Set in Stone
Volume 1-6
(the Travis Eldritch Problems)
Jennifer Vandenberg
Copyright © 2015 Jennifer Vandenberg.
Welcome to Ausdine
The moon, Ausdine, is the home of Travis Eldritch, a private investigator who is long on trouble and short on luck. It seems like his Problem hinders more than helps. (Check out the first story, Set in Stone, to find out what his Problem is.) If it wasn’t for his partners, Jet Moored (a small guy with gigantic Problems) and Anda Leske (who proves the saying, don’t judge a book by its cover.) he would probably be out of business, or dead.
Volume 1 contains the first six stories. Each story has a separate crime to be solved and a wrong to be righted. But there is a master criminal who floats throughout the stories and whose fate will not be known until the end of the series. Stories seven to twelve will be published individually over the coming months with Volume 2 (containing the second six stories) coming out in December.
So forget your own problems for a while and join Travis as he deals with his own Problem and everyone else’s. Ausdine is a dangerous place to live. Luckily for the residents of that moon Travis never gives up, no matter how often someone tries to kill him.
Table of Contents
Welcome to Ausdine
Table of Contents
Set In Stone
Created In Stone
Revealed In Stone
Collected In Stone
Covered In Stone
Attraction In Stone
About The Author
Other Books By Jennifer Vandenberg
Set In Stone
(A Travis Eldritch Problem)
By Jennifer Vandenberg
All Rights Reserved © 2012 Jennifer Vandenberg
This story is dedicated to Chris who believed in it from the beginning.
When we’re born, They give each of us a Problem. You’re probably thinking, “You’re helpless newborns, surely your problems aren’t that big.” Well, you’d be wrong. On this moon, They only give us one Problem per lifetime. I hear it’s different elsewhere. I’ve even heard of places where people make their own problems. I don’t know which is better, or if it’s even true. All I can speak of is what it’s like here, on Ausdine.
Sometimes the Problem kills its owner and sometimes it saves them. That isn’t something They decide. Once They assign us a Problem it’s ours for life. What we do with it is our own problem. I suppose that means we have two problems. Me, I tend to have a lot of problems – no work, no money, no women. I know They don’t hand out those kinds of problems. That’s just life. They only give out unique, life-altering Problems. Problems that challenge a person. Survival of the fittest. Population control. So for me, so far, so good.
Now you are wondering two things: who are They, and what is my Problem? Well, I can answer the first part. They could be considered the gods who created our world, but since no one thinks very highly of them we just call them They, or Them, as in “I can’t believe They gave me this Problem. How am I supposed to eat with two mouths and no arms?”
As for the other part of your question, I’m not telling you my Problem. Not now. Later. Maybe. See, in my line of work it doesn’t pay to broadcast one’s Problem. Word gets around and I become an easy target. And even with my debilitating Problem and pathetic life, I prefer living. Who knows what Problems They hand out in the afterworld?
●●●
My story’s an old story. I hear from the Mystics who preach the Word of Them that it’s universal. Funny, it seems personal to me, but then I’m the one living it. See, I’m a detective. As such, I need clients. When I don’t have clients, I have no work, no money, no women. No life. So when a client walks in I want to do all I can to get paid.
It wasn’t always like this. I didn’t go into the detective business to go hungry. I became a detective to help out Grant Kirk, the smartest man I ever knew and the founder of our agency. He was great at detecting, but preferred to sit behind a desk. Since I’m not the smartest man I ever knew, I was more than willing to be his runner.
We were at the top of our game, picking and choosing which cases we took, doing jobs for the rich and famous, and helping the city council break apart the Battleboys. You haven’t heard of the Battleboys? They are the heart of organized crime. Oh, and there are several local groups who all call themselves Battleboys. It can get a little confusing.
All the local Battleboy bosses answer to one big boss. Since the local bosses love nothing more than getting one up on each other, we had no problem thwarting various Battleboy crime schemes. From the amount that we were paid for these jobs, I’m guessing the city must have been very appreciative.
I felt that the future looked bright and shiny, which tells you that fortune-telling is not my Problem. Everything changed when Grant’s body was found buried in a shallow grave in the park. He hadn’t been there long, since the grave was dug in the middle of the lucky-toss pit. I guess someone didn’t like us getting so many ringers.
I may have mentioned that Grant was a smart man. He wasn’t just smart, he was insightful. He could look at a person and know if they were innocent or guilty. It was his Problem and it got him killed. He should have stayed behind his desk.
I keep the agency open for Grant and I keep the second desk for Grant’s replacement. In the six months since Grant’s death, that desk has sat empty. No one wants to work with a guy who relies more on luck than on smarts. And I don’t blame them, but I do have to eat.
●●●
My stomach was especially talkative the afternoon a client walked in. Since this was the first client I had seen in a two weeks I was willing to do anything. This client was gorgeous at ten feet away and an overdone gobblebird at three feet. As she introduced herself I took in her custom designed fur coat and discount shoes. Average girl with a rich benefactor. Trouble.
“Please sit down, Miss O’Neal.” I moved a worn plush chair from the wall to the center of the office and offered her the seat. I debated whether to lean on the desk or sit behind it and decided to take a seat so I could enjoy the beauty and not see the truth so plainly. “What’s your problem?” I prompted.
Her pale blue eyes, framed with layers of gaudy make-up, widened. After a moment she relaxed and settled into the chair. “You don’t mean that Problem. You mean, why am I here?” I nodded, though it was only partially true. I like knowing people’s Problem. Safer for me.
“Well, I have been dating Bryan Handle for a while.” She looked up at me. “You know him?”
Nodding, I acknowledged that I knew him. The Handler was the Battleboys’ fixer. He worked for whichever group paid the most. He was also the man who killed Grant. I didn’t think he would make very good boyfriend material, but what did I know? He had a girl and I didn’t.
“One night we were at his place. Just before midnight, Bryan got a visitor. He shoved me into the bathroom and warned me to be quiet. I had never heard him use that voice before, so I obeyed.” She looked up guiltily. “But I couldn’t help listening. That’s my Problem,” she whispered. “Eavesdropping.”
Wasn’t that every woman’s problem? “Miss O’Neal, you shouldn’t be ashamed of your Problem. It’s not like They give us a choice.”
She looked more determined, which did not enhance her appearance. “The two men were talking about a job for Bryan. He was supposed to kill Gary Hooke.”
I raised my eyebrows at that. Gary Hooke had been running for mayor a
gainst five-time incumbent Randy Wills. It looked like he had had a good shot before he was found outside a bordello with his face smashed in by the heel of a stiletto. Death by jilted lover was the prognosis.
“So Bryan the Handler killed Gary Hooke.”
She sniffed a little. “I didn’t want to believe it. Even after Mr. Hooke was found murdered I wanted to believe the news reports.”
I thought a minute. This woman, tearing up the tissue that she had removed from a knock-off purse and, unless I missed my guess, sporting a real diamond ring on the hand holding that tissue, was not the most reliable of witnesses. She could be telling the truth or she could be a shill for the Battleboys. I hadn’t tangled with the Battleboys since Grant’s death but we had met often in the past. Did I want to tangle with them now? My stomach rumbled and I decided I did.
“Do you have any evidence to support what you heard?” She raised her tear-drenched, make-up smeared eyes to me and I back-pedaled. No point offending her and causing her to leave. “Not that I don’t believe you. It’s just that the police need more than hearsay.”
She nodded. “I dated a lawyer before Bryan. He talked a lot about his work.”
She dated a lawyer and the Handler. I wondered if she had ever dated a loan shark. My stomach grumbled again. It was time to get to the money. “What can I do for you?” I hoped she wasn’t looking for a date.
She placed a micro-recorder on my desk. “I made a recording of the conversation Bryan had with his visitor and I’d like you to get it to the police.”
“You just happened to have a recorder on you?”
She shrugged. “One of my past boyfriends gave it to me. I kept it when we broke up.”
I wondered who that boyfriend had wanted her to eavesdrop on but let it drop. Insulting my client wasn’t going to get me paid.
“You want me to take a recording to the police?” This sounded way too easy. “Why don’t you just do it yourself?”
“I’m being followed.”
I just stared at her. Yup, too easy. “Who is following you?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. I just know that every time I get near the police station I get stopped by large men with guns on their belts and told that it would be best if I didn’t go into the police station.”
“So Bryan knows that you have a recording?”
Miss O’Neal nodded and wouldn’t meet my eyes. I suddenly had a bad feeling I wasn’t going to like what I heard. “How does Bryan know you have a recording?”
She whispered so low I didn’t catch what she said. I asked her to speak up.
“Bryan can read minds.”
“Are you saying…?” I couldn’t repeat it out loud. Miss O’Neal looked up at me and smiled.
“It’s his Problem. He can read minds. He always says he loves my company because my thoughts aren’t as noisy as other peoples.”
“So he knows you have a recording and he knows you eavesdropped.” This could explain why he was so good at his job. “Excuse me for asking, but why hasn’t he killed you?”
Miss O’Neal laughed. “I told you, he loves me.”
“But he knows you’re going to turn in evidence against him to the police.”
“Well, yes, but he wouldn’t kill me just because of that. I talked to a friend and he insisted I turn in the recording. I agreed that I would.”
I added delusional to gobblebird and decided I didn’t want to ask any more questions. “So you want me to get the recording to the police.”
“Yes. I plan to leave town for a few days. Once the big men with the guns realize that I don’t have the recording they’ll leave me alone.”
I realized that she didn’t know that the big men with guns were working with Bryan. “Miss O’Neal. I would suggest you go away permanently. These men are not going to give up.”
“Yes they will. You turn in the recording and they’ll know I am not a threat anymore.”
I sighed. This woman was living on borrowed time. Who knew better than me how persistent the Battleboys could be. But if getting the recording to the station would ease her mind – and get me paid – than that I could do.
“Sure. I can get this to the police. Where can I reach you?”
We hammered out the details and she paid me half in advance, always a good incentive. After she left I looked out the window and watched her walk down the street. From this distance with her blond hair blowing around her pale face and her fur hugging her curves she was a sight to behold. Too bad it was a façade. I didn’t think Bryan would feel bad about disposing of her.
Two Battleboys who I recognized fell into step behind her. A third stayed where he was and watched the front door of my office building. He never looked up at me so I figured they didn’t know exactly where my office was located.
If they caught me with the recording I was as dead as Grant, not something I wanted on an empty stomach. Or a full one, for that matter. Turning away from the window I knew just the place to hide the micro-recorder.
The legs of Grant’s antique desk were covered in animal carvings; his desk was an ornate solid wood masterpiece. Mine was a metal rattletrap covered in grooves and coffee stains, but I never once considered switching to the nicer one – Grant’s polished desk was where smart men sat. I pushed the nose on the bear’s head and a hidey-hole under the desk popped open.
I was about to place the recorder in the small drawer when a piece of paper caught my eye. It was folded inside the drawer and I carefully removed it in case it held something important. I opened it up and read Grant’s neat writing. And then I frowned. The note made no sense to me. I read it again out loud, hoping to channel some of Grant’s wisdom.
“The best place to hide something is where everyone assumes it will be. Trusts no one.”
I read it again, and then a fourth time. I read it backwards and even turned it upside down hoping for enlightenment. I finally decided there was no hidden meaning. Grant was telling me to carry the recorder with me. Apparently I was also to trust no one. The extra ‘s’ at the end of trust seemed odd, but not odd enough to dwell on. The warning was unnecessary as I rarely trust anyone. Did I trust this note from my partner who wasn’t smart enough to stay alive?
Well, I always listened to Grant before. That was why he kept me around; I was his willing disciple. No point in changing now. I shrugged, put the note back, and closed the secret drawer.
I was wearing a pair of pants that had once belonged to Grant. Besides being smarter than me, he was also taller. Since I had no money for a tailor I simply turned up the cuffs a couple times in a way I thought was quite dashing. I rolled down the cuff on my left leg and attached the recorder to the edge of the fabric with tape I found in Grant’s desk. I then recuffed the leg, thus hiding the recorder from anyone who may search me to find it. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have to give up my pants for any reason.
I didn’t plan to make it easy for the Battleboys to catch me so I left through the service door. If they only left one man watching my building he couldn’t cover all the exits. Plus, he wouldn’t know that I had spotted him and therefore wouldn’t assume I gave him the slip.
I headed over to Spaniels, my favorite restaurant. I had not eaten there since before Grant died, but since I had Miss O’Neal’s money I felt I deserved to splurge on a plate of woolybaa chops, a baked potato, and sliced tomatoes while sitting in leather finery.
Three of the Battleboys’ finest – not fastest, but finest – ambushed me as I came out of Spaniels. I spun out of their grasp, and without thinking, ran into the deserted part of town, where the crumbling, asphalt streets were strewn with trash. Not a high priority area for the current mayor.
As I ran, the footsteps behind me stayed constant. I cursed Miss O’Neal for bringing this mess to my door. I cursed my decision to become a hard-up detective when I could have gone into the family therapy business. I cursed the fact that I hadn’t thought of running to the police station, and instead was being chased down darker an
d darker streets.
I ran by several dilapidated buildings occupied by vagrants. Perhaps I could hide with the homeless before the Battleboys saw me turn. I swerved to my right and froze. I don’t mean I froze figuratively. I mean I froze literally. Because you see, that’s my Problem.
The therapists call it Statuism. Only three other people have it, and I’m the only Sporadic. I can go months with no symptoms or freeze three times in a week. It’s happened at home when I could relax and wait it out. It’s also happened on busses where I have ridden the route for hours waiting to return to normal.
Tonight, I tried, as I often do, to move with no success, I cursed Them, Miss O’Neal, Bryan Handle, Gary Hooke, and myself. Of course, it was all in my head since my lips don’t move any more than my legs do.
The sound of heavy footsteps came up behind me, and it didn’t matter that I couldn’t turn my head, I knew who had caught up with me. I expected to get poked any moment. People love to poke statues. It doesn’t matter that I’m a sometimes statue. The pounding got louder and I held my breath, well as much breath as I have being stone, and waited for the pain. See, people think that since I am a statue I don’t feel anything. Well, they would be wrong. Only the outside hardens up. My insides, especially the part of my brain that registers pain, is still up and running.
It took a moment to realize that the footsteps had not stopped. I could hear them getting softer in front of me. Great, these thugs didn’t have the Problem of being geniuses. I sighed as much as a statue can, and prepared to wait out my Problem. Sometimes it only took a few minutes to soften up. Sometimes it took hours. I hoped I was in shadow and no one else would discover me.
Poke.
Ouch.
Poke.
Ouch.
Loud voices surrounded me as they took turns poking my various stony parts. The good news was that I hadn’t been discovered by an unknown stranger. The bad news was that the Battleboys had turned around and realized what had happened. They muttered among themselves about what to do. One of them tried to lift me with no success. I’m a heavy statue. It makes me hard to steal; it also makes me hard to move when I’m in a dangerous location, like the middle of a busy intersection. Right now I was glad I was heavy. Perhaps the thugs would give up.
In Stone Vol. 1-6: The First Six Travis Eldritch Problems (A Travis Eldritch Problem) Page 1
