*
The warmth of the pub behind him, Pierce stood on the sidewalk on St. Patrick Street staring at number 111. He felt like a fraud desperately trying to see the genius of a Van Gogh. But the longer he looked at 111 St. Patrick, the more perplexed he became.
Having been a victim of cruel pranks in his younger days, Pierce now remained alert for them. So he’d expected the address to be some kind of obvious joke. Like a sex shop or something of similar juvenile hilarity.
This was not the case. Standing in the early night rain, Pierce was staring at a two story red brick building with three storefronts and four doors. Each door corresponded with a store, all of them very tame and not humorous in the least. There was a convenience store, a butcher shop and a bookstore. However the last door on the far right had no corresponding window, no sign, and no advertisement of any kind. The only thing on the door was a simple brass plate with 111 stamped into it.
Having decided from the outset that the letter was a joke and just needed a quick inspection to settle his mind on the matter, Pierce had been prepared to continue home and forget the whole situation and enjoy the weekend. However things had now changed slightly. He felt uneasy and yet curious at the same time. Eleven in the morning on a Saturday hardly seemed the time of day to pull any shenanigans. So standing in the rain, staring at the blank door, he decided he’d return the next morning and find out what this business was all about.
The walk home turned out to be more an exercise in swimming than walking, as the rain continued its gravitational duty. Certain sections of road were quickly becoming urban ponds and the sidewalks provided only moderately better protection. His fellow pedestrians performed feats of athletic prowess to avoid the water. One trench-coated businessman cleared a puddle in one giant leap that would have made a decathlete proud. Another teenage couple, clearly not prepared for the rain, tip-toed across expanses of water with such precision and speed one might have thought they were recreating a scene from Swan Lake.
Twenty minutes later Pierce was sitting in his leather lounge chair, highball of Irish Whiskey in hand, with a recap of the day’s events playing on the news. Another nightclub overseas had been bombed, provoking competing feelings of sadness, frustration and anger in his mind. Clearly some new strategy had to be employed to combat the ideologues, however he felt that any new plan could possibly reverse matters and simply escalate the situation. In his weaker moments he was glad to be a simple mid-level public servant, not required to solve the world’s problems. With this reassuring thought he slowly drifted off to sleep, weary from the work of the week and the alcohol flowing through him.
The sound of wooden wind chimes awoke him in the early hours of the morning. Instantly he knew something was wrong. Not encumbered by wealth, Pierce had to devise alternate methods of home security. Amongst the many inexpensive and unusual systems in place, was a set of wooden wind chimes placed inside the balcony door. It wasn’t that Pierce was paranoid; he just didn’t trust people to stay out of his apartment. Little did he realize, upon waking suddenly in his leather chair, that he had a very real reason to believe this.
Staying completely still, he watched two dark shapes slide in through the balcony door. They were both fairly large, draped in long black leather jackets. Directly in front of them stood a dining room table, which forced them to part ways in order to reach the open space of the apartment. From his vantage point in the living room Pierce watched the two intruders formulate their plan with hand gestures. He guessed that these were not ordinary burglars and they were not interested in his television. Pierce watched as the farthest intruder disappeared down the hall toward his bedroom and the closer one moved towards the front door. This one passed by him intent on the door. Figuring he was going to open it for possibly more intruders, Pierce suddenly felt indignant to this invasion of his space. Grabbing a large coffee table book adorned with famous pictures of the past century, he slowly removed himself from the soft cushions of the leather chair.
With a swift swing he struck the intruder in the back of the head, dropping him to his knees. With his fencing skills taking over, he took a step back to plant his feet for his next attack. The intruder, dazed from the surprise attack, seemed to recover quickly with the appearance of a telescopic asp from his sleeve. From his kneeling position the intruder rose towards Pierce, taking an uppercut shot with the asp in the same motion. Prepared for the attack from below, Pierce sidestepped him and delivered his counter blow with the book to the side of the head. This shot dropped the intruder again allowing Pierce to provide the final blow downward to the back of head, knocking him out.
Pierce quickly grabbed the asp, preferring it to the now destroyed book in his hands. He knew the other intruder would have by now realized that his bed was empty and would be returning to confer with his confederate. He gripped the asp with anticipation beside the entrance to the hallway. He figured surprise would again work in his favour and planned on taking a swing at the intruder once he returned to the dining room.
The footsteps from the hall quietly approached closer and closer. The second intruder had probably heard the noise from the encounter in the living room and deduced the presence of the homeowner. However stepping from the hallway into the dining room, he was surprised to see the crumpled form of his associate. Unprepared, he took a solid shot from the asp in the back of the head, dropping him immediately.
Staring at the two black figures on his floor, Pierce backed slowly towards the phone in the front hall. He knew that the closest police station was well manned at night, combating the ceaseless shenanigans of the local university population. He could still feel the adrenaline rush of the encounter, but it was leaving just as quickly as it came. He was utterly confused and shocked by the situation he was in. He now had two dangerous, albeit unconscious, men in his apartment with no possible explanation at hand.
Suddenly he felt a hand fall onto his shoulder, the shock shooting his heart into his throat. Without feeling much pressure, he knew that the hand clasped on his shoulder was a powerful one.
“A fine show Mr. Pierce,” uttered a dispassionate voice, “however we have much to discuss and we can’t have you waving a metal baton at everyone in the room. In the interest of fairness I believe we should all start the conversation from equal footing. Therefore if you would be so kind as to drop the baton, I will place you in the company of my felled compatriots.”
Confused Pierce dropped the baton.
“I don’t really understand. They’re both uncon-”
Before he could finish his sentence he heard and electric clicking followed by a sharp shock to his side. His body convulsed for a second before dropping to the ground unconscious.
Chapter 2
A Malevolent Manner (Patrick Pierce #1) Page 4
