Author's notes
Thank you, thank you for the fantastic reviews! It has made skipping school to produce fanfiction less guilt-inducing as well as restored my faith in action/adventure writing. You see, my doubts have stemmed from the fact that I know basically nothing about physical combat or vehicles of any sort. Or types of weaponry, for the matter.
I quote my indignant friends here: "Scarr, you idiot, a semiautomatic is not a machine gun!" Now you all know where it went wrong.
I sincerely hope to redeem myself with this chapter, though. It's extra-long and peppered with creepy thin goodness, as well as a bad cliffhanger.
Enjoy :)
THE FALL OF CRONUS
By Scarr C.
July 13th, 10:22 A.M.
Location: Wattenbough Creek
Mission: Ditching arithmetic
William Taylor Emmett was an ordinary twelve-year-old boy who, like any other twelve-year-old boy, was sporting hair in crude places and honing a rebellious streak. He abhorred school with a healthy passion and was more devoted to the San Francisco Giants than the local church. He also maintained that the art of truancy was a fundamental skill. Apparently, all the cool kids practised it by heart.
Therefore, forgoing a lesson in basis calculus and heading down to the lake for a swim with the boys was an ideal way to spend the day.
Discovering a battered Ford with a decomposing corpse trapped in the passenger seat amongst the reeds, however, was not.
Crouching knee-deep in the mottled water and faced with a pulpous mass of greying flesh, William thought it a very good idea to scream.
July 13th, 9:11 A.M.
Location: The Charles Townsend Agency
"You mean to say she disappeared into thin air, just like that?" Bosley snapped his fingers emphatically, his face a mask of befuddlement.
Natalie looked apologetic at his remark. "I know this sounds unusual, but the abandoned bike was clean as a whistle. There weren't obvious signs of a struggle, and the last we saw, Delilah was semi-conscious. There was little she could do in that state."
Locating the motorcycle was hardly a formidable task. It was parked against one of the alley walls, its tyres soaked with grime but nevertheless in a fine condition. Surrounding track marks indicated that the vehicle had careened mildly out of control, but halogen tests had concluded that there was no pressure on the handlebars or seat that suggested a physical conflict of sorts.
There was also the blatant fact that neither the driver nor his hostage was anyway near the vicinity of the bike when it was found, and this left the Angels with little clues by which to track down their adversary.
Charlie's voice intercepted their discussion from the speaker. "Angels, your foremost priority is to secure the well-being of Miss Suezman and bring her to safety. Mr Fending is far from amused by the outcome of last night's event."
"But none of the valuables were stolen!" Dylan retorted, her temper soaring. "In fact, all the rogues seemed to be after was Delilah Suezman, and she wasn't mentioned by Fending at all! He's clearly responsible for part of this - he was the one withholding information that could have been vital to our cause."
"Quite a bit of information too, I might add." Alex glanced at her friends as Bosley exited the office discreetly to receive a call. "Delilah herself claimed to know Fending on pronounced terms. And she was looking to buy a jewel for a friend – the top bidder who died of a stroke three days ago. His name is Ronald Smith, by the way, and he's a business associate of Miss Suezman herself."
"I have a feeling about this alleged stroke report. Think a visit to the morgue's in order?" Natalie quipped. "Or shall we stick to Fending's suspect and greedy ex-partner Thomas Maulkin?"
"I'm afraid the latter won't be necessary."
The Angels turned to face a sombre-looking Bosley standing by the door of the office, a cell phone dangling haplessly off one hand.
"What's wrong, Bosley?" Charlie broke the apprehensive silence, although a shroud of tension hung darkly in the wake of his query.
"Somebody already got to Maulkin first."
July 14th, 11:03 A.M.
Location: Scene of wreckage recovery, Wattenbough Creek.
Mission: CSI reprise
Officer Merritt hated crowds. Especially when they served to be no more but hindrances in his line of work. Right now, the riverbank was thronged with passer-bys and daunting reporters alike, and the stench emanating from the contaminated waters was more than he could bear.
The corpse was a fetid, swollen entity. Its four limbs were grossly distended and coloured with algae, and the flesh around its neck region was an ill-seeming clump of frayed skin, the epidermal layers rendered to shreds. Brown globules, obviously congealed blood, led a sinuous trail across the larynx and freckled the edges of its mouth.
Merritt was partially grateful that he had foregone breakfast that day.
The boy who had stumbled onto the body squatted a few metres away, huddled in a blanket and shivering even under the adhesive weather. Stupid kid, he mused, poking his nose where he oughtn't have. That'll teach those brats to play hooky-
"Officer Merritt."
It was a lady's voice, succinct and apathetic. He pivoted on a heel and very nearly balked.
For all his testosterone-induced stupor, time could have been running circles about his head. The stinky, cadaver-filled day seemed to take on an auspicious turn as he looked over two unbelievably attractive women in sharp contrasting suits.
Funny how his throat seemed to desiccate like a forgotten well, browbeaten and stung by years of sun.
"A-anything I can do for you, ladies?"
He gestured towards the brunette with the saucy eyes, but a shorter man dressed in terribly unfashionable clothes had chosen this moment to step up between the two females and contaminate his breathing space with a draught of cigarette smoke.
"CSI Ellan Trent." An ID flipped open a little too closely for his eyes to register the fine print and snapped shut as brusquely as it was drawn. "We're here for the case. That the enclosed perimeter?" He jerked a thumb at recovered vehicle.
"Get over there, girls."
"Now wait – just wait a minute here-" Merritt was a trite outraged. Just who the hell did this overweight punk think he was, storming into his cosy coterie of three, just when he was about to crack that multi-purpose Japanese golfer joke-
"-Sir, I'd 'preciate it if you could depart the locality with immediate effect. Translation – we're trying to do our job here."
Merritt took in his aggressor, all five-foot-five of him with the cheap-looking jeans and a pudgy midsection. There was something abstrusely effeminate about the man standing before him, though-
"And your job, Sir," The barest hint of scorn was detected here, "Is to keep unnecessary personnel at bay. That might include yourself." With that, the investigation leader – or so the ID claimed- spat out his cancer stick with an obnoxious flunckkh and left the blustering officer to the mercy of the press.
Natalie smiled inwardly as Dylan approached her.
"You always find a bad excuse to spit."
The redhead stuck out her tongue impishly and bent over Alex, her hands supported on the worn denim of her jeans. The other Angel merely nodded, her jaw set in a grim expression.
"It's Maulkin, all right." She looked disparagingly at the results of her portable DNA kit. "Even though his body's in the middle-later stages of decomposition, his facial structure is still recognisable."
Natalie did not reply, seemingly engrossed with the fender. According to past experiences, the various nooks and crannies of a car had proven to be imperative clue mines, and once again her efforts did not go by in vain.
"Lo and behold, girls." The blond Angel retrieved a laboratory pincer from her jacket and proceeded to pluck what looked like tiny brown shells into a clear plastic bag. "Larval pellicles!"
Alex looked forcibly patient. Dylan screwed her nose.
"That's like, fermented bird's dropping, right?"
"Cocoons!" Natalie beamed. "These are pupae belonging to aquatic insects." She peered keenly at the miniscule husks. "Hmm…midges. And caddis flies. Stages of pupation are evidently incomplete, which means that the car had been left in the water for three or four days now."
"This also means that Maulkin was killed before Fending's ball. It's time to rule him out as a potential suspect, don't you think?" Dylan commented wryly.
"I think Fending's the suspect." Alex insisted.
Natalie rose from her crouched position. "Let's take a look at the body first, shall we?"
Thomas Maulkin's corpse was laid in a body bag next to his car. It did not take more than a second glance for Alex Munday and her extensive knowledge in forensic science to determine the cause of his death. Quite obviously, the victim had been stabbed.
"-Right through his throat."
A latex-clad finger probed delicately at the severed flesh. "All that blood makes it look like a messy deed, although contrary to that," She turned around and yanked off her rubber gloves, "The murderer ran him through smoothly and with little fuss. One thrust and it's over in less than half a minute. Apparently our little killer knows what he's doing and exactly which jugular to slice."
Dylan edged towards the deceased's body, a frown betiding her smooth features. The wound on Thomas Maulkin's throat was less than an inch long, and it sported evidence of a blow that was delivered with expert precision, by the means of a long, thin weapon.
An intuitive guess clicked in her mind, and she vaguely wondered why it dismayed her when Alex uttered a similar conclusion.
"Let me guess. Who do we know is in possession of a rapier sword, and wouldn't hesitate to put it to good use for a host of shady incentives? Someone who's well trained in the mercenary deal and ruthlessly good with his work, I might add. Emphasis on his and rapier sword."
Once again, the words came spluttering out before Dylan could stop herself.
"You don't think he's dead too?"
"Of course not." Alex snapped, sealing the black bag with an imposing ziipp. She noticed the closed expression on her best friend's face and regretted her tone almost immediately.
"What I mean is…I know he was kind of on our side during the face-off with Madison and Seamus, but we're all pretty aware of his moral grounds. Or lack thereof." The last sentence was added as an afterthought.
Dylan maintained a flabbergasted look, shifting her gaze from one friend to the other.
"You mean to tell me that neither one of you assumed he was dead?" She repeated.
Natalie fought back an uneasy glance. "I mean, you guys remember Corwin's Dash for Cash? I sent his racer thirty feet airborne and crashing into the sea, yet he reappeared to take a few swipes at Alex on Knox's island fort."
"Attempted to, more like it." Alex said crisply. "Note also the guy was chained to Vivian Wood when Knox fired a missile directly into their path. Four months later, he shows up at the motorcross to land a knifed lunge at Emmers."
"In the light of these events, a blade to the chest and dropping five storeys off a decrepit building would be considered a cinch, wouldn't it?" Natalie assessed. Dylan made a valiant endeavour to keep from looking optimistic. It was almost as easy as trying to swallow and breathe at the same time. Alex emitted a soft sigh and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"Look, Dylan. I'm big on gratitude too, and I'm sure he saved my life as much as yours, but there's plenty of logical reasons why I'm not in a hurry to show up at his doorstep with muffins and a thank-you card."
Natalie giggled. "Actually, I'll reserve those muffins for people on my hit list."
Low blow. Alex allowed a scowl to take over her refined features.
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Nat."
"You're just sore because the Thin Man likes Dylan's hair more than yours." Natalie giggled, and Dylan felt a smile tugging the corners of her lips.
Alex swivelled around with a dramatic flourish and stomped towards her Mercedes convertible with nary a word.
Natalie desisted a smirk and followed the dark-haired Angel, with Dylan bringing up the rear and tugging unceremoniously at her padded bottom. They slipped past a harried Officer Merritt, who was fighting a losing battle against an onslaught of jotter books and sharp-edged cameras.
"You're such an outfit repeater." The blond remarked, smiling.
Dylan winked and patted her fake potbelly tenderly. "All's fair, Miss CSI. It's my turn to wear the mullet today. Plus, I'm manlier than thou."
"No, you're not! For your information, I got checked out more than Alex during the Red Star stint."
"Sure you were."
They bickered good-humouredly all the way to Alex's car, where the cross-sounding beep of a horn slipped a little haste in their steps.
July 14th, 2:40 P.M.
Location: Dylan's L.A. Pad, Melrose Avenue
Status: Redolent, and guiltily so.
Dylan was mentally exhausted and confused, and her stomach lining was being eaten alive by hydrochloric acid.
Alex's car skimmed off a bend in the road just as she shut the front door with a flick of an ankle and sank her weight onto the couch.
Her house was a shambolic exhibition of displaced coffee mugs, magazines and pieces of undone laundry. The weather was equally uncooperative, causing her shirt to stick against her back.
Off came the jeans with an artless kick, followed by the unflattering wig. The refrigerator seemed an unreasonable distance away, so she settled for fishing behind the cushions and pulling out a packet of crisps. The expiration date on the bag was the least of her worries, however. Especially when the visage of a pinched, snarling figure who was very much in the world of the living took precedence over potential food poisoning.
Her legs cooled, and her hunger vaguely mollified, she began to unroll the day's findings, starting with the nasty shock of Maulkin's death, of which the Thin Man had a significant role to play in.
Now, Maulkin was a latent threat to Fending. A good way to rid oneself of a threat was to gut him through the oesophagus and dump his car (corpse included) into a river.
On the other hand, supposing this assumption was true – Why had Fending required the Angels' protection at his exhibition, when he had established an assassination contract with the Thin Man? Was this an overdone form of safeguarding? Not likely.
Dylan stopped chewing and frowned. The crisps had gone very bad.
Groaning, she decided to turn to a source of distraction in the form of her answering machine.
Beep. "Madam Mak's Laundry Services calling. This is a message informing you that your clothes are ready for pick up."
She crossed over to the dining table and flipped through the slips of paper stacked untidily on it.
Beep. "Hi, er. Listen. It's Matthew here. You know, the guy at the Purple Hazard? Yeah, uh, you hadn't called for a while so I thought I'd call you instead, but you're not at home so uh, er…"
Matthew? Oh, right. The one whom she thought was pretty cute, after a suitably prescribed dosage of alcohol in her bloodstream. Dylan wondered how he had managed to acquire her phone number, especially when she barely remembered dispensing it to him.
This question, however, seemed like a really tasteless joke in relative to the next message that followed.
"Heya, Helen."
It was as if a pitcher of ice was delivered right through the centre of her heart. The coordinates of her room lurched at a dangerous angle, but her legs remained stock-still, betrayed by the frozen state of her upper circuit as his voice purled about senses like a devious mist.
"I hope you're holding up just fine, because I'm doing great where I am." She pictured him smiling while saying this, his eyes lathered with frenzy, the back of his fists gnashing against each other with sinuous intent.
"Y'know, when we were in love, you said that you would die for me."
Eight years ago, she reminded herself. Eight fucking years ago, when you were riddled with youth and insolence and the narcotic brand of rock music -
"And now that we've broken up, I'll like you to keep that promise."
When the telephone exploded, it took with it a sizable amount of the house and sent debris ripping through the placid afternoon air.
July 14th, 2:52 P.M.
Location: Crone Enterprises
In the course of his fifty-eight years of life, he had been told informed by three people that his obsession with quotations and brazen success was veering off a healthy benchmark.
The first person was his mother, and her ashes were populating the rivers of Cairo. Or the Mediterranean. He did not care very much for people who were responsible for his less than jolly childhood.
The second fellow had been his vice-chairperson, whose assemblage of body parts took over four weeks to retrieve.
The third was currently intent on grinding a hole through his office door, what with all that persistent knocking.
"Come in." He was particularly fond of that phrase; it was one of those lines that instilled a sense of dominance in him and made him feel intelligent. Reluctantly, he withdrew his attention from the leaves of his fortune bonsai plant and faced the sallow-skinned, greasy-haired man before him.
"What is it, Doctor Jekt." Question marks were considered the most fatuous of punctuations, since most of the time he perceived the general living population as unworthy of answering his questions. He preferred it when people submitted to them instead.
"He's dead." The doctor spat, patently heedless of his lack of geniality.
A stifled bump was emitted from the desk in front of him, and two blond heads sporting ridiculous vinyl caps with red crosses on them peeked from beneath the polished surface, followed by two girls who represented meretricious copies of each other, both of them bedecked in undersized nurse outfits and gawky platforms.
An imposing stare from the man they were so cheerfully servicing sent them tottering out of the room at once.
Doctor Jekt thrust them a reproachful glare as they exited and whirled back towards the desk, his palms sweating and laid flat against the expanse of oak. "Are you even listening to me, Mr Crone? I said-"
"I heard you perfectly well the first time, Doctor." The one addressed as Mr Crone permitted himself an elusive twist of lips. "And I suppose we can't do much about it now, can we? I might even go as far as to call it a… fair exchange."
"But-"
"The problem with you, my dear Doctor, is that you worry far too much." He bobbed his head back and forth to the cadence of an imaginary symphony and swivelled around to face the breadth of windows behind him. Instead of a skyscraper view of the city, however, an enormous portrait of a mountain draped across the glass like a grandiose banner.
Magnus Crone lit a cigar with indolent relish and stretched.
"Now get the hell out of my sight."
July 14th, 3:13 P.M.
Location: Dylan's pad, or what it left of it.
Status: Body parts –check.
Dylan Sanders was running after Desmond Fending.
Apparently it seemed he had dropped his moustache in the car and she was inexplicably desperate to return it back to him, but he had leapt onto a huge motorcycle and scooted away.
Alleys were embroiled into each other, their ditches coming alive with each gripe of her heartbeat. Alex picked delicately at a muffin next to her and – wait a second, where had Alex come from?
She had little time to arrive at a plausible deduction of the sort, because like a bad science fiction movie, Fending had morphed into an arcane, looming statue with eyes like discoloured moons. It also came to her attention that the Thin Man was wearing a bright red helmet that clashed unforgivably with the prudish suit he always donned.
She hastened forward, moustache in hand. "I'll like to look for an orphanage, please." She did not know why she said that, nor had she any idea what she was trying to convey, but her focus was wavering.
The Thin Man looked at her reprovingly and marched into a river, just as the red helmet grew larger and more distinct.
All of a sudden, she was aware of the quantity of dust in her nose and eyes.
A coughing fit ensued, and she jerked to her senses. The red helmet was still visible. Her eyes shifted downwards, and she realised that it was atop the head of a man whom she had never met in her life. A man in his late forties, wearing a blue-grey poncho that spelled FIRE RESCUE in big yellow letters on the front.
She was lying on a mobile stretcher in the middle of the sidewalk that lined what used to be her house, which was now a disarray of melted glass and smouldering plaster. Her hair smelt burnt, but it seemed intact, just like the rest of her body.
"Are you all right, Miss?"
She stared blearily at the fire fighter kneeling beside her.
"Urghh-"
"Good, good." He barely gave her lungs an opportunity to resume their function, tapping her absently on the shoulder as she laboured to rise from her makeshift cot she was placed in.
"You're a real lucky girl, you know. When the blast took place your sofa hit you and knocked you out, but it also served to offer a very effective means of shelter from the flying debris and whatnot. We found you buried under it, miraculously safe from the flames."
"Urg." Dylan could not feel her tongue. There was something very heavy and lifeless sitting under the roof of her mouth instead. It refused to budge.
"Egh." She tried again. The fire fighter shook his head at her and made towards one of the police officers on the scene.
Slowly, excruciatingly, she managed to get into a standing position, and hobbled onto the main road. The district was littered with nearby residents and grave-looking policemen, and the smoke issuing from her demolished house was a caustic reminder of what had happened over the last few hours.
She tested her weight and joints carefully, and much to her relief, she was unscathed save for a few bruises and patches of mildly singed flesh. A near-unrecognisable piece of furniture to her left told her that her sofa wasn't half as fortunate.
Swallowing quickly to retain the moisture in her throat, she walked back to the nearest officer.
"Say, may I borrow your phone for a minute?"
Natalie was the first to arrive, her blond hair wrenched back in a haphazard ponytail, her face a veil of worry. She pulled her battered friend into a crushing hug, and Dylan instantly felt her tortured ribs giving way.
"Oh my god, Dylan. Are you sure Seamus is behind this?"
Dylan nodded into her friends shoulder, feeling increasingly nauseous with each second.
A silver Mercedes pulled into view, and a petite girl with long raven locks stepped out hurriedly, observing the damage before her with a sympathetic cry.
"Christ, Dylan. Your house!"
Dylan moaned at Alex from the top of Natalie's back. "I know, my lava lamp collection. But really, it's Seamus I'm concerned about right now."
The brunette pursed her lips. "I still can't believe he's alive and intent on finishing you off."
"Jumping fifty feet off a ship and walking through fire didn't do him in, either." Natalie quipped. "Seems like we're dealing with a bunch of pseudo-immortals here."
Dylan looked wearier than ever. "I may be stating the obvious here, but it like everything that has happened so far seems to be inter-connected in some way or another. Maybe Seamus set up the bikers at Fending maisonette, maybe Fending paid him to set it up, or maybe the Thin Man's in cahoots with Seamus, I don't know."
Alex tensed at the last hypothesis but spoke not a word. Instead, she appeared to be distracted by something behind her friends. All at once, her eyes flickered back to Dylan and Natalie, a casual, unassuming smile taking over her face.
"Hrn, speak of the devil. On your eight, Dylan."
The other two Angels did an equally commending job of masking their surprise. Dylan nodded slightly, keeping her nonchalant expression intact.
"Which one?"
"The creepy one."
Upon hearing this, she was fleetingly torn between dropping her guard and feeling awkward. It was an undeniable fact that she was less than keen to confront the Thin Man again, primarily because they were meant to be on strict opposing lines, but he had to mess up the equation and defy all laws of rationality by kissing her.
It was an inadvertent motion, the callous grip of his fingers on her shoulders, the invasion of casual proximity by means of his teeth clinking against her own. To worsen matters, she had reciprocated the odd favour and lost him a small tuff of black hair.
And now he was back in his own world, a world of eclipsing vices and manufactured shadows, where morals were established upon dirty gold and smiles bounced off the flight of a weapon. A world that she and her friends fought so hard to eliminate.
She adjusted her weight firmly, her posture vigilant and wakeful. Damn if her personal conflicts ever stood in the way of getting a job done again.
The Angels exchanged a conspiratorial glance, and Natalie decided to test the waters.
"Right. We try to minimise the distance from him as inconspicuously as possible, okay."
She tapped her right foot and took an indifferent step backward.
The Thin Man bolted.
"Shit!"
It came as a unanimous assessment of the situation, and all three Angles could no longer be bothered about subtlety as they sprinted after him, ignoring the panicked calls of the policemen behind them.
The Thin Man was a skilled escapist, and the Angels were treated to a series of hurtling obstacles as he sought to broaden the distance between them. They dashed past a row of houses and nearly skidded off track as he made a sharp left, his gait purposeful and nimble. Leaping over fences and private hedges began to occupy the general pattern of their movements as they followed him through a sequence of back lawns.
Dylan could hardly feel her legs – the flood of adrenaline had butchered her senses, and coupled with the injuries from the explosion she was reduced to the back of the game, with Natalie and Alex far ahead of her and the Thin Man virtually out of sight. The chase had now resembled a twisted version of Pac-man, what with their target meandering effortlessly around corners and the rest of them struggling to catch up.
Another turn, this time to the right, and by the time Dylan had repeated those footsteps, Natalie and Alex had given up on running, their bodies heaving uncontrollably from the strenuous pursuit.
"You've-lost -him?" She found it difficult to speak, the back of her neck slick with perspiration. A hand was unwittingly administered to her ailing side, and as she took a quick gander below she realised that she was wearing only one shoe.
"Dead end." Alex was curt, simple frustration lining the contours of her face.
Sure enough, the turn had ended abruptly in a cramped space between two three-storey buildings. Countless drapes of gigantic linen hung in a dishevelled manner from clipping boards overhead, obfuscating their view.
"He has got to be hiding in here somewhere." Natalie ventured further into the desolate space, her eyes raking the ground for the barest hint of a silhouette. "The footsteps had stopped the moment we turned into the corner."
She approached the nearest sheet with impeccable stealth, as if picking up on a flash of movement right behind it. With a determined nod and the other two Angels poised in readied stances behind her, she grabbed hold of the material and yanked as hard as she could.
It slid off the laundry pegs with a rough, flapping sound-
-And there was nobody there.
Natalie shot a disconcerted look at Alex. "I could have sworn I felt someone standing-"
Prior to her words, Dylan was already considering the second sheet that divided her and possibly their target. Furtiveness was an imperative, and despite the sustained throb of her muscles, she inched towards it with the bearing of a panther.
What happened next occurred too swiftly and devastatingly for any of them to react.
A sword penetrated the flimsy cloth, aided by the element of surprise.
Dylan caught the sadistic glimmer of its edge a split second before it bore through her flesh.
The blade retracted as promptly as it had emerged, and a rattled gasp was sounded, one that she identified as her own. The sheet cascaded with ironic grace; a torturous plummet of life's curtains that revealed a pair of eyes so deep-set and wrought with the very same steel that had just passed through the centre of her body.
But when those eyes clashed with hers, wide and alarmed and cradled with impending tears, the adamantine shattered, and his lips parted in a horrified circle to match her own.
Natalie and Alex were screaming behind her, but their voices were watery and hustled away by the debacle of emotions that collided and dissipated within her.
She waited for her life to bluster past her in a cinematic sequence, frame after passive frame; but her eyes were exposed to a thick canopy of darkness before she even hit the ground.
_______________
To be continued