In Stone Vol. 1-6: The First Six Travis Eldritch Problems (A Travis Eldritch Problem)

by Jennifer Vandenberg

  Poke.

  Ouch.

  Shove.

  Crack.

  It felt like my brain had been scrambled, and I think my granite head fractured. I was now lying on my back in the road. Not good. They picked me up, and dropped me, ouch, in the back of a truck.

  As I lay there dazed I realized that even if I cursed everyone for this predicament none of them could help me. Still, I cursed until the world fell away and I passed out.

  ●●●

  “Hey, Mister. Mister, wake up. I believe they are coming back.”

  They. I’m finally going to meet Them? Good. I have a few questions and maybe a few good curses. A shake on my shoulder got me to open my eyes. I was lying on a cot in a cement room. An unlikely place to meet supreme beings.

  Turning my head turned out to be a bad idea. As the light exploded in front of my eyes I saw a blob of red in front of me. The blob shook me again and my eyes cleared. Not a blob, a kid. A kid with more than enough red hair for three people. I focused past the hair and decided he wasn’t really a kid. Just the shortest guy I had ever laid eyes on. Still, he had to be at least 10 years younger than me. It was hard to tell his exact age with his lack of height and the red mop on his head.

  “Don’t shake me, Red, I’m liable to shatter.”

  The guy stepped back as I slowly sat up. Feeling the back of my head I found a bump, but no blood. I guess statues don’t bleed.

  “You are not stone anymore. I am glad. I did not want to be here alone when the bad men came back.”

  I took in his awkward words and stated the obvious. “You’re not from around here.”

  “No, I am from Gregos.”

  That surprised me. Gregos was our nearest sister moon. I had never met anyone from any of the thirteen other moons circling Havor. Before I could ask another question the door banged open, and two of my friends from the street stepped in.

  “Greetings gents,” I quipped. “Sorry if I got a little hard on you.”

  A grunt was all I got. Not talkative, I guess. I watched them warily in case they wanted to get more pokes or shoves in. One of them approached and I got to my feet. My head swam and I grabbed the wall. Big mistake. The walls were covered with something wet and slimy and now so was my hand. I didn’t want to think about what the gunk was I had just picked up so I wiped my hand on the shirt of the Battleboy standing before me.

  “No more poking, my man. We had enough fun on the street.”

  He looked at his shirt and pushed me back down on the bed. It wasn’t hard to do since my knees were still rubbery. “Now that you’re no longer a statue the big man wants to see you.” He grinned a toothless grin. “And not to talk.”

  They left and I leaned against the wall. Great, now I had slime in my hair. As if I needed more proof that I wasn’t the smart one. I rubbed my hand along my leg and felt the recorder in my cuff. Either they hadn’t searched me or they hadn’t thought to look in an obvious place. Considering that Battleboys don’t suffer from the Problem of Intelligence it could be either. I lay down and looked over at the Gregoson.

  “So, what’s your Problem?”

  Red grinned with his whole face. “I love that question. Your moon is so obsessed with problems.”

  “You don’t have Problems on Gregos?” Lucky gobblebirds.

  “We have Gifts from the Gods, but they are always given to help, never to harm.”

  “Gifts. How many do you get?”

  “Some get one, some get ten.”

  I was listening and absorbing. This was better information than what the Mystics taught. Imagine thinking of your Problem as a gift. Crazy.

  “So, how many Problems, I’m sorry, Gifts do you have?”

  “Two. I can detect sincerity in women.”

  “I shrugged. It was odd, but not the most unusual Problem I’d ever heard about. I once had a client whose Problem involved having a dog’s sense of smell.

  “Well, there aren’t any women about, mores the pity, so I guess that won’t help us.”

  “I also have Giantism.”

  That piqued my interest until I looked at the imp. People with Giantism become extra-large people every once in a while. I couldn’t picture the shrimp before me becoming extra-large anything. Perhaps he became a really short giant.

  Before I could ask, the door opened, and I forgot what I was going to say. Up until now I hadn’t figured we were in much trouble. This was based on the assumption that Bryan had been working for one of the local Battleboys bosses, a mean, but dense, gent named Jem Tun. Jem’s territory included the brothel where Gary had been found so it was a logical assumption. Since I’d dealt with him before, I knew I could take him down, both physically and mentally. But it wasn’t Jem who opened the door.

  “It is an honor to meet you, Mr. Travis Eldritch.” The voice was as slippery as the walls of our cell. He looked like everyone’s favorite uncle, and sounded like he could talk you into killing your mother. I shrugged and refused to be impressed by meeting the top dog, the head boss of all the local Battleboys, Manson Hart.

  “You have caused me a great deal of trouble. Was it worth it, just to help a damsel in distress like Miss Felicia O’Neal?”

  I shrugged again. I was tired of cursing, and not surprised that Manson knew about my client. She had been dating the Handler after all.

  “Let me rephrase. Was it worth it to help a dead woman who will never be in distress again?”

  So Miss O’Neal was dead. Well, I always knew she was a gobblebird. My question was whether he intended me to meet the same fate.

  “Are you not interested in why I killed her?”

  I responded with stony silence. Perhaps this was how top Battleboy bosses killed, with dull conversation.

  “Well, if the talk is over than I guess it’s time to dispose of you both. I missed out on killing your partner personally, so I look forward to dealing with you myself.” With that, he whipped out a long black stick with a rubber grip and a guard on one end. I was so stunned I didn’t react. Red grabbed my arm and pulled me back a step. It was a good thing he did; sticklers were nasty weapons. While it did involve getting close to one’s victim, once the stickler touched any skin, it transmitted a poison that killed quickly, but with a great deal of pain. Not my first choice of ways to go.

  I should have been focusing on Manson and his stickler but instead I was trying to process what I had just learned. Manson Hart had ordered the Handler to kill Grant. Why? We weren’t working on anything more incriminating to the Battleboys than normal. I always assumed they killed Grant because he was a nuisance. But if the Big Boss ordered his death then it had to be something important. And I wanted to know why. I kept an eye on the stickler and went for broke.

  “So, Manson, what do you want to talk about? The weather? This great resort? Why you wanted Gary Hooke killed? What Grant had on you?”

  As I spoke I casually sat on the bed as if I didn’t have a care in the world. I saw Manson’s look of confusion and figured if I couldn’t beat him with brains than I would just use dumb luck. To finish the illusion that I didn’t care that he had a deadly weapon in his hand I brought my left leg up onto my right knee and rested my hands on my ankle. I would have leaned back but I’d had enough slime to last a lifetime.

  Manson’s eyes cleared and I knew that he was going to give me answers. He wanted to unnerve me before he killed me. “Gary Hooke was disposable. The current mayor is much better for business.” He twirled the stickler while considering me. “You want to know why I had your partner killed. I could torture you by not telling, but I’d rather use this.” He pointed the stickler at me and I shrugged nonchalantly, hoping I projected bravado even if I didn’t have any. “He had gained information that would have ruined me. Instead of going to the police with it, he attempted to blackmail me. That, I could not tolerate.”

  I didn’t even blink. “Nice try, Hart. But you and I both know that Grant would never blackmail anyone. He didn’t need, too. He was rolling
in dough.”

  “Then why did your agency go defunct so fast?” He smiled and I thought of eight-legged crawlers enticing tinyfliers into their web.

  “It’s hard for someone with my Problem to get steady work. I couldn’t keep up with the cases.”

  “How odd. Most people aren’t that quick to admit their problems. But you are wrong in your assumption. Anyone is capable of blackmail.”

  “Anyone but Grant,” I insisted.

  Hart nodded. “I am impressed. Your belief in your dead friend is commendable. I believe in rewarding loyalty so I shall answer one question before I kill you and this other loose end.” Manson pointed the stickler toward Red. I had almost forgotten he was in the room; he had been so quiet and still.

  I didn’t hesitate to bring Manson’s focus back to me. “What did Grant have on you?”

  “He learned that the Battleboys were going into politics. He had a list in his possession that would have proved beyond a doubt how much of a puppet the current mayor is.” He twirled the stickler. “As the puppeteer I couldn’t allow that so I had him eliminated. I now have that list.” He picked a piece of lint off his jacket just as he had picked Grant off.

  “You are disposable too, as is he.” He glanced at the imp. “You should not have protected her, Mr. Jet Moored. She was nothing.”

  “She was a sincere friend.”

  “There are no friends, sincere or otherwise. There are only those who want to use you. The goal is to use them first. With you two and Miss O’Neal dead that recording is never going to make it to the police.” Manson stared hard at both of us, as though he could imprint that paranoid thought in our heads.

  In that moment, I realized that Grant had given me the answer. He had known Manson’s Problem and now, thanks to Grant’s note, I did too – he couldn’t trust people. He believed everyone would betray him when the time was right. That was why he assumed Grant was capable of blackmail. That was also why he had Miss O’Neal followed. Perfect. I loved knowing people’s Problem.

  “You know, Manson, you’re not thinking this through. Would I really walk around without protection, unless I had given the recording to someone before I went to the police?” I paused, but now he remained silent. “No, I like my skin too much. So, you can kill me if you want, but when this person realizes I am gone he will simply get the recording to the police and they will hunt you down.”

  Frowning, Manson took a step back. He twirled the stickler again and contemplated what I said. I knew he didn’t want to trust my words, but I also knew that he knew his own weakness. He wanted to believe me, just to overcome his Problem.

  Finally, he moved to the door. “In the morning you will tell me this person’s name. We shall see what happens then.” He left and shut the door firmly behind him.

  I glanced over at Jet. He seemed okay, but I wasn’t sure. “You and Miss O’Neal were friends?” It seemed an odd mix.

  “She was one of the few sincere women I have met on this moon.” He sighed. I suspected it was a casual acquaintance since he wasn’t too upset. “She was staying with me when those thugs showed up and dragged both of us out of the apartment.”

  “That had to be hard on you,” I said, not sure if that was the right thing to say or not. I wasn’t used to consoling anyone.

  “It was a nice apartment and they were very destructive in their search for the recorder. Miss O’Neal told them she did not have it, but they did not believe her.”

  “Well, I’m sorry she died.” At least I got one good meal out of her retainer since I would never see the rest.

  Jet shrugged. “She was a gobblebird, but she tried to do what was right.”

  I couldn’t have said it better so I kept quiet.

  “I am sorry to hear about your partner,” Jet said.

  “Yeah, that was a bit of a shock.”

  Jet said nothing else, but I was glad he was here. Misery loves company.

  “You did well,” Jet said at last as he sat down beside me on the cot.

  “Sure, postponed death by six hours. Maybe I can make up a name that will make him forget us.”

  “There is no second person?”

  “No. There’s only me. Nowadays I work alone.”

  “So the recording is hidden and when he kills us Miss O’Neal will have died in vain.

  Pretending to scratch my ankle, I tapped my leg cuff and turned off the recorder. I wanted to tell Jet about it, but I didn’t know who else was listening and I had already said enough. If they got a hold of the recorder it would be lights out for both of us.

  I wished I could come up with a clever plan; I have often wondered if dumb luck was a second Problem I received. But no, Grant had convinced me that it was just my personality. He always said that dumb luck would keep me alive, but now it appeared I needed brains and none were to be found.

  “I’m not hopeful about tomorrow. Not much stops a Battleboy boss.”

  “Would a giant?”

  “I hate to tell you Red, but you’re rather short for a giant.”

  “I am a Timely.”

  I sat up just a little and didn’t dare to hope that I could be that lucky. Timely Problems were marked by the calendar. The Problem could occur yearly, monthly, or weekly but always at the same time on the same day.

  “How often to you change?”

  “Monthly.”

  “When do you change again?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “When tomorrow?”

  “Sunrise.”

  Now I dared to hope. “Are you an impressive giant?”

  Jet grinned. “Yes, big and bulky. And very strong.”

  “Great. Let’s get started on a plan.”

  Jet had a quick mind and he laid out an elegant plan that hopefully would get us out of this dank hole and capture us a Battleboy boss as well. It was a long shot since all we had to work with was his brains, his strength, and my dumb luck.

  You might think I would have tossed and turned all night knowing that if we failed we were sure to die a hideous death. Actually, I slept soundly. Sleep is not a problem of mine. As you know, turning into a statue is.

  ●●●

  The room was just as dim when I woke up and the walls were just as slimy. Due to the height of the room and the round entrances I began to think we were in the sewer system. Realizing that, I decided I did not want to know what made the slime. I sat up and tested my head. It seemed solid, if not rock hard. I looked to see how Jet was – and staggered back against the wall. Even the slime couldn’t distract me – curled up in the corner was a giant.

  I know, Jet told me he experienced Giantism. It’s just that he was so small I didn’t think he would get that big. And he was big. Probably twelve feet tall uncurled and he must have weighed 800 pounds. He was clothed in a large blue poncho that looked like a tent. I didn’t know where he got it from, but I was grateful that I didn’t have to see how large certain parts of him were.

  It was time to get up, but I was hesitant to wake Jet. Would he be the same sardonic, curious imp on the inside, or did he become a big, bad private detective eater? After a moment, I decided to chance touching him. After all, my personality didn’t switch when I change so why would Jet’s?

  I shook his bare foot and nothing happened. I shook him a little harder and got a snort. I called his name and finally knocked on his head. Jet the giant stretched and caught me with one muscular arm about the size of a tree trunk. I flew backward against the wall and covered my back with slime for the second time that morning. If I kept this up I’d be able to blend into the room. I moved away from the wall and Jet as he sat up.

  “Good morning, Travis.”

  “Morning, Jet. How do you deal with this every month?”

  Jet chuckled. It was deep and rumbling, like rocks rolling down a mountain. “Most of the time I prepare by going to an abandoned cabin I know of. It only lasts one day so I sleep and read. I do not get caught in public too often.” He pulled at the poncho. “I carry this
in my backpack just in case.”

  “Yeah. I’m grateful for that.”

  And with that the doorknob turned and the show started.

  I had worried that Manson would send some Battleboys to check us out. Jet was adamant that we not hurt anyone unless they wanted to kill us, and I agreed just to shut him up. But our luck was with us. Manson came in and he didn’t have the stickler out of its sheath.

  Jet lunged at him and Manson yelped – we knew the element of surprise would be our primary weapon. Jet grabbed Manson and held him up by his wrists.

  I was about to tell Jet to knock him out when two Battleboys came into the room. I punched and kicked, but they got two in for every one of mine. Then one of the Battleboys grabbed me from behind and the other started pummeling me. Before I could respond Jet had dropped Manson and grabbed a Battleboy in each hand. I clapped my hands together and he got the message. The Battleboys crashed together like cymbals and slumped to the floor.

  I worried that Manson might run and we would have no leverage. Instead it was worse. He was still in the room but now he had the stickler out. I started to back up, but Jet couldn’t. He stayed just out of arms length, studying how to get to Manson. Manson was waving the stickler haphazardly, as if he didn’t know how to use it as a sword. His eyes darted between us and I realized what he planned to do. No matter what, I had to stop him.

  Manson switched his handhold and brought back his arm; he was going to use the stickler as a spear and Jet was his target. As large as Jet was there was nowhere he could hide. I ran between the two of them and put my arm up just as Manson threw the stickler right at Jet’s chest.

  I expected pain and death. Just my dumb luck, what I got was rock. Standing stock- still, I held the stickler in my outstretched hand like a statue of an athlete. I hoped Jet could take care of himself because I was just going to be hanging around for a while. I heard Jet roar; the vibration of his footsteps had me rocking back and forth. Jet’s cries became quieter and I assumed he was chasing Manson down the tunnel. So close, we were so close, and now I was as stuck as ever.