Disclaimer - "Mystery Case Files" and all related characters, events, and concepts belong to Big Fish Games, Elephant Games, and Eipix Entertainment. I get no monetary benefit from this. My benefit is the enjoyment of dealing with beloved characters. Original characters, however, are mine - please contact for permission before using. This includes Darnell as a defined, fleshed-out character in his own right.

Jokers Wyrd
by DragonDancer5150

Chapter 7 - Memento

Darnell found himself laying slumped over on his left shoulder. He sat up quickly to the sight of the antique shop around him. A portly hag of a woman stood over him, glaring.

The shopkeeper pointed at the floor. "You know how it goes, boy. You break it, you buy it."

Darnell turned to find the shattered remains of the jack-in-the-box on the floor next to him. A little rubber chicken keychain ornament lay among the broken pieces. Gasping, Darnell skittered back and jumped to his feet. The woman hesitated at the sight of his obvious terror, clearly not having expected it. Darnell looked at her, down at the ruined toy, gulped loudly, and pulled his wallet out of his back pocket with hands still shaking with fright. He didn't even pay attention to how many bills he grasped as he told her, "I'll pay for it, but I'm not leaving with that thing!" He shoved the bills into the bewildered shopkeeper's hands, then turned and bolted for the door, blinded by the sudden brilliance of the welcoming afternoon sun but not stopping until he heard his sister Catherine calling his name. Doubling back reluctantly – he didn't want to be within a country mile of that creepy store and its house-of-horror stock – he found Catherine's car and threw himself into the passenger's seat, shaking and panting hard.

"I've been sitting here for almost an hour, numb-nuts. Where the hell have you-?" Catherine stopped as she got a good look at him, and her irritation turned to concern. "Darnell? What happened?"

"I . . . I-I . . . " He swallowed, wrestling down his racing heart and mind. "S-sorry, Cat. I, uh, I got . . . a little tied up in something. T-thought I'd found something for Linnie, but, um, n-no." He finally looked over at her, giving her a weak grin. "Guess I let it freak me out a little too much. Dumb, I know. I'm sorry. Let's just . . . let's just go home. I'll buy you a milkshake if you want to swing through a Wendy's first, to help make up for having to wait so long." Simple as they were – even Catherine admitted as much – she was a sucker for Wendy's chocolate milkshakes.

Catherine studied him another moment. He could see that she knew he wasn't telling her the whole truth, but she finally just nodded. "A large. And you've got dishes tonight." It was technically her turn for that chore.

Darnell nodded. "Deal."

Catherine started the car and pulled out into traffic.

Special Agent Darnell Barrett sat at a bar with his agent handler, British Intelligence Officer Thomas Blackwell of the Royal Security Service. The young American detective had just taken the assignment that would attach him to Britain's MI5 with occasional work for the queen herself, and he and his new contact were taking some downtime to get to know each other.

Almost from the moment they'd first met, Thomas had expressed admiration for Darnell's ability to keep a cool head even when dealing with unbelievable instances, cases with a supernatural element to them. It was, Thomas had observed, as if he'd dealt with the like before. And on the walk to the pub, they'd passed a toy store, and Thomas asked what was wrong when Darnell grimaced at the bright display of clowns and other circus trappings instead of finding it cute and joyful. Little could the older operative have guessed that the answers to both questions stemmed from the same experience.

Darnell took a long swig of his Guinness before setting the tankard down with a shrug. "Part of me wishes I'd grabbed and kept that keychain. As it is, I've thought about trying to find another one. I'm sure they're sold somewhere. I mean . . . really. When the Grim Reaper hands you a rubber chicken, you say thank you and take it. But there you go. THAT is why I don't like clowns."

Thomas gave a low whistle, shaking his head at the extraordinary tale. "Can't say I blame you, mate."