Vaults of Arebus

by Samonosuke

A psychopathic killer solves mysteries to satisfy his own criminal urges. What happens when his bloodied past catches up to him?

The Vaults of Arebus

He hated the screams. They echoed round and round, the building, night and day. Some were shrill and loud; others low and soft, almost whimpers. In the dark, the sounds of pain and suffering lost all form and they became more of an ambient nature, like the supposed din of the subway he had read about. It wasn't as if they bothered the young blue-eyed boy, he had long outgrown fear. They simply disturbed the concentration needed for his studies. Furrowing his pale brow and smoothing over a stray lock of hair, the boy summoned all his will to block out the distractions and bring his mind back to the time and place at hand. It was a squat place, his little "classroom". A simple eight by ten room, dark and windowless. The only light was a small pool brought about by a single bulb, hanging naked from the ceiling. There was no sun here, no time. There was only the Lehrer and the Aktor. And him, the Forscher. The blue-eyed child picked up a small metal paperclip and with the ease of many years of practice bent it into a crude Y, which he pinned to the gray Oxford shirt of his school uniform. Seeing how the Aktor's eyes caught the glimmering object, the child smiled, showing a full mouth of teeth. A strange sight on this already strange ten year-old. "You are mine." The child said, his voice squeaking with immaturity. At the mention of these words, a strange rapture came over the Aktor's features. His body slumped in his seat and his eyes glazed. Seeing his catatonia, the child reached into the pocket of his denim shorts and withdrew a small two-shot derringer. He placed it on the table in front of the Aktor. "Take it." He said in that strange high-pitched tone, as one might offer a piece of candy or a snack. The Aktor's hand closed around the tiny weapon. "Taste it." Retaining his sightless stare, the Aktor complied and stuck the handgun in his mouth. "Pull the trigger." Without hesitation the Aktor's finger applied the appropriate pressure. As the man bloodied skull slumped to the table and the smell of gun smoke filled the air, the Lehrer smiled.

"Good job, Schwarze-Zunge. Good job."

Eleven years later…

Private Detective Luke Doyle's profile described him as five foot eight inches tall, dark haired, and blue eyed. The person who composed the report when on to note him as handsome, neat, and well-mannered. To quote the report directly, he was "of such exceeding charm and graciousness that everyone he met, from lowly criminals to high-borne aristocracy, found him enchanting and endlessly captivating." So when the man appeared at the Arebus estate, Miss Jane, the servant of the house who had been given the report and strict instructions to wait for the detective, was stunned. He was indeed around five feet eight inches, dark haired, and blue eyed, but all similarities between the man and his written reflection ended there. His dark hair erupted in tangle from his head and cascaded down his back in messy curls until it halted at his waist. His blue eyes, which Miss Jane admitted were certainly of a lovely shade, stared back at her from within dark circles that spoke of sleepless nights and were set upon skin so pale he seemed more spectre than man. He was clad only in a pair of loose-fitting day-old blue jeans and a wrinkled grey Oxford shirt with several missing buttons, revealing a physique that while quite healthy, Miss Jane thought with a blush, was covered with several scars and what appeared to be a burn mark above his left breast. Noticing her stare, a bizarre mixture of fascination and horror, Doyle removed a small silver pin from the pocket of his blue jeans and, bending the object into a crude G, clasped his shirt together.

"The Arebus estate, I presume." The detective said when he reached the front door and the waiting servant. He cast one eye on Miss Jane. She was nineteen, pretty, and tawny-haired, at the age where maturity was beginning to drop the lines of baby fat that had previously marked her.

"Yes sir. Please do come in." Miss Jane said. As the private detective stepped across the threshold into the foyer, Miss Jane noticed for the first time that the strange man was entirely barefoot. Muttering to herself about the eccentricities of detectives, she led the way into the parlor where the family, her masters and his clients, waited. The parlor was of splendid design, a mixture of Greco-revival and French Gothic that assaulted the senses and brought to glaring light the fact that the Arebus family was both very traditional and very, very wealthy. The beauty and opulence of his surroundings held no power over the detective, whose sharp eyes were immediately drawn not to the décor or the disapproving glances of the Arebus family, but to the prone and unmoving body that lay upon a nearby couch. Crossing the room quickly, he knelt by the unmoving figure and allowed his keen blue eyes scour over him. In a matter of minutes, Doyle had performed the necessary investigation and turned to address his clients.

"Here is my analysis. By the looks of his dress, cut, and stature, it is clear that this is none other than the murder victim John Walter Arebus, the man whose death you have hired me to ascertain. Judging by the temperature of the skin, the color, and his serene expression, he was killed within in the hour without a struggle. I suspect poison. There is a good chance the murderer is still here, no doubt among those gathered in this very room. As such, I would like to take this time to make detailed notes of each of you." He pointed to Miss Jane. "Starting with you."

"But you…" Miss Jane started.

"Please, no questions until I've finished my investigation." He said, cutting her off, "Now what is your cell phone number?" To her credit, the stunned servant managed to give him the number, but before he could continue his questioning, he was interrupted by the young maidservant once again.

"What I was trying to say, Mr. Doyle, is that the person on the couch is not the deceased Master John. It is his brother Master David, who is plagued by such terrible pains that he is often given sedatives. The man on the couch is merely sleeping."

"And where would Mister David get sedatives that would induce such a state?" he asked, a challenge in his voice.

"Why, from his doctor Mr. Gudenstarch sir." She answered meekly, gesturing with her eyes over the detective's shoulder. He followed her gaze and turned once more toward his assembled clients, notching for the first time that one of them was wearing the white coat and gloves of someone in the medical profession. He was tall, over six feet, with slick black hair and steel gray eyes that seem to glimmer with a metallic life of their own behind a pair of old-fashioned metal spectacles.

"Oh" was Doyle's reply. He paused a moment, thinking, then looked once more upon his clients' faces. "If the man on the couch is David Arebus, and the white coated man is his doctor, then you must be…" Doyle spoke slowly and deliberately, his eyes raking over his remaining client. He settled on the condescending features of Angela Arebus. She was a pretty blond of average height, slight of build, and carried herself with remarkable character and strength for someone who had recently lost a loved one.

"Angela Arebus, John's wife." She said coldly, "Shouldn't you have read all this in the case report we sent you?"

"Yes, yes." Doyle said dismissively. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "Then that just leaves…" The detective was stopped in mid speech as a golden Labrador pounded across the parlor floor and tackled him. "And who might this be?" Doyle said with a laugh, rolling around with dog, who at this point was desperately trying to lick his face.

"I'm so sorry, Mr. Doyle!" Miss Jane said, "Oscar usually doesn't take to strangers. Normally all he does is follow the young master Stephen."

"And where is the "young master"?" Doyle asked, standing and giving the dog an affectionate pat, "I don't see him around."

Dr. Gudenstarch rose from his seat near Mr. David and regarded the detective coolly. "Master Stephen has been bedridden with a series of cramps and nausea off and on for the past week." The doctor said, "I shall go see if he can sustain visitors."

"So you're his doctor as well then?" Doyle asked in a surprised voice.

"He is the family doctor, Mr. Doyle." Mrs. Arebus said irritably, "Wasn't this information in the case file we sent to you?"

"Yes, yes. " Doyle said dismissively, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his blue jeans and turning toward Miss Jane. He yawned. "All this parlor talk is boring me. I'd like to see the stiff, if you wouldn't mind." In the stunned silence the tension that had formed between the employee and his employers shot up a notch. David, to his unconscious credit, took the insult in stride. Angela Arebus however, was not nearly as calm as her tranquilized brother-in-law.

"Stiff!" she practically screeched, "How dare you refer to my husband as such! If we weren't in such dire straits I'd…I'd…"

Doyle glanced at Angela leisurely and offered the blond woman a raised eyebrow. "You would do nothing." Doyle finished for her. "You hired me to find the murderer and avoid a public scandal to preserve the honor of your family. You wouldn't dare do anything to compromise that." The harsh ring of truth in Doyle's words slammed an icy lid on Angela's anger. He continued, "In regards to your husband, all human beings are simply lumps of meat. The only difference between you and your husband is that you, unfortunately, still have the power of speech."

Without waiting for further response, Doyle followed Miss Jane up the stairs to the second floor and followed the servant into the master bedroom where the body lay. Compared to the opulence of the parlor, the bedroom seemed Spartan. It contained only a king-sized bed and two nightstands. The most elaborate piece in the room was the floor itself, which was made of cut yellow onixia. As he stepped to the body, Doyle launched a query over his shoulder to Miss Jane. "Who lives on this floor besides the late John and his wife?"

"His son, young Master Stephen, lives down the hall next to Dr. Gudenstarch." She answered.

"And where do you live Miss?"

"I live in a small room next to kitchen."

"Do you have a bed there?"

"Why yes sir, of course."

"Is it big enough for two?" Doyle asked with a smirk.

Miss Jane's fair complexion reddened visibly. "No sir!" she stammered, "It's just a small cot bolted to the wall. I…we…I couldn't possibly…well not that I wouldn't want to…but I…Oh dear…I just..."

"I see." He said, stooping down to investigate the body. John Walter Arebus was sprawled on the floor as still and unmoving as his brother. The darkness of the satin night robe he wore easily absorbed the crimson liquid that congealed around his slashed jugular. The bluish tint of the skin implied that John had met his fate within the week and the fact that his eyes were still slightly moist narrowed it to within 48 hours. Further examination of the corpse revealed a smaller cut, most likely a stab, Doyle mused, about one inch in length that traveled from John's navel down toward his waist. In the dead man's hand, something gleamed in the light. Laying feather soft on the dead man's hand were several strands of blond hair. Doyle smiled. "As I suspected. It's…" The detective's verbal musing broke off suddenly as a shrill electronic tone split the air. He cocked his head sideways, evoking a dog-like appearance with his mangy hair.

He rushed out of the room and down the hall, stopping at a door several feet away from the master bedroom. Without bothering to knock, or even use the knob, Doyle reared back and kicked the doorframe with all of his strength. The door frame burst inward under the force of the blow and the door, now bereft of purchase, swung open and slammed into the wall. "Ah ha!" he cried, "I knew it!" Sitting on the room's sole bed, shock and terror making his pale skin ghost white, sat young Stephen Arebus and Doctor Gudenstarch. The former was a holding a game controller in trembling hands, while the latter rose up from his seat next to the boy in alarm. "I knew it." The detective said again, "He was playing Donkey Kong." And sure enough, the game that flashed intently on the young boy's screen was that of the red-capped plumber and his simian adversary. Without another word, the detective snatched the controller from the child's hands and began playing.

"You are a rather impulsive individual, aren't you Mr. Doyle?" Doctor Gudenstarch said.

Doyle grunted in response, his eyebrows furrowed with concentration as he dodged the never-ending tirade of barrels. "Yes." The doctor said more to himself than the detective, "You haven't changed a bit since our school days." Doyle, to his credit, managed to keep his shock hidden.

"So which one of my schoolmates are you?" Doyle said, his eyes no longer tracking the game. The Doctor smiled and slipped his large hands onto Doyle's shoulders, tracing the lines of the detective's back until the wandering hands found a slight depression that ran from the middle of his spine to his tailbone.

"I'm this one." He said, tapping the scar lightly. Doyle's grip on the controller had gone from relaxed to white-knuckled.

"You basta…."

"Ah ah ah, Mr. Doyle. We mustn't use such language in front of children. Should we, Stephen?"

The brown-haired boy's voice trembled in time with his hands. "N-no sir."

The doctor's lips twisted upward into an expression of congenial warmth, but the coldness of his steely eyes robbed the gesture of everything save the blackest delight. "Good job, Stephen. Good job. I'll give you a treat later." Goodbye, Mr. Doyle. I wish you the best of luck in your investigations."

As soon as the doctor left, Doyle threw the control aside angrily. "Don't you have any other games, kid? I suddenly feel the need to kill something."

"I've g-got Mario." The boy answered.

Doyle looked at the kid in disbelief. "Don't you have anything else? Mortal Kombat? Grand Theft Auto? Zelda?"

Stephen shook his head. "M-my parent's don't allow violence. They s-say I can't have any sti-stim-stimula..."

"Stimulation?" Doyle finished.

"The boy nodded. "Yeah. My parent's say I h-have exophra…"

"Exophragmus Disetagia. It's a rare condition of the left hemisphere. The brain's creative and adaptive functions are severely impaired, leaving person easily susceptible to fainting, shock, and disease. And I thought you and the doctor were just good friends." He paused for a moment. "Tell me, Stephen, how would you like to see something really stimulating?"

"W-what is it, sir?"

He smirked. "A puppet show."

Without further aplomb, Detective Doyle quickly assembled the remaining clients in the master bedroom where the body lay. When they arrived, they were surprised to see the detective and Miss Jane already present. The assembled clientele included Angela, the unconscious David pushed in a wheelchair by Dr. Gudenstarch, and Stephen with Oscar in tow. At the sight of his employers, Doyle's face split into a two-faced smile, half-sincere half sardonic, a Cheshire cat, at once mysterious and familiar. He clapped his hands once, loudly. "Thank you all for coming." Doyle said, his voice loud and boisterous like a ringmaster, "I hope you find my show enlightening. Before we begin, would you like some refreshments? Some peanuts perhaps, or a tub of popping corn? No? Well then…"

"Mr. Doyle! What is the meaning of this? Why have you brought us here?"

"Ah, the Iron Maiden speaks! To answer both your questions, I have brought you all here to reenact the scene of your husband's murder."

Indignation burned Angela's fair skin a deep crimson. "Why must you reenact it? Weren't all the details provided in the report we filed?" Doyle started to reply, but Angela cut him off before he could find his voice. "My husband was found on the bedroom floor last night by Miss Jane. At the time, Dr. Gudenstarch was helping me tend to David. At Miss Jane's scream, I rushed to the bedroom and found him lying there. Dr. Gudenstarch went to go check on Stephen. The next day I called an old friend who recommended you to me, and I must say, her report was very impressive." Angela stopped her tirade and took a moment to regain her breath. "But now I think she must have been blind! You, sir, are the most arrogant, ill-mannered, and impulsive individual I have ever met! You are the model of social deficiency. You're…you're nothing but a piece of trash!" Chest heaving, spittle flying the irate blond continued her tirade using every insult she knew, though being a lady she did not slip into the vulgar language of the lower classes. When she finally finished, she mopped her now sweating head with a handkerchief and launched one final question. "What do you say to that, Mr. Doyle?"

"What kind of medication does Mr. David use?" he asked Dr. Gudenstarch, ignoring her outburst completely.

The sight of Doyle standing there completely relaxed, ignoring her as she didn't even exist, was enough to send her tumbling back into another fit of rage. As she opened her mouth to once again remind him what an insignificant and worthless existence his life was, he gave her a single glance. It was a look of such coldness, of such mind-numbing apathy that everyone, even those not directly in his gaze, knew immediately that this was not a man to be trifled with. Here in their midst was a serpent, and they, the helpless field mice, were powerless in his gaze. And like all animals in the presence of a predator they had only one thought: Death. And when he smiled they saw the phantom grin of a serpent and waited with certainty for his fangs to devour them. He had subdued the entire room without a single word.

"What medicine does Mr. David use?" he asked again.

Shaking, struggling as if against invisible bonds, Dr. Gudenstarch answered. "Fentanyl."

"Good."

Doyle blinked and the spell was broken. Life and warmth returned to his eyes and the room's occupants let out the breath they hadn't known they'd been holding. Dr. Gudenstarch shook his head once, as if to clear it, and straightened his crooked glasses. Doyle saw this and smirked.

"Now, to move onto the murder. Miss Jane, come here please." He said, fingering his G-shaped clasp. The maidservant nodded and walked to the detective. "Good, now please grab the late Mr. John under the arms and hold him up." Much to the shock of the remaining members of the Arebus family, the maidservant did as she was told without an ounce of hesitation or a word of protest. Doyle smiled. "Excellent. Now make him dance." Again the Miss Jane faithfully followed her given instructions, twisting and shaking the deceased man until his cold limbs jangled in a crude rhythm, his head bobbing to and fro from the slash at his jugular. Doyle began humming a matching tune, the pitch rising and falling to the beat of the flailing corpse. Stephen's laughter broke the stunned silence, that high and clear laugh of a child, easy and free. The rest of the family could only watch in silence, afraid that might again find themselves in the present of a serpent. At the sound of Stephen's innocent laughter, Doyle smiled. "I'm glad you find it entertaining." He reached into the pocket of his blue jeans and withdrew a knife. It was small blade, two to three inches in length, and easily concealable within the deep pockets of his pants. "Now," he said, turning to face the corpse, "Here is what happened the night of the murder. Mr. John was walking, perhaps to the door, when someone approached him like so." He smiled warmly at the dead man. "Hello." He said. His arm shot out and the knife plunged into and up John's navel, right alongside the first cut. There was little blood. In a body more than a day dead, most of the blood has congealed into a viscous mass. This was of little comfort to John's wife, who let out a shriek the instant the steel pierced flesh. A quick glance from Doyle silenced her. He continued speaking as if nothing had happened. "The first slash brought John to his knees. For those of you that don't know, stabbing is actually one of the more painful ways to die, especially the navel. You wouldn't think it, but the nerves around the waist are particularly sensitive to allow for full control of the movement of the hips." He nodded and Miss Jane positioned the corpse on floor appropriately. "Once on the floor, the killer simply reached down and slashed his throat." He glanced at his stricken employers. "Would you like me to demonstrate?"

"N-no." Mrs. Angela said quickly, "That's not necessary."

Doyle sighed in disappointment. "If that's the way you want it. In any event you are probably wondering how this helps establish the identity of the killer. Look closer at the body. The fact that he was stabbed from the front at a low angle and the fact that no one heard anything until Miss Jane's scream indicates that the person was not a random burglar. The murderer was someone who knew John, and it was someone that he could expect to find in his bedroom at such a late hour. This rules out Miss Jane, who sleeps in the kitchen and would not been upstairs at the approximate time of death. If Miss Jane was the murderer and she was smart enough to hide both the knife and her fingerprints, she would not choose to be the one to discover the body. A quick study in criminology reveals that the probability of the murderer being the one who discovers the victim is over seventy-percent. The discoverer becomes the first witness and thus in most investigations falls under close scrutiny. In the minds of investigators, thoughts of the corpse are then instantly connected to the first witness by association. No criminal with brains would "discover" their own handiwork and willing place themselves under scrutiny. Dr. Gudenstarch was said to be attending to David at the approximate TOD. Fentanyl is a highly addictive sedative, but it is mostly used as an anesthetic. It has an active time of three hours, after which another dosage is required. Mr. David's comatose lifestyle indicates that the good doctor is vigilant in keeping this schedule. Divide 24 by 3 and you get a total of 8 doses per day. If one follows the math, you will find that at the TOD, Dr. Gudenstarch was in the middle of giving Mr. David his dosage. The use of Fentanyl implies that Mr. David's condition is quite critical and any delay in dosage would have caused him to awake, or in the very least make a commotion. This narrows the field to the immediate family, David or Angela. David can be knocked off immediately. In his current condition even walking would be a challenge, let alone climbing the stairs, stabbing John, and exiting in time to receive his dosage from Dr. Gudenstarch without raising suspicion. That leaves Angela. Not only is she the only person unaccounted for, but I also found blond hair at the scene. She is the only person with blond hair on the grounds who fits the necessary criteria to be the murderer. Unless, of course, she can offer some convincing alibi." This line of reasoning took him no longer than fifteen seconds. The employers stared at the detective in stunned silence for a few seconds until Angela worked up the nerve to speak.

"Why would I kill my husband? I loved him!"

Doyle shook his head and spoke slowly, as one would to a particularly stupid child. "Does one need a reason to kill someone? It could be money, jealousy, or boredom. The motive is not important. This is not a court. According to my deductions you are guilty. Your innocence is determined by the strength of your defense. The fact that you are married does not free you of murder charges and neither does your supposed "love". Not only is your defense built on a wholly subjective line of reasoning, it's not even statistically supported. Over eighty percent of spousal murderers are documented saying that they loved their victims, post mortem. If you'll admit your crime, you'll save me a lot of effort and you a lot of pain, though I am in a particular mood for torture at the moment if you are so inclined to resist."

"She's innocent."

The voice was weary and thin, a scratchy baritone that underlined progressive and constant suffering. Doyle eyes caught the bleary look of David Arebus. Chronologically, David was the younger brother, but his illness had slackened and weakened his frame. At twenty-two years of age, David held the appearance of a sixty year-old man. In three years, he would look eighty, if he lived that long. The old-young man visibly gathered his strength and spoke again.

"She's innocent. The night of my brother's death, she was tending to me before Dr. Gudenstarch administered my seventh dose of fentanyl. I felt her holding my hand until I heard Miss Jane's scream. She couldn't have murdered my brother."

Doyle was stunned into silence. It possible David was lying, and that the murderer was indeed Angela, but David had no reason to cover for the murderer of his only brother. But if Angela wasn't guilty than who was?

"If that's all you have to say, Mr. Doyle," Dr. Gudenstarch said, "We'll take our leave." At the doctor's dismissal, the rest of the Arebus household got up to leave. Angela, looking sickly proud, took Stephen by the hand and led him from the room, Oscar in toe.

Wait…Oscar in toe?

I found blond hair at the scene.

She's the only person with blond hair on the grounds.

The only person…the only PERSON

That high and clear laugh of a child, easy and free.

My parent's s-say I can't have any sti-stim-stimula...

"Stimulation?

Bedridden with a series of cramps and nausea.

I'll give you a treat later…

"Wait just a minute." Doyle coldly said. Miss Jane, the last one to exit the room, turned and looked at the detective.

"Yes, Mr. Doyle?"

"I want you to you to call everyone other than Mr. David to the parlor. Right now. And then..." Doyle leaned in and clasped the maidservants pale hand, whispered something in her ear, and gave a quick tap on the rear to send her on her way. A minute later, she had directed the Arebus family into the parlor where Doyle waited. Her task complete, she smiled, bowed, and left.

"What do you want now, Mr. Doyle?" Angela asked tiredly.

"What I want is to solve this case. I was close, but the murderer was cleverer than I realized. Or rather, his employer was."

"His employer?"

"Precisely. Like I said earlier. John's killer must have been someone he was familiar with and someone he would expect to find in his bedroom at night. John was found with two wounds, a slash across the jugular and a stab wound that curved down toward the navel. I noticed that when I stabbed John, the knife automatically curled upward as it would for any one of a similar height. That means that killer was someone shorter than John. Short enough that he would have to stab downward in order to hit John's navel. This brought John's jugular within the killer's strike range. Is it clear now?"

"I understand how he died yes, but who did it?"

"There is only one person who matches all of the criteria. It was Stephen."

"What?" Angela screamed.

"It is quite simple. In addition to him being the only member of the family without an alibi, he is also the only one short enough to need to stab downward on John."

"But you found blond hair at the scene." Dr. Gudenstarch protested, "Stephen's hair is brown."

"Yes it is. But Oscar is a golden Labrador, is he not."

"Well, yes but…"

"According to Miss Jane, Oscar abhors strangers and follows Stephen around constantly. It is not surprising that it was following him at the time he murdered his father. In addition, he suffers from Exophragmus Disetagia. He has rarely, if ever, been stimulated to a measurable degree and he has never known violence. With the right stimulus, his inexperience and innocence could lead him to murder."

"But that is simply a theory! Where's your proof?" Angela shouted, grabbing the detective by the shoulders, "Where's your proof, Mr. Doyle?" Doyle reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic bag, inside was a bloody knife and some empty syringes.

"I found these in Stephen's room. The knife has his fingerprints on it. I didn't check, but I am sure you will find his footprints in John's room as well. As for the syringes…" He turned to Dr. Gudenstarch. "They are yours I believe."

"Nonsense!" Dr. Gudenstarch protested, "Why would I have left syringes in his room?"

"Do you know Dr. Gudenstarch, what the symptoms for fentanyl addiction are?" Doyle said coolly.

"Well, they're…"

"Mostly cramps and nausea. Tell me, wasn't that Stephen's current affliction?"

Dr. Gudenstarch was silent. Doyle turned his back to the man and went over to Stephen, crouching down so that he could look the boy in the eye. "How old are you again, Stephen?" he asked, his voice as cold and biting as the winter wind.

"T-ten sir." Stephen answered.

"You're lucky. If you were two years older and I'd kill you. Though it's been a while since I killed a child, I'll have to settle for your master instead." Doyle turned his wrath on the doctor. Gudenstarch was gone.

How? How the hell could this happen? Why is he here? Dr. Gudenstarch's mind was in turmoil. That man had ruined all his plans. The Council would not be forgiving. They would find him. They're reach was everywhere. No. Maybe he could hide in a different country, under a different name. He shook his head. Better focus on escaping the mansion first. He turned down the hallway and ran for the front door. Suddenly, a shadow rose out of the doorway and blocked his path. It was Miss Jane, her eyes sightless and cloudy. Her arms were strung outward, barring his way. In one hand she held Doyle's knife.

By the time Doyle got to doorway, Miss Jane was already dead, a fresh syringe protruding from her throat and blood pumping from a punctured jugular. "It's really a shame." He said, stepping over the young girl's corpse, "I was planning on asking her to dinner later. Oh well." He bent down and retrieved his knife. Fresh blood dripped along its length. He smiled. The girl had been good for more than eye candy after all. Sure enough, Dr. Gudenstarch was doing his best to run on an injured leg, while calling someone on his cellular phone. A few quick strides brought Doyle within range of Dr. Gudenstarch. He buried the knife in the doctor's uninjured leg and spun him around roughly. The doctor screamed. "Quiet." Doyle said coldly, his eyes once more those of a venomous serpent. Pure fear obliterated the doctor's voice. "You did a pretty good job," Doyle continued, "but it was your method that was flawed, not the execution. I recommend hypnotism. It leaves no traces."

"W-why…." The doctor managed to stammer out.

"Why am I here? I wanted something interesting to do. Though I didn't expect to find one of my old Kinderheim here.

"The doctor forced his lips into his familiar black grin. "They'll find you. They won't let you interfere in their affairs. You can't escape the Council or its children!"

"Well, if I can't escape, I'll just have to go straight to them. I assume you called another Child to pick you up. In the meantime, who are you really?"

The doctor managed a laugh, mad and loud. "Who am I? You should know that from our school days, Mr. Doyle. Or should I call you Schwarze-Zunge?"

"Answer me." Doyle twisted the knife in deeper. Blood spilled but the doctor's black grin grew even wider.

'I'll see you in hell, Schwarze-Zunge!"

Pain shot up Doyle's side. He fell to one knee. Stephen was behind him, a knife in his tiny hands, his eyes crazed with addiction.

"That's it Stephen! Stab him! Kill him! Your treat awaits!" the doctor shouted.

Suddenly, a red Ferrari squealed onto the lawn. The driver jumped out and helped the bleeding doctor inside. Doyle struggled get a look at the driver's face, but Stephen's stabbing form was blocking his vision. As he struggled with the boy, the smell of burning rubber and wet grass filled the air. "Damn it!" Doyle shouted in frustration. He reared his leg back and kicked with all his strength, his foot caught Stephen squarely in the face, snapping his head backwards and slamming him onto the lawn, the knife tumbling loose from his grip. Before he could reorient himself, Doyle was on him, the discarded knife sliding neatly across his pale throat. He gurgled once and lay still. Doyle brushed the boy's eyes closed and laid a single hand on his forehead. "May you know rest." He whispered softly. Ignoring the soon-to-be scars and the stab wound, Doyle forced himself to his feet and made his way back into the parlor. "I'll take my payment now."

"Your payment!" Angela screamed at him, her eyes red and tearing, "Damn you and your payment to hell! You won't get a single cent from me!"

"That's fine." Doyle said. "I'll just take something of the equivalent. He reached down and plucked an emerald ring of Miss Jane's finger, "This will do. Have a pleasant day." With those words, the detective left, leaving the remaining members of the Arebus family to their grief. Some time later, Ms. Angela Arebus was roused from her tears (and a healthy bottle of imported wine) by the ringing of the doorbell. She waited patiently for Jane to answer it, and then remembered the poor girl's fate. The thought instantly sobered her. Angela walked to the door and opened it herself.

"Yes?" she said tiredly, for she was still a woman of remarkable strength.

"I'm sorry I'm late, someone stole my car." The dark-haired stranger extended his hand for her to shake, "I'm Private Detective Luke Doyle." He said, his blue eyes sparkling.