Monarch Falls

by Lumen Reese

  Henry made the call from a back room of the inn. We laid out maps of the quarter on a little, round table in the dining area. Asking for help from a member of the staff, we plotted out a few more likely places that were entirely or mostly empty, and Henry ate a bowl of stew despite what he had said earlier. I picked at some bread.

  Outside the rain went on, and thunder boomed in the distance.

  “We really have to head back out in that?” Henry asked.

  “When will the Four Quarters people show up?”

  “Not until tonight.”

  “Yes, we have to go back out in that. We could probably check all three of these buildings on the north side of town.”

  “Damn. Can we get some pirate hats, at least? Keep the rain off?”

  I smiled at that.

  Chapter Ten

  We settled back in the inn that night after dark had fallen. We were drenched and hungry, and we had missed dinner with the other guests, so one of the ladies who worked there brought out two plates for us of charred beef and potatoes.

  Jericho came in after we had waited half an hour, and he was similarly drenched. He had with him the man I had met at my evaluation at Four Quarters, Dr. Foster. They took up seats across from Henry and me, only after Jericho had clapped a hand on Henry's shoulder.

  “I went to the island, I saw the room, and the girl. There was a team there when I left, we'll get updates as soon as we know anything.”

  “What happens to the girl?” I asked.

  “Once an autopsy is performed tonight, and we have an ID, we'll go from there.”

  “And what was that room?” My voice had gone hard and even Henry looked at me, surprised. “You needed some kind of torture-chamber, on an abandoned island, that you don't run any story lines through? Why?” I'm not sure when my point of view shifted, but sometime after finding the girl, I had begun to view Jericho differently. Probably it wasn't the wisest thing to do; he employed me freely and could terminate that employment at any time, but the room under the church needed explaining. If he was innocent, he would understand.

  He stared back at me across the table for a long moment, and there was something clinical about him, as if he were deciding how to manage me. Finally, his eyes turned down in what looked to me like genuine guilt. “I don't know where that room came from. I don't remember building it. I've put in a request for the records, it shouldn't be long.”

  I nodded. “Okay. What's Dr. Foster doing here?”

  “I wanted him to come to talk to both of you -but you especially, Stella- before you continued on.”

  Henry huffed.

  “That's not necessary,” I said, “And it's a waste of time.”

  “I insist,” Jericho said. “You had a close call with the wolf and now you've discovered a body. Just talk to him, please.”

  “Alright, fine. Let's do this now.”

  “Shall we go up to your room?”

  “No. Over there.” I pointed to an empty table in the opposite corner, marched over and sat. I kicked my feet up on the chair next to me so he had no choice but to sit across.

  “So, Stella,” the doctor began, setting down a glass of water, “How do you think that you're handling all of this?”

  Straight to the point. I liked that. “I'm okay. Getting attacked by the wolf was shocking, and finding the dead girl was worse, but I'm focused and I'm still making progress.”

  “I don't want to talk about the investigation, that's not what we're worried about right now.”

  “It should be what you're worried about,” I said. “A girl is dead, we don't know why. This man is still on the loose, we don't know why.”

  “It is troubling you, then?”

  “I guess. It would be weird if it didn't, right?”

  “Have you been sleeping?”

  “I slept last night. The night before I was screwed up by sleeping on the trip out here, and getting hired the night before that, so I was nervous. I can't believe I've only been in here three days.”

  “Emotional states change our perception of time,” he said. “I could give you something to help you sleep-.”

  But I cut him off. “-No.”

  “Alright. How are you and Henry working together?”

  I looked away for a minute. “You'll be reporting all my answers back to Jericho?”

  “No. All he wants is an assurance you won't be a danger to yourself or others, and legally, that's all I could provide him with anyway.”

  “In America, maybe,” I said. “But we're not in America.”

  He smiled at that, his leathery face looking even more creased but somehow better for its lightness. “I'm licensed through the state of New York, if I broke my oath I would lose my license, same as any other shrink. I understand your trepidation; you don't know me and I work for the company. You were mistrustful of Jericho a minute ago. You must feel the same way about Henry.”

  “You're calling me paranoid.”

  He pressed his lips into a tight line, but the smile had not left his eyes. I got the feeling he liked me. “Paranoia is a natural response to being surrounded by strangers. Have you written home, yet? It might do you some good, to remind yourself that there are people who love you awaiting your return. Your family are your reason for doing this, aren't they?”

  I squinted at him a minute, then remembered, “That's right. You read my file. So the tests they ran on me picked up on that?”

  “Just that you were worried for them. Combined with taking this job, I put the pieces together. Have you written?”

  “No.”

  “Write a letter, tonight, send it tomorrow morning, before you do any more investigating. We can carry a response back on the first train or chopper out. I think it will make you feel better.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “So, can I ask you again, how are you working with Henry?”

  “He's fine,” I said. “He backs my plays, and so far he hasn't left me on cliffs or in dungeons.”

  “But because of his employment with the company, it makes it difficult for you to trust him completely?” Dr. Foster phrased it like a question, clearly expecting me to respond.

  “If my home were in danger, I would protect it.”

  He nodded to that. “Of course. The paranoia of Jericho and of myself -representatives of the company- I think, is normal, and it's healthy. But your mistrust of everything in this place worries me. What is it but a normal society, filled with normal people?”

  “This place isn't normal.”

  “There are children here, who go to school. Churches. Small-businesses. Weddings. Funerals. Everyone who came in here came in to lead better lives, they're just normal people, and that includes Henry. We are the authority, and we have let you down just like the authority on the outside has. Henry hasn't ever been in this quarter before, he probably hasn't seen a dead girl before, either. He's just a regular person trying to find his footing in here, the same as you. And he's in that position because he's trying to do the right thing.”

  What he said made a lot of sense, and it sunk into every layer of me apart from the very deepest one. A layer which would perhaps never be breached by Henry Haskell or anyone whom I had known less than half my life. I nodded.

  Dr. Foster added, “If that doesn't help, then mention him in your letter, as your bodyguard, your wingman. Make it known that you are in his trust. That should assure you won't be disappearing.”

  “Some quick psychoanalyzing,” I said, after a moment. “Should I send Henry over?”

  “Please do.”

  I went and took up my spot across from Jericho, conveying to Henry with a nod that it was his turn. He sighed and went lumbering over. Jericho had his phone in his hands, he was turning it over and over.

  “That didn't take long,” he said, nodding over to the doctor.

  “Thank god.”

  “I'm sorry it made you uncomfortable, it's just that I don't want you to be harmed.”

  I gave a nod, bu
t said nothing.

  “Isaac got back to me with those records, while you were with Dr. Foster. The chamber under the church on sickness island was built five years ago. My signature is on the order… I can't remember signing it or what I could have possibly imagined for the place.”

  Again, he seemed sincere. I was beginning to think I had overstepped when I leveled accusations at him earlier in the night. “The autopsy is being performed tonight?”

  “We'll have it for you in the morning. Actually, I asked Bruce Spicer to join us here, tomorrow morning, so we could brief you both at the same time. I thought you two should meet.”

  “Great.”

  His phone beeped and it startled him enough that he dropped it. “Oh. That's probably from the sketch artist we had sitting with Deacon Shepherd and Bartholomew Waylon.”

  He pulled up a picture of a sketch, and showed it to me. It still seemed a poor likeness, with none of the complexity of a real human being. The man had a square face, the same as the last sketch, with a beard covering the chin and much of the cheeks. Unremarkable lips, nose, and eyes. Again I thought that the person on the page looked a bit like Jericho, though the fugitive was supposed to be of average height, while Jericho was on the taller side and of course clean shaven.

  “Send that to me,” I said. “I don't think it will help us much, but who knows?”

  “Right.”

  “I'm tired,” I said, standing. “If you don't have anything else for me, I'm going to bed.”

  “Good night. Sweet dreams.”

  I crossed the room and climbed the stairs with sore legs, a stiff back, and the beginning of a headache. At the top when I turned right toward mine and Henry's rooms, I heard a creak of a step in the middle of the flight, and turned. A man was climbing the stairs after me. He was raggedly dressed, with a beard and a pock-marked face, obviously a member of the pirate society. He had his sword drawn. The man's eyes locked on me. The air turned tense for a second as we both judged the distance between us. He made the top of the stairs in two great leaps and I dashed for my door, flinging it open and trying to slam it shut, but the man was nearly on me and thrust his sword in the gap. It was strong metal, not breaking or bending. He threw his body against it and I fell back. The ground hit me, hard. I was dazed but managed to brace my feet on the door when he had managed to wedge only the top half of his body in.

  He cleaved his sword down at me.

  I raised one arm instinctively. There was a 'thunk' as his blade hit the cast, fraying the bandages apart but catching on the plaster. My feet had slipped from the door, though, and he had pushed it open, using both hands to wrench the sword free of my cast. I kicked with both feet and the solid wood snapped back, hitting the man in the face. He stumbled back the one step that I needed, and I sprang off of the floor, shutting the door and sliding the bolt in place.

  There was stillness. I gasped for breath, thinking for the first time to call for help, but my throat had clamped shut. My broken arm was ringing with pain. There was no blood, but the cast bad been partially chopped.

  A commotion came in the hall. A thud against the wall, then a groan, then another thud.

  “Henry?” I croaked, fear flooding inside me that he might be hurt. My gun was in my satchel and I got a grip as I fumbled with the bolt, then yanked the door open.

  The pirate was on the floor. Blood was pooling, more blood than I had ever seen, from around his neck. A few last gurgles were the only thing that filled the silence. Hands clenched down like vice grips on me, and a hand cut off the yelp that had come from me, and I was hauled to one side of the door, to an empty corner of the hall.

  A hand that was rough on mine wrenched my gun away.

  “I don't wanna hurt you. It's dangerous for you here.” The voice was a whisper. It was muffled. I could only tell that he was a man, voice very thick. “You don't know what you're dealing with. You should leave.”

  I couldn't nod or answer. My body had been so wired that I couldn't even panic from the unfamiliar hand on me, I was already panicking and had nowhere to go but down. My knees were weak. He could snap my neck with a simple twist. I was not afraid, though, only numb. And there was that body on the ground, not twitching or gurgling any more, and his blood had reached my shoe.

  He released me, turning me away in one motion. I crumbled, falling in the open doorway. When I had turned back, the fugitive was already sliding down the stairs. All that I could see was the brown hair on the back of his head, the black coat and pants and boots he wore.

  For a second there was only the sound of rain hitting the roof. The middle stair creaked as the man went down.

  I sprang to my feet and ran as fast as my legs could carry me, stumbling once and almost going tumbling down the stairs. When I turned into the dining area, I caught another glimpse of the back of him as he was sliding out the front door. I sprinted, not carrying that eyes suddenly lifted from the few patrons still in the room, following me.

  I heard my own name called but didn't care, he was so close, and the door banged open before I realized I'd reached it, spilling me out into the street. It was empty, when I looked either way. The rain coming down like hail and pelting me as I paced one way, then the other, looking for movement. Water sloshed by my feet; the street was a little flooded.

  The door opened again behind me, and I wheeled around, relaxing when I saw it was only Henry.

  “What are you doing? You're soaked.”

  Water dripped off the tip of my nose. “Someone just tried to kill me upstairs.” Henry's mouth fell open, but I went on, not letting him say anything. “The fugitive was here. He helped me. He told me I should go home.”

  Henry's face smoothed, his lips pressed into a tight line. “You should listen to him.”

  “No. I was so close. I almost had him.”

  “You almost died! Again!”

  Jericho was standing in the doorway, behind Henry. “You had better both come inside.”

  Chapter Eleven

  After another hour I was allowed to go back to my room. I laid in bed but with a crew working on the crime scene outside my door, sleep did not come easily. It was only when the mumbles and camera flashes stopped very late in the night that my eyes closed and I rested.

  In the morning I was already awake when the bell chimed, and writing at a little table a letter to Joey.

  Status report: I'm still clumsy. I broke my arm. But otherwise smooth sailing. Have a guide named Henry Haskell. 6' 4''. Have run-into the fugitive, nearly had him last night. Easy money, like I said. See you soon.

  -Stella.

  I thought that would have to do. Maybe someday he would hear the whole story, but not while I was still inside, still in danger. I folded it up and tucked it in an envelope, then went downstairs and handed it directly to Dr. Foster, where he sat with Jericho. The two were eating pancakes, and before I had even sat down, one of the women who worked for the inn set a plate down in front of me.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  Jericho asked, “Did you sleep?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The body had been removed by the time I came down.

  Dr. Foster said, “We have the results of both autopsies, but we have to wait until Mr. Spicer arrives to go over them.”

  I was eating, and hummed a bored affirmative.

  Henry joined us a few minutes later, grunted a 'good morning' and tucked into his own plate of pancakes.

  It was a few minutes after that that a man walked in, he was blonde and sturdy built, with a face that would have been handsome except that it was a bit compressed, a bit shorter and a bit wider than a handsome man's face would be. He had a dazzling white smile as he approached our table and whipped around a chair to sit on the corner between Henry and Dr. Foster.

  “Good morning, everyone. Bruce Spicer. We haven't met yet, you must be Henry and Stella.” He extended a hand to each of us. He had offered his left, and so I gave him mine, and he caught my hand and turned it over, tutt
ing at the slightly mangled cast. “Poor thing.”

  I didn't like his tone and didn't bother trying to hide mine. “I'll be fine.”

  “I'm sure you will, with Henry here to protect you. How are the pancakes?”

  Henry's eyes were narrowed. He said nothing, just took another bite while staring straight at him.

  Dr. Foster produced two files, moved to offer both to me, then rethought and gave one to me and one to Spicer. Mine contained a clear picture of a girl, young, blonde, smiling with teeth, and pages of typed notes.

  “The body from under the island was identified as Danielle St. Peters, age seventeen, missing for three years out of Queens. Her parents are being flown out today to identify the body and bring her home, if you have any questions for them.”

  “I don't see the need,” Spicer said, flipping a page.

  “I do,” I said.

  “They'll stay for the night and leave tomorrow morning, you can speak to them whenever you like. The girl's cause of death was untreated pneumonia, she was extremely malnourished and had suffered prolonged sexual abuse. Her time of death was about thirty-six hours from the time the autopsy was performed at ten last night.”

  “So, the fugitive didn't kill her,” Jericho concluded in a soft voice. “She was dumped in that chamber under Sickness Island, and it would have been her final resting place, if you hadn't found her.”

  “And we wouldn't have found her if not for the fugitive,” I said. “He led us to her.”

  Spicer chimed in, “The fugitive had changed his clothes, he's still not looking to be caught, I think you're being a little generous, implying he had good intentions.”

  “He left the grate off the fireplace in the church, that led us down to her,” I said. “He didn't want her to be left rotting down there, any more than he wanted to see me killed last night. We're dealing with something bigger than a story-jumper or an activist, here.”