by Alex P. Berg
I didn’t have long to contemplate the matters. Within seconds, Quinto and I stood in front of the door to unit six, the rest of the crew standing behind us. With my foot twitching in false anticipation, I slipped the key into the lock, twisted, and threw open the door.
Quinto burst into the room first, but I was right behind him, Daisy clenched in my fist like a gleaming, foot-and-a-half long bringer of headaches and bad news. Quinto headed right, as did I, given it was the only direction in which motion was possible. The room was barely bigger than a closet and held only a bare, wire-framed bed, a battered dresser, and an enameled washbasin that had lost the majority of its enamel over the years. Together, we confirmed what the front desk clerk had already suggested.
“He’s gone,” I said.
Quinto nodded, and the Rodgers/Steele/Wyle triumvirate poured into the tiny room like so much meat into a sausage casing. Luckily, the shutters on the room’s sole window had been thrown open, otherwise we might’ve soon run out of air.
Wyle didn’t seem to notice the cramped conditions. He pushed forward past me, muttering to himself. “Yes. Yes. He was here. I can feel it. It’s like the ripple just started, like it’s still spreading. Wow, it’s strong. Much stronger than I’d thought it would be. I wonder what that means? Nothing good, I bet. Perhaps some big event happened here? But there’s no dead body, so perhaps the event has yet to transpire…”
I started barking orders. “Quinto, see if you can find anything in that dresser. Shay, check the bed. Rodgers…oh, just stay by the door. This place is too small for us all to move at once. And Harland, buddy. Focus.” I snapped my fingers at the guy. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m impressed you led us here. But in case you didn’t notice, we have a problem. Scar Face isn’t here. So where is he?”
Wyle shrugged. “I don’t know. I told you, I can’t track people, only fluctuations in the temporal vibrations.”
“So you have no idea where Scar Face is?” I asked. “Surely if he’s not here, there must be some other vibrations or whatnot going on elsewhere. Stuff you can track?”
“I, uh…don’t know,” said Wyle. “This stuff is indistinct, sometimes. The time streams ebb and flow, kind of like the tides. Maybe the ripples are ebbing right now.”
Steele had knelt next to the bed and patted it down. She’d stuck her head under the mattress to check for hidden loot—it was amazing how many times we found clues under beds—but at Wyle’s latest remark she pulled her head back and stood.
“Oh, come on,” she said. “Vibrations? Ebbing and flowing like tides? What can’t these time streams do? Except lead us where we need to go, of course. That would be too convenient. And there’s nothing under the bed, by the way.”
“Not much in the dresser either,” said Quinto, his big bass voice rumbling and his arms stuck elbow deep in the drawers. “No food. No extra clothes. And no claw hammer. That would’ve been nice to find. But there does appear to be one thing the guy left behind.”
Quinto pulled his arms out, and in his hands he held a small notebook. From my vantage point next to him, I could see a clear spot pattern on the front cover comprised of small red dots. A blood spatter.
“Holy crap,” I said. “Quinto, set it on the dresser. Let’s have a look.”
“Here, let me see,” said Steele. She shoved Wyle down on the bed none too gently as she squeezed past to get beside me and Quinto.
“Don’t worry about me, guys,” said Rodgers. “I’ll just, uh, stay here by the door. You know I don’t care much for solving convoluted, brain-bending mysteries, anyway.”
I would’ve felt bad for Rodgers if I wasn’t so desperate to find out what secrets the notebook’s pages held. With a reverential hand—or as close as Quinto could get, his paws were like oven mitts—he flipped the blood-stained journal open to the first page. Among the stains were a few short notes, scrawled in a sloppy script:
D. Gill:
B. Gill? No dice. Crazy. Dementia? Not buying it. Last seen ~6 years ago. Met for lunch. Destello’s, uptown. Worth checking. Sentimental. Old haunts?
- Try old department. U of NW. Physics & Astronomy? Stakeout.
- Last known address: 4044 Wayland Ave., Apt. 212 – Check. No go.
D. Gill USELESS. Too bad, so sad. smash smash time Gill
A. Gill (Crestwick?): 516A Bartleby Ln.- Try next
- No B. Gill address damnit
“They’re Scar Face’s notes,” I said. “From when he murdered Darryl Gill. He’s looking for Buford.”
“He took everything else, but left the notebook?” said Quinto. “That can only mean…”
We all knew what it meant.
“Next page,” I said. “Quick.”
Quinto flipped to another blood-spattered page.
A. Gill/Crestwick:
Last correspondence with B. Gill: 4 years ago. Better.
- B. Gill not in right mind? Drugs? Doesn’t make sense. Science papers clear.
- Recluse. Set in ways. Resistant to change. Back to childhood home, perhaps?
- Try Folsom Park. Mornings. Sentimental. *OLD HAUNTS*
- Brookside Cemetery. Wife’s grave. GOOD.
- Physics and Astronomy Dept? No go, sweetie. Tried & failed.
Four fingers down. No address. A. Gill a WASTE.
The page ended in a bloody trail of what I could only assume was Anya’s spent life force.
“That can’t be it,” I said. “Try the next page.”
Quinto obligingly flipped again, this time to a page populated by doodles and scrawls interspersed with the occasional loose word or phrase. A few words had stars next to them, or clusters of dots nearby, as if someone had tapped a pencil against the word in thought over and over again.
Drugs. Dementia. Mental Ward?… … …Physics is the key?
**OLD HAUNTS** … … Dead wife’s grave is cold. No flowers…
Come out come out, wherever you are Gillsey… … Uptown?
Sentimental…? … … Astronomy. Good view for telescopes. Where?
In addition to the doodles and scrawls, the words ‘OLD HAUNTS’ had been circled several times.
“Anything else?” I asked.
Quinto flipped, but the rest of the notebook appeared to be empty of everything but stains that had bled through from the other pages.
“Mind if I have a look now?” said Rodgers.
“Sure, sure,” I said. I passed the journal to Shay and she handed it to Rodgers.
“So, Scar Face is out there looking for Gill Sr.,” I said. “But he doesn’t know where he is. Unless he finally figured it out. An old haunt of his, if his doodling is any indication. But where? The graveyard? An observatory?”
“Look, Harland,” said Shay to Wyle, “if you were holding anything back earlier, anything that might help us find Gill and save his life, this would be the time to come forth.”
Wyle stammered. “I… I told you. I don’t know. I swear. The time streams led here. I don’t know why. Maybe Gill’s not important. Maybe it doesn’t matter if he dies after all.”
“Excuse me?” said Shay. “That’s not exactly how we operate around here. And unless you want to be implicated—”
I racked my brain as Shay silenced Wyle with a stern talking to. What could Scar Face have discovered? Darryl and Anya had both apparently thought Gill Sr. was a little out of his right mind. Why? He was sentimental, and he was attached to old haunts. That was the key. But what were his haunts?
If only we knew more about the man: the places he frequented when he was younger, his favorite eateries, his likes and dislikes, the methods behind his apparent madness. But all we knew about him were his professional exploits, the details of his career as a scientist, a physicist, and an astronomer…
I felt a prick in my mind, the bite of a sudden thought. It wasn’t a common occurrence, by any means, but I knew it when I sensed it.
“Steele,” I said.
She paused midway through her impromptu interrogation of Wyle. “Yea
h?”
“Your dad’s a chemist, right?”
Steele narrowed one eye. “I can’t even recall how many times I’ve told you the answer to that question.”
“Does he or did he by any chance work at the University of New Welwic?” I asked.
My partner shook her head. “No, he’s a working professional, not a professor.”
I clicked my tongue. “Damn.”
“Where are you going with this, Daggers?” said Steele.
“It’s something the guy at that research journal headquarters, Dr. French, mentioned,” I said. “He said Buford Gill was fired after a dustup following the Department’s restructuring into Physics and Astronomy from Physics and Chemistry. He mentioned the old building was condemned, but he didn’t say anything about it having been demolished.”
“So?” said Quinto. “Some of those university buildings are pretty old. It’s possible the university wanted to tear it down but the city designated it as a historical landmark.”
I held up a hand and ticked off fingers. “Physics. Astronomy. Sentimental. Old haunt.”
“Wait,” said Steele, her eyes widening. “Are you suggesting…?”
“I am,” I said. “Let’s go.”
32
Despite the difficulties involved in transporting five people, one of them a prisoner, via rickshaw, we did it anyway because time was of the utmost priority. Steele and I stuffed Wyle between us and told our driver to hoof it to the university stomping grounds.
As the wheels clattered and our driver huffed and puffed, Shay suffered a sudden recollection. She did know why the old Physics and Chemistry building had been condemned. Her father had related the news in passing once. An experiment conducted by one of the chemistry professor’s graduate students had gone horribly wrong, leading to a large release of mercury vapor throughout the building. That had been the impetus for the separation of the fields and the establishment of the new Physics and Astronomy department.
As soon as the word ‘mercury’ escaped Shay’s lips, I recalled Scar Face’s scrawl about dementia, and I knew my suspicions were correct. I told our struggling rickshaw driver to hurry, promising yet another silver eagle from the precinct coffers as motivation.
After what seemed to me an eternity but was probably only about twenty minutes, we unloaded in front of the old U of NW Physics and Chemistry building, which according to the somewhat vine-covered plaque next to the boarded-shut front doors was actually the Professor James T. Oroblatt Memorial Physics and Chemistry building.
I’d expected to find a boarded up husk of a building with bricks crumbling to dust and mortar falling out in chunks, opening yawning chasms into an inky, black, ruinous interior, but other than the boarded up part, I couldn’t have been more wrong—or at least, I think I was. I couldn’t see enough of the bricks to know what sort of condition they were in. Green tendrils coursed over the building’s two-story exterior, thick, leafy vines that twisted and turned and dug their prickly feelers into the tiny crevices between the bricks to gain a foothold. They swarmed over the façade and onto the roof, turning the structure into a living, breathing green rectangular box.
“Tell me what you’re feeling, Wyle,” I said as I scanned the front of the building for gaps in the boards which a human might be able to fit through.
“I’m not feeling anything,” he said.
“Really? Nothing?” I said. “No ripples, no tides, no underwater temporal farts?”
Wyle rolled his eyes at my last comment. “No. None.”
I frowned. I was losing confidence in the guy. Either he’d used information he’d chosen not to share with us to lead us to Scar Face’s flophouse, or his tracking powers, whatever they might be, were so anemic as to be essentially useless. Without asking, I already knew which of the two options my partner suspected was true, which was about as close to psychic ability as I could muster.
Quinto and Rodgers dismounted from their rickshaw behind us, less than a minute off our pace. I didn’t bother bringing them up to speed on Wyle’s lack of helpfulness.
“Alright,” I said. “We need to find a way into this place. Let’s spread out and—”
“No need,” said Shay, pointing down and to the right. “Missing basement window. We should be able to squeeze in through there. Might be a tight fit for Quinto, though.”
I had to squint to see it, but sure enough, half-hidden behind an overzealous dog rose bush, was an open basement lookout window, and Steele hadn’t been kidding. I’d have to hold my breath to get through. Quinto might have to jog a few miles and rearrange his ribs to accomplish the same.
“Ok, follow me, everyone,” I said. “And watch out for those prickles. They’re a pain if you get them under your skin.”
“Wait,” said Wyle. “Even me?”
“Especially you,” I said. “I don’t want you out of our sight until we have Scar Face under lock and key at the precinct.”
Harland had the gall to look indignant, but he swallowed the look away after Quinto jabbed him in the back toward the open window.
True to my word, I led the way. I pushed the bush to the side, slipped my feet through the opening, pinched my shoulders, and slid down. My feet hit the floor with a crunch, turning the window’s broken glass fragments into slivers. In the dim light, I could make out a few lonely metal tables, some with built in cabinets underneath, but not much else. The space appeared to be a lab, but everything of value had long since been removed.
The broken glass crunched in agony as the rest of the crew descended into the basement, including, to my surprise, Quinto, who came last.
I eyed the big guy. “Nicely done. You lose any skin?” I rubbed my ribs in emphasis.
“Not even sand paper has much of an effect on me, Daggers,” said Quinto. “In a fight between me and a window sill, I think the entire frame would give way before I’d be affected.”
“Good to know,” I said. “I’ll save my money instead of getting you that pumice stone for your birthday, then.”
Quinto chuckled.
“Are you done?” said Shay. “We have a murderer to catch, if you recall.”
“Sorry. Just trying to lighten the mood in case Buford Gill is already dead.” I reached into my jacket pocket and retrieved Daisy. “Rodgers. Quinto. Why don’t you start with the basement? Keep Wyle with you. Steele and I will head up to the top floor. You work your way up and we’ll work our way down. If we meet in the middle without either of us having found anything, we’ll reevaluate. Keep your eyes peeled and watch out for murdering psychopaths. And stay quiet.”
I nodded to my partner. She gulped and nodded back, a familiar look plastered across her face, one I’d come to associate with a combination of nerves, fear, and excitement. I experienced the same cocktail of emotions anytime I anticipated action, but I don’t think it showed on my mug as clearly as it did on Shay’s, possibly because my cheek and jaw muscles had lost some of their flexibility after a decade of taking punches and truncheon blows to the face.
I stepped into the hallway, carefully working my way toward the stairs as my eyes continued to adjust to the thick, murky gloom. Despite the bright, late afternoon sun shining outside, the interior of the Physics and Chemistry building was as dark as a tomb thanks to the heavy planks nailed over the windows. My feet stirred dust motes up from the floor, sending them drifting lazily through thin rays of light that squirmed through the gaps between the boards.
I picked up speed as I reached the stairs, pausing only to make sure Shay stayed close behind. Two flights up, I pushed through a swinging door, my nightstick held before me, and stepped into a deserted hallway.
I moved efficiently and, despite my size, quietly, checking rooms to my right and left with nothing more than a couple glances, a pair of pricked ears, and the occasional sniff. Most were empty, and all smelled of must and cold metal. Shay stayed two paces behind me the entire time, making no more noise than a mouse wearing moccasins.
After peering
into a half-dozen rooms on either side of me, I noticed an aura of brightness ahead emanating from an open doorway at my right, what would be the back side of the building. An unshuttered window, I reasoned. I crept forward, pausing at the lip of the door. I glanced at Steele and brought a finger to my lips. She nodded.
I sprung forward into the light—caused by a single loose window board, I soon realized—into what essentially amounted to a squatter’s den, but not just any squatter. I spotted two bookshelves packed with textbooks and scientific journals up against the left wall, a mobile chalkboard covered with complex equations, and a shiny, brass telescope propped up underneath the window, its objective lens placed in the gap liberated from the fallen board.
Given my keen deductive sense, I surmised we’d found Buford’s Gill’s private quarters, and I would’ve realized that even if I hadn’t seen the old man’s body, lifeless and bloody, prone on a mattress in the middle of the floor.
I approached the body and kneeled. “Shit. We’re too late.”
I tried to tell myself the old guy could’ve been any random physics- and astronomy-obsessed squatter retiree, but the lines in his face and along the side of his jaw shared too much with those of Darryl and Anya for that to be possible. It was definitely Buford Gill lying on the ground before me, the left side of his skull a bloody wreckage of bone fragments and gray matter. I glanced at his hands. He wasn’t bound, and his fingers hadn’t been smashed. Apparently, unlike his progeny, he hadn’t been tortured, but that didn’t make him any less dead.
Shay stepped into the room and to my right, over by the guy’s feet. “How recent is it?”
