Rarity: Part 3

It's going on three AM by the time I can get out of there. It takes me that long to jump through all the right hoops to get my pistol back. I'm in one of the few professions that enable me to carry a firearm in this country, and I went through an awful lot of trouble to secure all the appropriate permits and licensing. There's a lot of it, too. So when I got to the police station and they wanted to check out me and my car, and they took the gun to check out, it took a good while.

I carry a single-action revolver that my dad gave me. It's black and shiny and heavy and carries six shots. I have never fired it outside of a shooting range. I can tell by the way that they looked at it when they handed it back to me that they think it's obviously more sentimental than functional for me. They don't take it seriously.

Oh well.

Well, it is a bit big for wearing in a shoulder holster, which is why it usually hides under the seat of my car. Usually I don't have a reason to wear it, unless I'm in a bad area at night or something. I hadn't even worn it when I inspected the house.

But I'm putting it on now. It's a small comfort.

I sit behind the wheel of my car for a few minutes before I start it up. I want to be sure of where I'm going.

I can't do it. I can't go home without checking up on Abigail Fioli-Sternson for myself. It feels like a compulsion; I can't talk myself out of it.

I'd have to wait a couple of hours for the early morning ferry anyway.

So I start up the car, and I head for the Fioli-Sternson residence.

It's a nice place in the suburbs, all half-timbered and Edwardian, with some attendant pine trees. Most of the houses in this area are of the same style, but in varying arrangements. I'd drive right past the place if I didn't have the house number, and that's after I've been by several times.

When I get there, I park at the curb and walk up to the door. I hesitate, then try calling again. I can hear the phones inside ringing.

No answer.

I'm pretty sure that nobody's going to come, but I ring the bell anyway.

It's fairly cool out at this time of night. It's rather misty - The streetlights all have halos - but I can still see my breath fog before my face. I stamp my feet a little; I'm only wearing a sweater with my denim jacket over it. As an afterthought I pull my driving gloves back on.

I don't ring the bell again. I try the doorknob - without my lock picking kit, it's all I can do, really.

The door creaks open beneath my hand. It hadn't even been latched.

Uh-oh.

This time, I don't know where Mr. Fioli-Sternson is. Out comes the gun. With my flashlight in my other hand, I creep inside.

It's trashed. The place seems to have been hastily ransacked. If I didn't know what I did about Mr. Fioli-Sternson, I'd think - at first glance, at least - that this was due to a robbery.

The place is silent, no scent of guard dog - just of floral air freshener. I walk through a bit, swing my flashlight over the front downstairs rooms, then move on and glance at the dining room and on to the kitchen.

"Wurf."

I nearly jump out of my skin. There's a dog after all - a big black dog who walked up and sat down next to me at the entrance of the kitchen. I must've missed hearing him on the carpet. He looks up at me with big reddish-brown eyes and seems to be grinning; I guess he's just happy to see somebody. He doesn't seem inclined to put up a fuss, anyway. Some guard dog. But thank goodness.

It takes a couple of minutes for my heart to slow down. The dog just sits there staring and panting with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He must be very well kept - none of that doggy smell about him at all. I'm not letting go of either my gun or my flashlight, so I use my wrist to rub the flat of the dog's head a bit. That seems to satisfy him; he looks away.

I glance at the kitchen; it seems more in order than the other rooms. Strange, I don't notice any dog food bowls… Maybe this guy wandered in from outside just now; I did leave the door open a bit, after all. No matter.

"Wanna check upstairs with me, boy?" I mutter, heading for the stairway. There are a few dresser drawers at the bottom, and clothing strewn all the way down the stairs. I pick my way between the pieces as best I can. The dog follows with less care, but there's still that unusual quiet to his movements. Must be trained to hunt or something. I can't even tell what breed he is.

I peer into a few of the upstairs rooms - a computer room, a guest bedroom. I reach the master bedroom.

Ah hell. There's that smell again. Cigarette smoke and raw meat. Only now it's new and improved with floral air freshener scent added in.

I gag (that floral scent is just too much) and hold my gun arm up to my face, breathing through the crook of my elbow. There's my client, sprawled on the bed, surrounded by enough blood that she cannot be mistaken as being still alive.

I want to bang my head against the wall. Instead, I lean against the doorframe, hiding my face in my arm. I realize now that it was probably too late by the time that I'd called her to tell her to run. Her husband probably overheard her when she said she wanted to meet me at the other house, and that was that. If I'd known at the time…

I give up on that useless train of thought. New thought: great, now the cops are going to want to know all about what I was doing here, and I've no better explanation than "because I felt like it". If this doesn't get me a day in jail, at the very least, I don't know what will.

I turn back to the hallway. As I swing the flashlight beam out so as to see where I'm going, it illuminates something unexpected.

A pair of boots.

On someone's feet.

I snap the flashlight to where the face should be, only to get a nice bright view of a loose red bow tie. What astounding fashion sense, I think, choosing to ignore my denim jacket (of a style I've been wearing since 1987).

The guy is tall. And he's wearing a wide-brimmed hat (somehow, it just… goes with the bow tie, really) and sunglasses. In a pitch-black house at four in the morning.

I bring my revolver up; at this range, there's not much point in aiming beyond having the muzzle in his general direction. At least he's not making a move. Very nice of him. I'm so slow that he could've killed me twice by now.

His thin lips slide into an easy smile, like he knows what I'm thinking and finds it amusing. It sets my teeth on edge.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" I demand as a standard greeting.

The lips part - good grief, the teeth on this guy. Those are the biggest canines I've ever seen on a human. "That question should be reversed, shouldn't it?" He asks in a deep dark voice.

I give up and lower the pistol. Seriously, if this guy decides to kill me, it wouldn't make my day much worse. But he doesn't seem interested in making my day worse, at least not in that way. "I'm Ivy Crouse. I'm… I was… her private investigator." I wave toward the mess on the bed, which I know he can see over my shoulder. "I… felt like checking up on my client."

"Oh, you're the American."

My eyebrows go up. "I'm the American now? I'd no idea I was so popular."

"I'm with the Hellsing Organization," he says, which really does explain everything. Except his fashion sense (at least Seras had been wearing something resembling a uniform). He removes his glasses and gestures that I should step aside. "I was sent to do the same."

So Seras kept her word. Well, there's some points for this Hellsing Organization. I obediently stand aside. I'd ask to see a badge or something, but really, there's no reason. This guy moves with purpose, with the presence of someone who is absolutely, positively in charge. I've yet to meet anyone falsely representing their selves who can pull that off that well.

I helpfully shine the flashlight in his direction, and I notice that he's also wearing gloves. White gloves, no less. But he doesn't hesitate to place a couple of fingers to the blood on the bed, testing its consistency.

"I suspect she's been dead since early evening," I say miserably. "It's my fault. I should've come here instead of calling -"

"Shut up," he orders. He doesn't say it with annoyance or anger, he simply says it.

So I do.

"Her throat's been cut," he murmurs, almost to himself. He turns away, and I glimpse an almost confused expression on his face, before it's replaced by that unnerving smile again. "Clever. No wonder it's taken us so long to find him."

Still standing in the doorway, I frown. "You mean this guy's been doing this sort of thing for a while?"

He ignores the question. "Why did you come to check up on your client?" He asks, carefully phrasing the question so that I can't give another easy answer.

On the other hand, I only have the one answer, really. "I felt that I should, after… the mess I ran into earlier."

He'd turned, inspecting the room; now he looks back over his shoulder at me. "You're an Intuitive," he states.

"I'm a what?"

"You are possessed of low-level clairvoyant ability," he explains as though he expects me to take him seriously, surveying the rest of the room. His eyes light on the decorative cross hung above the headboard of the bed; he glances down at the body again with a snort.

"What, I say 'I've got a bad feeling about this' and I'm suddenly a psychic? Get real." I shrug. "I read a lot, and life tends to flow the same way stories do. Events happen in a particular sequence. That's how stories came to be invented, after all. It's not so difficult to make predictions based upon known factors."

The man shrugs. "Suit yourself." He advances on me, then stops directly in front of me. I'm going to get a crick in my neck from looking up at his face if he's going to insist on standing this close.

Then I realize that he's just waiting to pass through the door again. I am such a moron sometimes. This is another reason why I prefer to keep myself to myself: when I'm interacting with people, my reaction time slows horribly.

I step backward - I'd rather remain in the hallway rather than get closer to the body again, and I'll admit it if I have to. "Sorry." I keep the flashlight toward our feet so as to see, but I glance up and down the hallway. "Where did the dog go?"

"He left," the man says as he steps into the hall. He heads toward the stairs. "The police are coming. You shouldn't be here when they arrive."

"Right," I mutter, and follow him down the stairs.

I'm outside almost before I realize it. I blink. I'm usually not quite so spacey. I glance around, but the guy's gone; I didn't see which way he went, or even if he'd come outside as well.

Doesn't matter. He can handle himself; if the police are deferring to this Hellsing Organization, they're not going to hassle him.

The mist has gotten thicker. I can't see my breath in front of my face any more - it's still fogging, but the humidity is high enough that it blends right in. Going to be a very rainy day with some awful morning fog, I suspect.

I start up the car. I'd better get down the ferry; if I wait there, I can get on first.

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Hellsing, the series, concepts and characters, are the property, copyright and trademark of Pioneer Animation/Geneon (see http/hellsing. No ownership or claim on said property, copyright or trademark is made or implied by the use in this work. This work constitutes a personal comment on the aforesaid properties pursuant to doctrines of fair use and fair comment. This work is non-commercial, not for sale or profit, and may not be sold or reproduced for commercial purposes.