by Robert Clark
‘Are we just ignoring the fact you possessed me for god knows how long?’
‘We can talk about if you want, but I saved us. You’d be dead if it weren’t for me.’
‘That doesn’t justify-’
‘Ladder, or are we trying something else first?’ he said, cutting me off.
‘We can’t go back for the ladder. We need another plan.’
‘Break into one of these side rooms and start a fire,’ he said. ‘That’ll get them moving.’
‘And it’ll burn the whole place down before I get a chance.’
‘That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it?’ he said. ‘Burn the whole fucking thing down. Those were your words.’
‘Actually, those were my thoughts, when I was angry.’
‘You’re not angry now?’
‘Yes, but I’m controlled.’
‘So burn the place down and be done with it.’
‘No.’
The door to the courtroom opened, and out stepped Cornelius Fenwick. His long, bedraggled beard was tied neat like a ponytail, and easily reached down to his heart. He looked forlorn and exhausted with the world.
‘We are ready to resume,’ he said with a long sigh, as though whatever lay ahead of him was long and tedious. ‘If you would please follow me.’
The group shuffled through the open door, and only when Fenwick had shut it behind him did I move. No ladders required. No fires started.
Not yet, at least.
I took the stairs two at a time, keeping an eye open for any stragglers eager to return to the evening’s proceedings. No one came. It was as though the entirety of the settlement had been called to whatever council took place. I made it up to the second floor and looked around. Still no one about.
Cage’s office door was closed. I pressed my ear up against the wood, but heard nothing on the other side. I tried the handle. Locked. The keyhole was a big, ancient mechanic that would be a pain in the arse to unlock, but I didn’t need to bother with that.
The thing about a locked door is that you immediately see the lock as the obstacle. Understandable, given how much we’re taught to make sure we have our keys and keep a vigilant stance on home security, but there is more than one way through a locked door. First up, you could try to use brute strength around the lock to bust it open. It can work in time sensitive matters, but it’s as loud as busting a door open with brute strength sounds. You can try to pick the lock with the right tools, but you need to have a basic understanding of what it is you’re doing to save yourself hours fumbling around without a clue.
But the method I preferred was one that I could already tell was going to work. I already knew that Cage’s office door swung outwards into the corridor, which meant the hinges were visible from my side of the door. They were large, store-bought items that had seen better days. The metal had chipped and rusted slightly, but they still worked as intended, so no one had thought to replace it.
I took out the screwdriver and looked it over. A flat head was what I wanted, and a flat head was what I got. The tip was a little thicker than I would have liked, but it would have to do. I worked the screwdriver in between the hinge’s knuckle and the top of the pin and, using the hammer to tap it in, forced the pair apart a couple of millimetres. The pin didn’t want to move. Time had aged it, but I was persistent. I worked the screwdriver up and down, up and down, until the pin was far enough out for me to pull it free with my fingers. I moved down to the next hinge and repeated the process.
The door was a tight fit for its frame, so it didn’t move much as I unclipped it from the supports. Using the handle to stop it toppling backwards and making a racket, I eased the door out and rested it against the wall. The bolt of the lock came easily away, completely useless in the current situation. I pocketed the hinge pins and stepped into the office.
The giant mural of Maddox Cage eyed me with silent discontent as I stepped into his office. I looked around, just to make sure no one was hiding in the shadows, then headed straight for the painting. I rested my hands on the frame and heaved it aside.
The wall-mounted safe was still there. I recalled the numbers Cage had told me. Thirty-six, ten, fifty-nine, ninety-seven. The combination. I was sure of it. Only thing left was to find out why the dying man had used his last ounce of breath to give me it.
I twisted the dial left to thirty-six. Paused a second, then turned it right to ten. Left to fifty-nine. Right to ninety-seven. The lock made a satisfying click as the mechanism disconnected, and I pulled the door open, revealing its secrets. What I found inside was not what I had expected. Part of me thought it was a trick, but then, the other part of me wasn’t at all surprised.
The safe was deeper than I had expected, given the width and height of the front of it. It was easily twice its height in depth. Maybe more so. And it was almost entirely full of one thing. Well, one kind of thing.
Cassette tapes. Stacks upon stacks of black plastic casings with little white stickers placed neatly across the spine. It reminded me of Agent Whyte’s tape way back when, with the word “Collateral” written across the tape. Cage’s, however, did not contain the word collateral. Well, not that I could see. His collection was made up of names. Stacked in alphabetical order with someone called Rowan Austin right at the top, the tapes of so many people I had come to meet during my time at Second Solace were visible before me. Lee Corser. Carl Dawson. Jack Dawson.
I cast my eyes down row after row, finding more and more that drew my interest. I took them out in stacks and placed them on the desk, revealing even more behind them. Cornelius Fenwick. Cecilia Mendes. So many cassettes. So many names. Each stack I took revealed more behind them, and only when the desk was full with the small plastic objects was the safe finally empty of cassettes.
Or almost.
Right at the back of the safe were two cassettes. Both were placed on their sides, so the white stickers were blocked from sight. I reached in and took out both. The first was for one Jessica Noble. The other was Tariq Al-Assad.
Twenty-Nine
Below
The name on the cassette had been written on with a black ball-point pen. Twelve little letters, but their meaning was like a shining beacon on a dark and treacherous ocean. I put it down beside Jessica Noble’s cassette and searched through the remaining stack for any I might want. In the end, I took only five. Al-Assad, Agent Noble, Cecilia Mendes, Lee Corser, and James Stone. My own. Whatever had been recorded, I wanted my involvement expunged from existence.
I piled the remaining cassettes back inside the safe and locked it up. I returned the large painting of Cage in place and looked around. Cassettes were a good start, but without anything to play them on, they were as useless as rocks in my pockets.
I checked the drawers on the desk. Nothing but a bunch of pens, notepads and journals in the first drawer. The second was made up of sentimental items. A framed picture sat atop a stack of photographs of Cage in his former glory, but it was the top picture that drew my interest. It showed a young family, all with wide smiles plastered across their faces. The man was Maddox. His hair was dark and bushy. His beard short and trimmed back. Next to him stood Hope. His wife. Her hair was long, all the way down to her shoulders. Her eyes looked warm and hopeful. Her stance was relaxed. Her clothes were clean. A stark contrast to the woman I had met.
And between the happy couple was a girl. Gail. Her blonde hair was shorter and tussled. She had the look of a wild child. Young and curious. Eager to learn the world. All three of them looked happy. They stood before the very building I was in right now. The courthouse. It too looked younger. Brighter, cleaner, less intimidating. A happier time all around.
I smiled and returned the picture to the drawer. No cassette player in there, or any of the other drawers. But there had to be something. I tried to picture Cage. Get inside his mind. Whatever was on those tapes, he had recorded it and stored them here.
I looked around the room and tried to see it differently. Look at it throu
gh the eyes of a man who knew its secrets. When he and I had first talked in this very office, he had strode around with confidence. He knew I wouldn’t see his recording device, and I doubted he would have it on him lest the recording be distorted by the rustling of moving clothes.
I ran my fingers across his desk and thought. Then I had an idea. I bent down and looked under the desk. There it was, taped to the underside was a small, silver device. I picked it free from the tape and looked it over. It was about half the size of a paperback novel. I thumbed the play button on the top and watched the little cog inside the machine turn. I hit stop and pocketed the device and the cassettes and looked around one last time. I had no doubt in my mind this would be my last visit. Come what may, I would either die or escape. But I would never return.
I hauled the door back into place and slid the pins into their sockets. Without the key, I had to leave the door unlocked and slightly ajar, but at least it was better than looking like the Hulk had torn through it.
All I needed now was some place quiet to listen to my findings. I contemplated Gail’s house, but the likelihood of running into her again was too high, and given what had happened last time, I didn’t want to test my luck.
Nor could I so easily just wander back out the way I’d come. If my distraction had run its course, then the two sentries would be back in play. The same would likely be true for the front entrance, so the window it would have to be. I wasn’t bothered about jumping out a second-storey window into snow. I’d survived worse, after all.
I headed left, through the corridor Lee had brought me along immediately after my trial was cut short. I knew there was a window leading out from the library room. That would be my escape route.
‘Hold it right there.’
The shock of the voice nearly made my heart burst out of my chest. I stopped dead. The voice was not one I recognised. The speaker was male, and as I stood rooted to the spot, I heard them approach.
A man skirted around me, pistol raised and trained at my face. His face adorned with a cold, impassive expression. He was not alone. I could hear someone else behind me.
‘Take that axe out of your pocket and drop it on the floor,’ said the man in front of me. I did as I was told. Guns beat axes. As the solid object clattered against the floorboards, I watched the stony-faced man nod to his companion, and seconds later, I felt hands patting at my torso.
The stolen pistol was pulled free and dropped next to the axe. As was the screwdriver and hammer. The tape player was the last to come out.
‘What is this?’ asked the man behind me. His voice was a pitch higher than his gun-toting friend, though there was unmistakable menace in his voice.
‘It’s a recording device,’ I said.
‘Why do you have this?’
‘I like to chronicle my thoughts. I reckon someone would want to make a movie out of my life some day, after the shit calms down.’
That earned me a smack to the side of the head with something hard. I cursed and used the time to get a read on the guy behind me. He was lithe, not far off my own age, and blond-haired. He was not an imposing specimen. He would be the first to go down in a fight, so long as I could convince the pair to lower their weapons and play it old school.
Blondie didn’t wait for me to give an honest answer. Instead, he slipped the device into his jacket pocket and continued his search. Before he could lay a single finger on me, someone else spoke.
‘What is the meaning of this?’
All three of us turned to look at the mystery speaker. Though none of us needed to. The voice was immediately distinctive. Cornelius Fenwick was standing by the door to Cage’s office. In the light of the candle, he looked infinitely older than his aged body already was. Closer to two-hundred than one. With careful, arthritic steps, he hobbled closer to blondie.
‘We found him, Sir,’ said the stoney-faced man. ‘We spotted him trying Cage’s office.’
Fenwick considered his answer, but offered no direct response. Instead, he addressed me.
‘Is that true?’ he asked me. ‘You had business with Maddox, perhaps?’
I pondered telling him the truth about his old friend. I decided against it.
I nodded.
‘Funny,’ Fenwick mused. ‘We were just holding council downstairs about you and Maddox. Cecilia tells me you just murdered him.’
I said nothing. Blondie give me an ireful glare.
‘Peculiar, don’t you think, that the man who murdered our dear leader would make his way here instead of attempting to flee,’ Fenwick said to no one in particular. ‘Perhaps you have come to turn yourself in for your crimes?’
‘No omission of guilt here, I’m afraid,’ I said. ‘But I’d be happy to testify against the real culprit if you’d like?’
‘And who might that be?’ asked Fenwick.
‘Cece pulled the trigger. I bet you could still see the blood and gunpowder residue on her hands, unless she had the common sense to wash it off before pointing the finger at me.’
Fenwick granted me a withered smile that didn’t reach his eyes and unsheathed a knife from his belt. I watched the polished steel glisten in the candlelight. Not the biggest of knives, but knives don’t have to be big to gut you. That’s their charm, or lack thereof.
With surprising agility, he flipped the blade over in his hand, so that his withered fingers coiled around the serrated edge.
‘If there is one thing in this world I truly despise, it is man’s ability to lie,’ said Fenwick, watching the blade between his fingertips.
It all happened with frightening speed. No sooner had the final word left Fenwick’s lips did he spin around on his heel and launch the knife down the corridor. I saw the flash of steel as the blade whizzed past my face, and heard the groan as it hit its target.
The man with the stoney-face barely reacted, save for the expulsion of air that gurgled in his mouth. Only the handle of the knife was left, protruding from his right eye like some sort of bizarre fashion accessory.
A billion thoughts burst into my brain, each vying for attention. Only one was heard, and I hoped beyond hope that it was true. Before Blondie had time to react, I caught him in the throat with my left elbow, and sent a roundhouse punch into the centre of his temple that had him out for the count. Then my eyes met Fenwick.
He seemed unabashed by the encounter, like it had been little more than an attempt to swat a fly out of the sky. He looked at his victim, then at mine.
‘Woman’s too, for that matter.’
I looked at him, momentarily confused.
‘I spotted the blood on Cecilia’s clothes,’ he said. ‘As she told us of your treachery, I suspected there may be foul play. I didn’t expect to be proved right so soon, but such is the way of life sometimes. Now, could you please return my knife?’
I did so without voicing my complaints. The knife was buried deep in the guy’s head, and took more effort than I had thought it would to dislodge it and return it to Fenwick. As I did, I slipped my hand into his pocket and retrieved the recording device. I had expected him to wipe the blade clean and return it to his belt. I was proven wrong. He bent down and slit the unconscious man’s throat without hesitation.
‘I cannot have someone walking around accusing me of turning traitor,’ he said, without looking up at me. ‘Not that I expect things to continue in this state. A fire can only rage for so long without resolution, and I expect the flames will only grow higher over the coming days.’
He wiped his blade on the dead man’s shirt and returned it to its sheath. Then he stood up and outstretched his hand.
‘I believe you and I are overdue a conversation, don’t you think?’ he said with a wry smile.
For an old man, Fenwick could hustle. I suspected the venerable facade I had seen on him before was exactly that. A facade. Atrophy be damned. Fenwick danced through the corridors, his footsteps lighter than feathers on a carpet. He knew the building better than the back of his hand, and before long,
he stopped beside a stretch of empty corridor lined in pictures of notable figures. I recognised Abraham Lincoln, Benedict Arnold, and Robert E. Lee. The painting Fenwick focused on however was that of Christopher Columbus.
‘I always expected it would come to this some day,’ mused Fenwick as he lifted the portrait off the wall, revealing a lever behind it. ‘Too many cooks spoil a broth, and we have been left to cook for far too long.’
He pulled the lever down, and the whole section of wall clicked back. He gave me another smile, replaced the portrait, and pushed.
Behind the secret partition was a ladder. Fenwick gestured for me to go first, which sent alarm bells off in my mind that it was some kind of elaborate trap, but I went anyway. Killing two of your own was a mightily audacious play to ensnare a man already vilified by the community. I placed my hands on the top rung, and lowered myself down.
Fenwick followed, and as he slipped inside, he pressed a button on the wall beside him that caused the passage to close back on itself, robbing us of all light. I continued deeper, hoping that Fenwick wasn’t leading me into a trap, but as my feet hit the ground, I was pleased he hadn’t.
The room was dark and damp. Even though there was absolutely no light, I could sense that we were in some kind of cave. Sure enough, as Fenwick reached the bottom, he pulled out a flip lighter and granted us a small offering of light.
‘I haven’t been down here in decades,’ he mused. ‘Not since the courthouse was built.’
‘What is this place?’ I asked.
‘An old tunnel. We wanted to make sure we had somewhere we could evacuate should the government turn against us,’ said Fenwick. ‘Naturally, we were much more paranoid back then. They never gave a damn what we did. Not until recently.’
He found an oil lantern and bathed the cavern in golden light. I looked around. The walls were jagged and silvery where droplets of water seeped through to the rock. Off to my right, I could tell a path stretched away into the darkness.
