated. Darc reached for a tall glass of water and drank the contents, pausing only for a brief moment to take in air.
“Okaaaaay,” Van Owen said, watching as Darc set down the empty glass. “That wasn’t exactly what I meant, but whatever floats…”
Without pause, Darc retrieved the final mug of Guinness from its position next to Bryce. Bringing it up to his lips, he inadvertently inhaled the aroma of the foamy head, a potent yeast scent invading his nostrils. The first swallow was almost his last, as the taste had the bitterness of things burnt melded with a distinct tang of things dead.
The lines of logic swirled around the cascading bubbles from the stout, identifying and quantifying. The burnt flavor from the portion of the barley that was roasted. The tartness from the souring of the fermentation process. But in addition to the disappointing aspects of the powerful drink, the gleaming strands detected some other, more subtle notes. The sweetness of caramel. The earthiness of coffee.
By the time Darc had finished his first swallow, he was ready for his next. Bryce raised his eyebrows. That was either surprise, or the lawyer’s motives for having Darc drink alcoholic beverages involved a seduction. That could prove awkward. But, from the next words out of Van Owen’s mouth, Darc assumed the former.
“First time drinker, right?” Bryce asked. At Darc’s curt nod, the Deputy Attorney whistled in apparent admiration. “I spat out my first taste of Guinness.”
“I almost did,” Darc conceded. “But the second mouthful was much more pleasant.”
Bryce pursed his lips. “I may have just created a monster.”
Darc was not positive what that meant, but decided it was time to take another swallow of his beverage. If he was to ascertain the efficacy of drinking for taking his mind off of Mala, he would need to drink faster.
Because, as of that moment, it was not working.
*
The phone call with Maggie had taken longer than Trey had intended. What he had thought would be a quick check-in had turned into a much more involved conversation which included graphic descriptions of what Maggie would do with him and to him if Trey managed to come home sober. It had all ended in Trey pledging on his grandmother’s grave not to let a drop of alcohol cross his lips.
Who would’ve guessed that all it would take was the promise of wild monkey sex to turn Trey into a teetotaler? Trey couldn’t decide if he was pissed off that he was so easily manipulated, or just excited to ditch Darc and Van Owen and see how many speeding tickets he could accrue on the drive home.
As he ducked back into the seedy dive, Trey paused for a second to let his eyes adjust. Once they had, he immediately regretted it. What he was seeing could not—repeat, could not—be possible.
There at the table was Van Owen, looking a bit more flushed than the last time Trey had seen him. No big shocker there. The guy had been putting it away even before Trey and Darc had arrived at the pub.
No, the shocker was the other figure at the table. It looked like Darc. Sort of. Same bald head, same stubbled face, same hulking tallness. But where Darc typically walked around like he had some kind of ramrod shoved up his rear end, this unidentified man was slouching. And holding a half-drunk mug of beer.
Darc didn’t drink. Therefore, this couldn’t be Darc.
And, glancing down at the table, Trey could see that this slouching impostor was flanked on either side by an additional four empty mugs. So, not just half a beer, but closer to four-and-a-half.
If Darc were to lose all sense of who he was and start drinking, Trey couldn’t imagine he’d make it much past the first sip before the taste of the alcohol and the idiocy of what he was doing took over. People drank to lose a little control.
Darc hated to lose control. Therefore, this couldn’t be Darc.
Plus, drinking caused brain damage or something, didn’t it? Darc would never risk even the thought of losing one of his precious bits of gray matter. One time, he had shoved an old man out of the way to get the last hardhat at a construction site they’d gone to for a case. Rationale? His brain needed more protection.
Darc would never risk his cognitive powers. Therefore, this was not Darc.
The tall figure turned around in a sloppy circle, caught sight of Trey, and waved. Waved. This was so clearly not Darc. And then the figure called out to him.
“Trey! It is I!”
It was Darc’s voice, although a much more relaxed and slurred version than what Trey was used to. And no one but Darc would ever say It is I. What the hell was going on here? Taking a mental breath, Trey applied Sherlock Holmes’s axiom—often repeated to him by Darc—to the situation. “When you have eliminated the impossible, what remains, however implausible, is the truth.” The first time Darc had said it, he’d had to explain to Trey what implausible meant. Twice.
It looked
like Darc, it sounded like Darc, it clearly knew Trey. It must be Darc.
Son of a…
Trey stalked toward the table, murder on his mind. His first words were addressed to Bryce, even though Darc had reached out to give him a hug. Wait. What? Darc had just tried to hug him.
This was so not okay.
“Did you get my partner drunk? What the hell’s wrong with you? I was gone for like five minutes, tops.”
Bryce shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t me, man. We were talking about his girl troubles, and then he just up and started chugging beer. He downed four beers in three minutes flat. I had to physically restrain him when he started on his fifth.”
“Wait a minute. He was talking about women with you?” Trey stared hard at his partner. There was something seriously amiss here if Darc was willingly sharing information about his personal life. “I’m not sure you have any idea how messed up this whole situation is.”
“Probably not,” Van Owen agreed. “But I’ve heard enough stories around the office to get that this is outside the norm.”
“Outside…?! Out…” Trey took a deep breath and let it out on a ten count. “Dude. ‘Outside the norm’ is snow in July. It’s sixty-year-old women getting pregnant. It’s aliens coming down and deciding to take over Disneyland. It is not—I repeat—it. Is. Not. My. Partner. Getting. Drunk.”
Darc moved over to Trey’s side, attempted to place a hand on Trey’s shoulder, and missed the first two times. Once he had his hand placed as he seemed to wish, Darc turned Trey to face him and looked him straight in the… eyebrow. His partner seemed to be having some trouble focusing.
“Trey, this occurrence is not his responsibility. I am conducting an experiment.”
In all the possible scenarios that Trey had played out in his head having to do with Darc—and there had been some real doozies—Trey had never once thought this would be one of them. “An experiment? Are you kidding me? Darc, even I know you’re not supposed to experiment on yourself.”
That seemed to give Darc pause. He stopped speaking for a moment and appeared to be thinking something through. “You are correct. I had not taken that into consideration. That was unscientific.” His face fell, but then brightened once more. “But it has been successful. The point of the exercise was to distract me from thoughts of Mala. And it has worked.” His face crumpled in on itself again. “Up until this moment.”
Darc’s shoulders hunched over as he slumped into a chair next to the table, and he brought the mug back up to take another long pull of his beer. As he did so, his form shook a couple of times. Was Darc crying? Into his beer? This was like some hideous perversion of a country song.
“Okay. That’s it. I’m taking him home.” Trey dug around for his wallet to pay the tab. There was no way he was letting Darc stay here and get completely blotto. Trey took another glance at his partner, who was now humming to himself, and reassessed. That ship may have already sailed.
“Hey, come on.” Van Owen waved away Trey’s attempt to put money down on the table. “I’ll pick this up. I feel really bad about the whole thing.” He shrugged his shoulders. “I just wanted to get a chance to talk to you guys about the case. You know… away from the office. It gets a little tight in there sometimes.”
Trey felt the knot of anger that had formed in his stomach start to soften. A little bit. Bryce wasn’t a bad guy. If anything, this whole going-out-to-a-bar-together thing would normally have made Trey like him a whole lot more. And it’s not like anyone could make Darc do something. Or keep him from doing it once he’d made up his mind, for that matter.
“I get it,” Trey answered, doing his best to calm down. “I guess it’s—”
“Hold on a sec,” Bryce interrupted him. He was staring off in the direction of the bar. “I think that’s one of my cousins over there. Hey, Sean!” The blond attorney waved his hand in the air to get the attention of a guy with curly red hair.
What happened next was not quite clear to Trey. It looked like Van Owen’s cousin stumbled and bumped into one of the serious drinkers at the bar. But however it occurred, one thing was clear after the incident—the drinker’s beer was now dripping down his very broad chest and expansive belly.
There was a moment, a very long and silent moment, when nothing happened. The entire bar seemed to take a collective breath, waiting to find out exactly what response was coming next. It was an eternal instant, in which all things were possible. Like that stupid cat with the funny name that Darc had once tried to explain to him… neither dead nor alive until the box was opened up.
And then the bar exploded.
The large man at the bar swung his now-empty glass mug at Sean’s face, and he managed to turn to the side, taking most of the impact on his shoulder. The force of the blow knocked him into another patron, who shoved back harder than necessary. Within milliseconds, everyone close by was throwing punches.
“Ah, great,” Bryce muttered, then sighed. “I should go help him out.”
“Hold on,” Trey cut in. “You can’t get into a bar fight. You’re a deputy attorney.”
“Yeah, but if I don’t step in and my mom finds out about it, I’m toast.”
Trey snorted. “You that much of a momma’s boy?”
“What? She’s right. My cousin’s a hemophiliac. One well-landed punch and he’s got a nasty subdermal hematoma.”
There was a sharp crack that dragged both Trey and Bryce’s eyes back to the bar. The big guy who had started the fight had picked up a beer bottle and smashed it against the corner of the countertop. He was now waving the sharp jagged end in Sean’s face.
Bryce groaned. “Well, now I have to go help out.” He rolled his shoulders and cracked his neck. I’m more scared of my mom than I am of the Prosecuting Attorney, any day.” With that, he charged into the fray, his fists flying.
Great. The deputy attorney assigned to their case was now in the middle of a full-fledged bar brawl. And as if that weren’t enough, when Trey turned back to grab Darc and pull his partner out of the pub, Darc wasn’t there. Darting his eyes around the bar, Trey finally located Darc by his gleaming bald head. The gleaming bald head that he was currently using to bash in the nose of a dude who was even bigger than the guy who had started the whole thing.
The night had officially crossed from totally weird into bizarro-alternate-reality territory. So, Trey did what he always did when he was out drinking and a fight broke out. He ordered a beer, crossed to the darkest corner, and watched. His face might not be pretty, but he wasn’t about to go making it worse.
*
The threads were hazy, soft around the edges, and feathered in a way that made their glowing surfaces beautiful, but hard to define. So as Darc surged into the fight, he knew he would need to make adjustments for both the delay in his reflexive conditioning and the lack of precision in his calculations. He stumbled against the leg of a bar stool, the paths of light lazily calculating the change in Darc’s perception and reflexes.
Fighting multiple opponents required an altering of standard psychological, as well as physical, tactics. Darc scanned the crowd of fighters, doing what he could to keep his gaze level and his eyes focused. He sought the alpha.
Often, it would be the first person to engage, but in this case, it was a much larger and more aggressive individual who had joined in after the conflict had begun. This individual had tipped his head back toward the ceiling and was howling like a coyote after having broken the nose of another bar patron.
Darc rushed the alpha from the side, keeping out of the man’s peripheral vision as long as possible. This first engagement would serve two purposes. One, if Darc were successful, defeating the leader would dishearten the other participants, giving Darc a psychological advantage. Two, it would give the streams of logic running in his head an appropriate coefficient of the delay caused by the consumption of the alcohol. That would allow for the remainder of the fight to continue with a more controlled level of defensive wounds.
&n
bsp; Wobbling to the front of the berserker, Darc reached up to grasp the man’s massive shoulders, pulling the fighter’s torso toward him as he thrust his head at the alpha’s nasal bone. This was a move calculated to break the leader’s nose. A broken nose would be highly visible due to the blood. It would also cause the man’s eyes to tear up, making Darc a more difficult target for retaliation.
Unfortunately, Darc misjudged the angle of the attack, hitting the man’s frontal bone instead of the much more vulnerable nasal bone. The result was an approximation of an irresistible force hitting an immoveable object. Both men reeled back, clutching at their heads. The large alpha grunted, shook his head, and focused on Darc. Instead of incapacitating his opponent, Darc had only managed to enrage him.
Perhaps this had not been such a well-thought-out experiment.
And why exactly was he engaging in the fight? Darc assessed the possibility that the alcohol consumption could have influenced every decision he’d made since he began drinking. That assessment was cut short by a fist flying directly at Darc’s right eye.
He attempted to dodge the blow, but moments later was pushing himself off the floor, random splashes of light interfering with the hazy ribbons of logic. Darc’s head throbbed from the impact.
The pain was considerable, even muted by the ethanol in his system.
But the coefficient was now clear. The logic pathways had tracked the delay and the shift in Darc’s ability to take in stimuli. He could now engage with purpose, knowing the strands of gleaming information would support him fully.
The large man and someone else who appeared to be his friend began to charge Darc. Stepping to the side, Darc made sure the large man’s body created an obstacle that would keep his friend from joining in at the same time. Maneuvering to keep his opponents in a straight line kept dangerous triangles from forming, where the angles of attack and defense began to approach the infinite.
Darc allowed the bull-faced alpha to complete his approach, using the coefficient to judge when he should duck. The roundhouse punch that had been aimed at Darc’s temple swung harmlessly over his head, the momentum from the swing putting his opponent off-balance. Darc used the slight stumble to his advantage, jabbing the man in the outer thigh just above the knee, aiming for the nerve there.
7th Sin: The Sequel to the #1 Hard Boiled Mystery, 9th Circle (Book 2 of the Darc Murders Series) Page 15
