Chapter 9
Author's Note: Some additional warnings this chapter: implied suicide, talk of suicide, grief, alcoholism, implied past abuse. The story has quite a bit of new and reworked content from here on out. Let me know how you're enjoying it!
A man sat at his kitchen table. He had salt and pepper hair and a deeply lined face. The police had just come by to inform him that his son was presumed dead, and had likely committed suicide by jumping off the docks with blocks fastened to his feet.
He took a long sip of coffee as he considered their rationale. Cinder blocks, chains and bolt cutters were found in his car. His ex-lover had been left a note. He was going through a rough time at work, he had lost his former business and was now working a dead end job four hours away from home with people he never socialized with.
It sounded highly plausible.
A small, twelve inch tall man stood across his kitchen table, considering him.
"So they're sure he's dead?" the small man asked.
"They're certain he's dead," he confirmed, taking another sip of coffee.
"Good. Then everyone else thinks he's dead too. Especially the people who want him dead," the small man explained, "Is he safe here Jasper?"
Jasper Schemer nodded, slowly taking another sip of coffee. "Not one person on the planet would suspect a thing. Trust me Mr. Conductor."
Mr. Conductor heaved a sigh. He had watched from the docks, and as soon as Schemer was submerged he quickly magicked himself into the cold, icy depths. It took awhile to catch up to Schemer, the blocks dragged him down quickly, but he was able to use a sleeping dust and then his regular gold dust to transport them here. He had moved fast, he had to otherwise Schemer could have inhaled water, or gone without oxygen for too long, but he still hoped he had been fast enough. He was new to this line of duty, and had been assigned after the previous Mr. Conductor had disappeared. Resources were tight, so his superiors had entrusted him to sort out this mess.
"We will have to convince Allcott to bring the boy here. He won't be safe otherwise, neither of them will be. But we have to reunite them and get them out of here as quickly as possible."
"Then I suppose we better go check on the patient."
Jasper moved upstairs and Mr. Conductor followed by using his dust. He beat Jasper to the guest room where a lone man was lying in a bed, surrounded by blankets and with an oxygen mask on his face. An older woman was taking the man's temperature and looking into his pupils.
Jasper caught up, and greeted his wife, Alice. "How's he doing?" he asked gruffly.
She looked concerned, Mr. Conductor didn't enjoy that look. He considered it fortunate that Jasper had married a nurse, and one who had medical equipment on hand to help save him. Yet she didn't look thrilled despite that.
"I suspect he's hypothermic, he's stable but that water is frigid and he was under for long enough. I'm keeping his core temperature up with hot water bottles as much as possible, but I'm not seeing enough improvement to feel comfortable yet. His body is in shock, but if we can get him stable then I trust this magic dust of Mr. Conductor's can help bring him the rest of the way," she explained cautiously.
"It's more of a stasis powder than a sleeping powder. He won't need sustenance while he's under its influence," Mr. Conductor said.
"The oxygen should help his heart and lungs and hopefully prevent shock, along with the water bottles. Other than that, we'll have to wait," she finished, looking at her husband. Jasper's face gave away no emotion, but that wasn't unusual, he often carried a serious demeanour.
Jasper stepped forward to get a better look. His son appeared to be sleeping fitfully. His lips were still blue tinged, although less so than when he first showed up, and his face was very pale. Despite the heavy blankets and quilts and the generally warm temperature of the room, he was shaking with cold.
He nodded at his wife. "Do your best, you're a great nurse and if anyone can help him, it's you."
"Shouldn't we take him to a hospital? I could better help him with real equipment," she suggested carefully.
Mr. Conductor shook his head. "No, I don't think that would be wise. Something is very wrong here, and I don't think he's safe at a hospital or public place."
She nodded in silent agreement. "If you say so," she said as she left the room.
Jasper continued to watch his son impassively. He trailed a finger down the side of Schemer's head to a spot just above his right ear. Pushing back the hair he felt the bumpy scar underneath. He shook his head as he smoothed the hair back down.
His wife returned to the room and watched her husband. They had met years ago, and she knew of his history with his son, and his family. But her husband was also a very private man, and spoke little of his feelings. To speak of the past didn't help him move on, he had told her once, if anything it just put him in a place before his recovery. He seemed to work hard to forget, and she couldn't quite tell what effect having his son here was having on Jasper.
"You're doing right by him," she offered, kindly.
Jasper said nothing, and merely shrugged in response.
"What will you do when he wakes up?"
"We don't need to see each other," he said simply, walking towards the door.
Alice gripped his hand and pulled him back. "Look, I don't understand much of what's going on here, with all this talk of magic and the tiny man who can appear and disappear at will. But I do know that when he wakes up, I'm not going to be able to lie for you. I want you to be prepared for the fact that you will have to talk to him," she said seriously.
He looked doubtful at the suggestion. "Allcott and the boy will be brought here when it's safe. They can reunite in peace and leave. It's far better this way for everyone," he said nonchalantly, as if unaware of the entirely odd circumstances that had brought his son to his house.
"When did you see him last? Was it when he was taken away?"
"I saw him briefly in his early twenties, and then again at Julia's funeral. Neither time went well."
She heaved a sigh. "Jasper, I don't mean to be insensitive, but he's your only living child. And he's going to be okay, but he came very close to dying before coming here. Your daughter passed years ago, don't you want to have some reconciliation with your remaining family?"
He looked pensive. "I made big mistakes in my past, Alice. If I could go back I would have sought help long before it became an issue. But that doesn't mean that digging up these old problems will help me or him. To me, he's a living reminder of my own failure. To him, I'm a complete monster. We're not good for each other, and a continued distance is the only good solution here I think. I'll help him get back to health, help him get back on his feet, but I'm not here to stay in his life, nor will he want to stay in mine. I'm certain that our paths have only crossed, and will continue to travel in different directions."
"Okay," was all she managed to say, clearly disappointed with his thought process.
"I know you don't understand it, but we come from a long line of people who hate their fathers," he insisted stubbornly, with a smirk that was devoid of mirth.
She didn't press the issue further and left the room shortly after.
Jasper briefly looked back to his son. When things got rough, and when he felt like drinking again, he always told himself that once he had been removed from his family's lives he was able to get the help he needed. Similarly, and more importantly, they were also able to escape him and his issues. Fundamentally, they were not compatible, and he knew he was the sole cause.
But now he had someone attempting to murder his long estranged son, who Jasper knew would not be happy to know his father had a hand in saving him. Jasper also had no inclinations to play the hero or reconcile because deep down he knew he had no right to do either.
Distance was healthy, and selfishly he had no desire to disrupt the little peace he had found in life.
Schemee crept through Allcott's house quietly as he carefully placed a note in an obvious spot on the kitchen table. He didn't want to have to face Allcott or explain himself to him right now. It was about four in the morning as he snuck out of the old farmhouse and walked to the nearest train station. He needed to go back, one last time, and then he would be gone. The note for Allcott simply said he was going to Shining Time Station to stay with his friend Dan over the holidays. And maybe he would, for a night or two. But then he would hitch a ride to somewhere else. He'd figure it out, head out into some large city and start a new life. Maybe one day he'd finish school, maybe not, but either way he couldn't picture going back to his old life and picking up and moving on as if nothing had happened. As if his uncle hadn't abruptly left him. It wasn't fair, and if he was being honest, he was angry, no, furious for being left behind yet again. He felt guilty as soon as the thought occurred to him, but tried to suppress it as best he could for the time being.
Allcott had suggested that they try and have a quiet Christmas together. Schemee knew he was just trying to be kind and let him have something of a break, but he couldn't bring himself to picture any holiday without his uncle. He was entirely thrown for a loop. If there was a funeral, he may have been distracted by that. But for now, they had no body to bury, and no plans for any memorial. His uncle's car had since been checked by crime scene specialists, the police were diligently searching the harbour and surrounding waters, but no one could find him.
Schemee had a brief hope that this was all one elaborate scheme. That maybe his uncle had just had enough, wanted to get away from everyone, and would eventually come back for Schemee. But he felt angry as soon as he thought about it. There was no point in contemplating such things. The police had found enough material to consider Horace Schemer as legally dead. Now they just needed a body, or to search long enough until it was reasonable to assume that they wouldn't find a body. The harbour was large, and the water was dark, deep and cold. It might take a long time.
The train ride went quicker than he thought, and soon enough he found himself standing in front of Shining Time Station. He looked up at its old fashioned design and was flooded with grief as he thought of all the memories and adventures that had begun here. He swallowed thickly and buried his emotions. There would be time to properly mourn later. Now, he just wanted to see it, one last time, in a way that was as close to what he remembered. He also had an ulterior motive, he wanted to read the note. He was confused as to why Stacy was his uncle's last point of contact, and he wanted to know what it said. He swung open the door and stepped inside.
The sight of an office built over the old arcade left him feeling hollow, but he again tried to bury the hurt. Stacy's desk was empty but Billy's office door stood slightly ajar. He knew that the station would soon be open for the holiday rush. His train was one of the first to arrive, but he had a short window of time before trains started leaving Shining Time Station, so no one should be around just yet. He gathered his nerve and walked up to her desk but something stopped him. He heard low voices coming from inside the new office. No one had seemingly heard him enter, so he crept over to the side of the office and hid near the baggage area. He didn't know what he was trying to hear, but something compelled him to go in closer. There was a window on one wall, and the curtains were mostly drawn but Schemee willed the nerve to peek into the one corner that was open to him.
"I've done what you've asked, and accomplished what you wanted, but the station isn't budging. It won't give up its power to me!" a blond man was saying, sounding highly agitated. Schemee suspected that the blonde man was Paul but he couldn't see who Paul was talking to, and wondered if it was someone over the phone.
"So take greater action," another male voice responded. The voice sounded tinny, like it was coming from a distance away. Schemee strained to see into the office, to try and see the owner of the other voice. What he saw almost made him gasp audibly. He could just make out what looked like purple shadows swirling in the air like a vortex and there was a man's silhouette at the very center of the flickering darkness. He moved away from the window immediately, back pressed flush against the wall. His beating heart would surely give him away, of course he had managed to stumble into some weird demon shit. Still, he willed himself to continue listening. He didn't think that the occupants of the office realized just how poorly soundproofed the former arcade was. It was almost like an echo chamber, and many a time he and his friends had laughed while eavesdropping on Schemer coming up with his latest scheme.
"Greater action? I'm running out of ideas here, and if you haven't noticed everything that's happened so far has benefited you and you alone," the blonde man insisted coldly.
"You're being paid, rather handsomely I might add, to do what I say. Anything that benefits me also benefits you," the other man replied. His voice was smooth, like butter, as he spoke in a deep baritone.
"You said this was an easy job, and that I would start seeing results soon. If I don't see my own power source soon I may have to increase my rates."
"Like hell you will!" the other voice suddenly boomed. It was like a flip had switched, the smooth voice was quickly replaced with a voice that snapped like a rubber band.
He heard a slight commotion, as if Paul had fallen down.
Again, the other voice began to speak, "If I say jump, you ask how high. If I tell you to kill everyone in sight, you say yes sir. I don't give a damn about your reputation, and I have zero qualms with turning you loose and finding someone competent. You know what I'm capable of, you know how high the stakes are, you know what the reward will be for you if you just cooperate. Do I make myself clear?" the unknown owner of the voice hissed coldly.
"Yes sir," Paul said, dejected.
"Good, now do whatever you have to do to finish the job. Keep the station for yourself for all the good it does you, but don't forget to acquire my target," the voice said, and with that all Schemee could hear what sounded like the sound of a chime. It reminded him of Mr. Conductor, but it was much more dissident. He shivered in fear, and heard Paul exit his office. From his hiding spot, Schemee tried to examine Paul's face. He could see a troubled frown spread across his features. Suddenly, Schemee noticed as Stacy and Billy entered the station, and almost immediately Paul's face flipped as if a switch had been turned on.
"Merry Christmas you two!" he greeted them in a friendly manner.
They greeted him politely back, and Schemee could still read the sorrow on their faces from his position across the floor. He wondered if he carried that look. A permanent look of sadness that stained every feature and blocked out happiness.
"Paul, we'd like to put a tribute up for Schemer if that's alright with you," he heard Stacy suggest.
"Of course, you have my full support. However I am unfortunately being called away for today on business, please don't hesitate to call if you need anything," Paul said kindly, a far cry of his earlier expression during the weird conversation Schemee had overheard.
Paul went back to his office, seemingly to gather his belongings, and headed out of the station. Stacy and Billy retreated to other parts of the station, both too busy or absorbed in their thoughts to notice him.
Schemee moved quickly and he found that Paul's office was unlocked. That was bold, Paul must have a lot of confidence that no one would enter it. He looked around. There was no demonic entity, or whatever that man was, in sight. Schemee suspected he must have used magic somehow to enter and leave, as no one except for Paul had exited the office. Something was very wrong with this, and their conversation was very concerning. Schemee felt like he was supposed to be looking for something, anything, but didn't quite know what. He suddenly heard another noise like a chime, and hit the ground in fright. But when no man or demon materialized, he slowly got to his feet and looked around. There was no one inside the office but him. However, he noticed something that wasn't previously there.
Gold dust. A small amount was currently resting on a cigar box, sitting on a mid level shelf. The cigar box itself was innocuous, and he never would have noticed it before. Schemee frowned and reached forward. He brushed some of the dust onto his hands, and looked closely at it. It was definitely like the kind Mr. Conductor used. With a pang of fright and sorrow he remembered that Mr. Conductor was also dead. He had heard from Dan earlier that week, before… Before he refused to see his uncle, and before his uncle killed himself. He had forgotten all about Mr. Conductor and felt terrible about it. But if Mr. Conductor was dead, why was Schemee still hearing his signature chime, or finding gold dust in the office he was currently trespassing in? He bit his lip, not believing a single one of those events was a coincidence, and opened the box. His heart felt like it dropped to his stomach. There it was, what he was looking for without even knowing it. A garish tie was sitting carefully rolled inside the cigar box. Schemee would recognize it anywhere, and he knew that there was no way that someone like Paul would also own one. With one trembling hand, he pocketed it. He could barely comprehend the implications of this when he heard movement within the station. Customers were arriving, and Stacy and Billy would surely be busy. He put the cigar box back as quickly and carefully as possible, before slipping out and shutting the door behind him. As he rushed towards the front door, Stacy looked up to see him. They made brief eye contact but before she could call out to him he took off without a word. He had to think about this carefully, and about who he could trust with something of this magnitude.
Stacy had watched Schemee leave Paul's office. His sudden appearance had taken her by surprise, but before she could talk to him he had left without a word. She wondered if he was trying to get closer to Schemer by spending time near the old arcade. She knew that feeling, she had been there a few times over the last few days. But the look on his face was different. He had been wounded and devastated the last time she saw him. This time, his lip was curled in disgust and his face held a combination of deep sorrow and fury. She wasn't sure what to make of it. His anger, she could fully believe. This was nothing short of traumatic; for a child to lose their only guardian to suicide, the thought made her almost physically ill. It was tragic, and left everyone with many questions and few answers.
She had the note, but it did nothing to help her understanding. She had read over it many times; sometimes she cried, but mostly she just went cold. She had the last communication from a man who had felt like he had nothing left. It was a pathetic and poorly scribed thing, four sentences to commemorate the end of a life. Why did he think to leave it for her? Was it because he didn't want to hurt Schemee anymore than he already would? Why only leave one? These were just a few of the unanswered questions she asked herself.
With the station being busy for Christmas, she was unable to read it again until after closing. She often read it when her questions bubbled up and became too much to bear. Then when she did read it, she was immediately let down and promised herself to put it away somewhere she could forget about it. But she could never forget about it. It was an item that was both coveted and hated, no matter where she put it away, it shone like a lantern, a beacon to her mind. She always went back to it.
At the end of the day, she dropped herself into Billy's office. Today felt different. Schemee's expression carried something that she didn't fully comprehend. She retrieved the note from her pocket, and tried to look beyond it. It was a hasty scribble, quite unlike his usual long form, which was neat and loopy and painstakingly written to perfection. A thought occurred to her, she had another note from him within her desk. The one he had sent to ask her on a date. She quickly retrieved it, and looked at them side by side. They were quite different, to say the least, but she still could tell it was his writing, even if it weren't his usual, pretty writing.
She felt angry with herself for trying to find something that wasn't there, and cast both letters away angrily. She threw her head down into her folded arms on top of Billy's desk. She felt one note float down to land on one of her hands. Picking it up, she realized it was the final note he sent, almost as if it desired to continue to haunt her. She heaved a sigh and reviewed it once more.
Stacy,
I appolagize for what I'm going to do. I will always love u.
Please don't forget me.
Horace L. Schemer
She gathered the earlier note, frowning as she noticed something. Schemer would often refer to himself as a genius, and while it was a running joke amongst them that he was not, in fact, a genius, it was unusual to see such blatant spelling errors from him. The first note was carefully crafted, but the second was entirely different. She gave her head a shake, surely he was in entirely different states of mind while he wrote these, which could explain away the messy writing and spelling errors. 'Apologize' contained an extra 'p', and an 'a' where there shouldn't be, it seemed like an usual but not impossible error to make. But something about that gave her pause, suddenly remembering Schemee leaving Paul's office that day.
She frowned, taking in the short hand text. The 'u' in 'love u' suddenly stood out on the page. Schemer rarely used short hand, his business invoices were near perfect and always spelled everything out clearly. Her heart rate quickened, sweat beaded on her forehead. P-A-U…. And the signature. She looked at both notes. Schemer would never sign off with his full name. He hated his first name, and his middle initial… Did he even have a middle name? She went to some older invoices and station documents. She couldn't find one instance of a middle name or initial, let alone an L.
She sank into the seat heavily, running her hands through her hair.
P-A-U-L.
It was right there, on the page. Schemer didn't commit suicide. And Paul had something to do with it.
Stacy sped down Schemer's old road. This time instead she swerved into Billy's driveway; he and Schemer had been neighbours though their lots were well separated by a wooded lot.
She pounded on the door and Billy answered in surprise.
"He didn't do it!" she gasped, gulping in air as if she had been holding her breath, "We have to find Schemee!"
Billy looked very concerned. "Who didn't do what? And Schemee is with his great uncle."
"No, he's here! I saw him earlier, I've looked everywhere, I've pounded on Schemer's door and looked into every window for nearly an hour," she gasped, pointing in the direction of Schemer's house.
Billy looked weary, tired. "Stacy, what's going on?"
She lowered her voice to a hush. "Schemer didn't commit suicide," she said hurriedly.
"Stacy, please come inside, let's calm down and talk about this."
"You don't believe me! I don't blame you, but I'm going to my father, he has to know," she was starting to sound manic.
"I didn't say that, but I'd like to know what exactly you're talking about first," he said calmly, "Why don't we walk over to Schemer's house?"
She began to lead him down the path that ran through the woods, adjoining Billy and Schemer's properties, when a sudden rustle from the nearby woods caused Billy to pull Stacy behind him. "Who's there?" he demanded.
But they both simultaneously exclaimed, "Schemee!", as the dark haired teenager stepped out of the bush and onto the path.
"I heard you around the house earlier, and decided to head over. You've been looking for me?" he asked Stacy warily.
"Yes, I am. I saw you today at the station, I need to talk to you about something," she exclaimed.
Billy looked panicked, still not following what was going on. Stacy knew it must look insane. Was she really going to start telling her dead ex-boyfriend's nephew that he was actually murdered, and hadn't killed himself? At even the worst of times this would be out of character for her.
"Who's Paul? What do you know about him?" Schemee asked, ignoring her request to talk to him.
"I think we all need to go inside," Billy suggested, fearing that this could be a damaging conversation to have if anyone was listening in. If Schemee could hide in the woods undetected, so could anyone with nefarious intent.
"Promise me first that you won't tell anyone where I am," Schemee demanded quietly.
Stacy and Billy exchanged uncomfortable glances. Keeping a teenager's location a secret from his guardian, especially when he was their dead friend's closest family, was not something either wanted to have to do.
"Promise me, or I won't share what I saw today," he said cryptically.
"Okay," Stacy relented, fearing the lack of information more than his current guardianship, "We won't tell anyone."
They made their way inside and seated themselves around Billy's table.
"So, what exactly is this Paul guy's deal?" Schemee asked with an unreadable expression on his face.
"Paul is a stakeholder for the railway, and he now has the office where the arcade used to be," Billy explained neutrally, "He was friendly with your uncle, and seemed to regret taking his spot so to speak."
"My uncle, the Saturday before he… went missing, rushed off after he heard about the office going up. What happened when he got to the station?"
Stacy swallowed thickly. "He was upset," she admitted, "He was angry at us. I think he felt he was being replaced."
Schemee felt some of his guilt alleviate, perhaps he wasn't completely at fault for upsetting his uncle on one of his last days. Still, that did nothing to make him feel truly better. "I went into Paul's office today and I found something. But before I show you, I need to see something. Stacy, do you have the note?"
She looked surprised, did he already know what she had discovered? She wordlessly retrieved the note and passed it over to him, realizing that he would know about her and Schemer.
He gave no reaction to this however as he scanned the note. He retrieved something from his pocket and, while still obscuring it with his hand, placed it on the table palm down. "Why would Paul have my uncle's tie hidden away in his office?" he asked casually as he removed his hand to reveal the tie in front of them.
Both of them looked at each other, and then down at the tie. It was definitely one of Schemer's, they had seen him wear it before.
Billy shook his head. "It's very unusual, and I always felt Paul was too good to be true, but this is a very heavy accusation."
"The note is unusual," Schemee said with a dark calm, "The tie is damning."
Stacy remembered her earlier findings, she had been thumbing the fabric of the tie between her fingers, lost in thought. "Oh, yes, that's why I was looking for both of you!" She pointed at the note in Schemee's hand. "Your Uncle, does he have a middle name that starts with the letter L?" she asked.
Schemee shook his head. "He doesn't have a middle name at all."
Stacy turned to Billy. "It might be a stretch, or a coincidence, but there's a sequence of spelling errors, short-hand words and his middle initial that spell out P-A-U-L," she explained, unsure how she was being so calm. The note, the tie, it all made sense together. Maybe it was having a second person on her side, but Schemee's undisturbed manner seemed to ground her.
Billy looked pensive. "Look, this is very weird, and highly unusual, but it doesn't necessarily point out Paul as being a murderer. Paul may very well have orchestrated this, and we can all agree Schemer had a slow decline into a depressive state. His relationships, his job, his home, everything changed dramatically. But that doesn't mean Paul was directly behind what happened. The tie doesn't look good in this, as Paul was working with the police, but I don't think it means he was involved. Perhaps Schemer left it behind somewhere, and Paul picked it up and forgot about it."
"Sure, I get it. But, the tie is just the beginning," Schemee said quietly, "I overheard him talking to someone in his office today. They were talking about taking over the station, and mentioned doing whatever it took. I mean, it could be a business take over, but I doubt it. There was something else though, something magic, I'm sure of it, but it was very, very wrong. The other person he was talking to seemed to be speaking through some sort of purple, swirling magic haze. Like, a portal. It's difficult to explain, and it sounds nuts, but I suppose weirder things have happened."
Now it was Billy's turn to be convinced and he paled at the revelation. "Schemee… Mr. Conductor recently died, and before he disappeared he told us that there was some whisperings of a darker magic taking place. People were looking into it, which makes me think there's more people involved in magic than we can possibly understand, but if what you saw is true, it seems like no one has been able to stop it," he said gravely, thinking about what this all meant.
"So Paul and this man… they discussed taking over the station? Any reason why?" Stacy asked in a hushed voice.
"Well, no. Paul was getting annoyed that things weren't going well though. The other man threatened him with cutting him loose, and reminded him what he was capable of," Schemee explained, frowning as he thought back on it all, "However, the most frightening thing he said was that he expected Paul to follow his orders. 'If I say to kill everyone in sight, you say yes sir' is what he told Paul."
"So if Paul had orders to kill people, he would do it." Billy carefully considered this new information.
"He's already killed. My uncle is dead," Schemee began to say, anger seeping into his voice. But he had to give pause as soon as the words left his mouth. It was the first time he had said the words aloud, suddenly it all seemed so real. To say it aloud was to admit it. His Uncle Schemer was gone. He gave a shaky gasp and Stacy and Billy looked at him with twin looks of pity. He hated the sudden mournful looks on their faces and felt his nerve and resolve slipping. For a brief moment he felt like running from Billy's house as fast as he could. But he didn't. By mentioning his uncle he had also called to mind the image of his uncle. Standing in his arcade gleefully plotting their next scheme. That was what how Schemee thought of his uncle, how is uncle really truly was. He was gone now, but no one could take that image from Schemee. Not grief, not even a powerful homicidal maniac.
"My Uncle is dead," he said in a quieter but perfectly steady voice, "And I want to know what happened. If that Paul guy is actually guilty, then I want to make sure that he gets put behind bars where he belongs," he said with all the determination he could muster.
Stacy and Billy exchanged glances, unsure of what to say. Stacy looked fearful, Billy looked pensive.
"Please... You two are the only ones who can help me right now. I know you miss him, and I know you never would have wanted to see it end like this."
"We don't know the entire story," Billy said after a brief pause, "We don't know why your uncle was individually targeted. I think we need more information before we can take action. And as much as I want to personally see your uncle avenged, I'm not sure we have the power to take down an evil mastermind who's been plotting right under our noses. We will help you any way we can, but through the right authorities."
Schemee felt himself deflate a little bit. "Stacy? What about you?"
"I could go to the police. My father would help," she said quietly.
"Does your father understand magic?" Schemee asked pointedly.
"No, he doesn't," she admitted regretfully, "But I'll talk to him, I'll bring the note to him. He's got to believe it."
The three lapsed into a tired silence.
"Well, thanks anyways, for listening," Schemee said dully, suddenly feeling exhausted. He excused himself and left without another word.
Stacy and Billy continued to sit at the table in silence for much longer than they intended to, feeling deeply conflicted.
Schemee didn't show up the next day at the station, and Paul seemed his usual kind and polite self. Stacy and Billy tried their best to act as if they weren't actively accusing their boss of murder last night. Still, they were convinced, and while they wanted to help Schemee, they had no idea what to do. They agreed, they owed it to Schemer's memory, but where to even start? There were two options, either they were working with a potential murderer, or Paul was someone who was caught up in a big misunderstanding due to a series of coincidences. While they believed Schemee about what he saw, their strongest proof was shaky at best. It would never hold up in a court of law, and police would certainly never believe them. Even if they tried to pass this information along, would it just alert Paul that they knew and leave them vulnerable?
Extreme caution would have to be taken. They had no Mr. Conductor to help them with a potential murderer in their midst and no one to talk to and nowhere to go. They agreed that they would not say a single word about it at the station. It likely wasn't safe here, especially if the dark magic had truly reached them and was trying to take over the station. What that meant exactly, they didn't fully know. Playing it cool seemed like the most reasonable course of action, and Stacy was still going to go talk to her father.
Nonetheless, she worried about Schemee. Where was he staying? He was likely at his uncle's old house, but that would only be for as long as the estate hadn't sold it. She knew he was supposed to be at his great uncle's house, but knowing his headstrong nature she figured he was doing exactly the opposite of what everyone wanted him to do, especially if he thought he was doing the right thing.
After work she went to her parent's house, and found her father sitting on the front porch.
"Hey Stacy," he greeted her warmly, "How are you holding up?"
The funny thing about the note was that the few people who knew about its existence now also knew that Schemer loved her, however not one person dared to mention it. Instead they would ask her how she was doing or feeling.
"I'm okay, thanks. I did want to talk to you about something I noticed in that note though."
He seemed unprepared for this. "Of course, right now?"
"Yes, if that's alright," she offered him as an out.
Instead he patted the porch beside him as an invitation to sit down.
"Schemer didn't kill himself, I think," she blurted out. She saw no point in beating around the bush.
"Oh Stacy," her father said, placing a hand on hers. She realized that he was looking at her not with shock, but pity.
"This isn't unusual, I'm sorry to say," he continued.
She clued in to what he meant. "No, really, I have proof!"
He nodded slowly. She knew he didn't believe her, and that she was grasping at straws, but still he allowed her to continue. She unfolded the note, it was becoming well worn and well read at this point, and laid it out in front of him.
"See, the typos in 'apologize' for P and A, the slang U, and the initial L. Schemer doesn't have a middle name! It spells out Paul!"
She realized suddenly how ridiculous it all sounded. And she was now struggling to believe it herself.
"Stacy, I love you and I'm sorry this happened. Obviously Schemer cared deeply for you. But I have to help you understand that he's not coming back. I don't think this refers to a murder, and I don't think this implicates Paul. I'm sorry," he told her gently and not unkindly.
She nodded, blinking back tears and turned slightly away from him.
"You're right, I should go now."
"No Stacy, please stay, it's Christmas Eve," he tried to call her back, sounding worried.
"I'm sorry, I promised to spend time helping an old friend. I have to go meet up with him tonight before it gets too late," she said monotonously, "Thanks for listening anyways."
She got back in her car and suddenly felt angry with herself. What even compelled her to do this? Then she remembered Schemee and the hopeless look on his face, and the tie, and the dark magic. She remembered the first note, and how confident she was in the differences. No, she was sure this was right.
She immediately turned back in the direction of not Schemer's house or her own house, but the station. She had to know for herself if the station was falling under darkness. She would be able to tell, it was her station. It was time for her to start protecting it, and everyone within it.
Schemee entered the closed station. He still had a copy of his uncle's key, obviously security wasn't a high priority here in this small, quaint town. Being Christmas Eve, it was empty of customers and staff. Schemee wasn't quite sure what he was looking for, but he was hoping once again something would lead him to the right place. He crept up to the office door slowly. It was closed this time, but he couldn't hear anything or anyone inside. Gently gripping the door handle, he began to turn it when someone cleared their throat behind him. Schemee jumped so badly that he stumbled and nearly toppled down the three steps that lead into the new office. A gentle but firm grip caught him. He looked up to see Paul standing before him, wearing a bemused expression on his face. Schemee tried desperately to appear calm, as if his heart didn't feel like it was attempting to drill out of his chest and as if his airway didn't feel so constricted.
"Well now, what do we have here?" Paul asked, not unkindly. He frowned gently as he looked over Schemee's face. "You look familiar, what's your name?"
Schemee stuttered, barely able to say his name. He was terror struck by the man who killed his uncle. Yet couldn't bring himself to be angry, let alone speak.
"Wait, are you Schemer's nephew?" Paul asked gently, releasing his grip on Schemee's arm. Schemee stumbled but caught himself before Paul could help him once more.
Schemee found the use of his tongue once more. "Yes, I am."
Paul's frown was replaced by a sympathetic expression. "Oh goodness, I'm so terribly sorry. I liked your uncle very much, he worked for me for a short amount of time," he looked downcast and had what appeared to be genuine sorrow on his face. Schemee was confused, this was not the man he overheard the other day. It couldn't be, this man was incredibly kind.
"I'm sorry for your loss," Paul continued, "If there's anything I can do at all, please let me know."
Schemee swallowed thickly, and stammered out whatever came to his mind. He didn't know what came over him, but he just blurted out whatever came to mind. Maybe it was to throw off Paul, maybe it was because he was trying to convince himself that this man didn't kill his uncle. He wasn't sure exactly. "Thanks... It's, um, it's been... so hard. I wanted to come back and see the Station one last time to, you know, remember some of the... good times."
Paul nodded knowingly. "The arcade meant a lot to both of you, didn't it?"
Schemee nodded. "It did, it really did."
"Where are you staying Jonathan?" he asked kindly.
Schemee was suddenly taken aback, hardly recognizing his given name.
"Your uncle told me about you, that's how I know your name," Paul explained with a smile, noticing Schemee's shock.
Schemee almost corrected him, almost. But this had thrown him. His uncle talking about him wasn't unusual, but he would never use anything but Schemee when talking to other people. That was his name, the name everyone used. Jonathan was only in the most dire of situations.
"Of course," he said slowly, "Makes sense."
"Do you need a place to stay?" Paul asked again.
"No," he lied quickly, "I'm heading back to my friend's house." He suddenly felt very alone, and the cold grip of fear began to take hold over him.
"Well I could give you a ride if you need it. It's getting late after all, it wouldn't be wise to be out after dark." Paul was insistent, and Schemee swore he could see a cold, predatory look spreading slowly over Paul's features.
"No need Paul, I'm actually heading over there myself," a female voice called from the doorway.
They both spun around, Paul's expression quickly switched to a friendly look once more.
"Stacy! What are you doing at work so late?" Paul asked.
"Meeting Schemee, I knew he would be here so I came back to bring him to my brother's house. Have a good night Paul!" she said with a forced cheeriness.
Paul contemplated this for a moment but only gave Schemee a small smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "Good luck, and all the best. Don't be a stranger here."
Schemee obediently followed Stacy out to her car, and she peeled out of the parking lot without looking back.
"Are you alright?" she asked him, sounding worried.
"I think so, but that was very weird," he said, thinking back to the look on Paul's face when he realized who he was.
"I saw the whole thing, I was listening in. It didn't seem right, not one bit. I could see the way his face flipped, it was like he knew exactly what to say and how to look," she said with a shiver.
Schemee noticed she was driving quickly. "Where exactly are we going?"
"My house. We've got to stick together, and I don't want you staying alone. Besides, police won't take this seriously. I believe you Schemee, it's up to us."
As they arrived at Stacy's house, Schemee noticed the Christmas tree box sitting in the corner of the living room and remembered that it was Christmas Eve. It had been such a long day, and he felt almost bad for forgetting. Stacy moved towards it, sheepishly shuffling around the tangle of lights, boxes of ornaments and the few presents that were haphazardly stacked around room. It was a sad sight to see, clearly her Christmas plans had been abandoned in a hurry. "Sorry about the mess," she muttered, "We were supposed to put the tree together."
We? Realization dawned on him suddenly. "You... It was you!" he exclaimed, all the while wondering why he hadn't considered it sooner, "You were dating my Uncle, weren't you?"
She looked up, both guilty and despondent. Schemee suddenly felt sorry that he brought it up. Obviously she'd be upset over the death of her friend, but the death of someone who she was also romantically involved with was surely breaking her heart. He suddenly remembered the night of the party. "I'm so sorry," he offered sadly, "I didn't know, and I was a real jerk about it when it came up in the kitchen that night."
She shook her head. "No, that's alright Schemee. You didn't know," she said regretfully.
He sighed and looked away. "He wanted to tell me, once. I brushed him off. I had a detention slip to be signed, and if I'm honest I was getting jealous of the time he was spending away from the house. He wasn't around as much, but really I was just being petty. I could've asked to spend time with him anytime. I knew he was seeing someone, and I told him that I didn't care who it was. Really, I didn't care if he was happy or not, I was just thinking of myself," he explained, his throat tightening as he moved through his confession. He turned to wipe his eyes. He was tired of crying, of feeling hopeless, and overall felt angry at himself for his part in everything.
Stacy fully began crying, without warning. "I broke up with him, right after that. He told me that you knew. But I found out that night that he hadn't. I was upset that he lied, and left in a fit of rage. He tried to explain, but I didn't let him. I wouldn't hear it, like I was living in some stupid romantic comedy," she lowered herself to the ground, placing the present in front of her.
Schemee looked on in shock, his tears now flowing without restraint.
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't be crying in front of you," she gasped, trying to wipe her tears away as they flowed unbidden.
Schemee felt a ragged sob rip through his chest. "S-stop apologizing," he said between gasps, "It's not your fault." He too knelt on the ground in front of her.
She pulled him into a tight embrace and for a second he didn't know how to react. But as he felt her sobbing against him, what was left of the floodgates keeping his emotions in check burst open. He wrapped his arms around her and buried his head into her shoulder, allowing himself to give into the grief. His uncle was gone. Schemer was gone. They were broken over it, but they had that in common. They were broken over it together. Maybe, eventually, the pieces could be slowly gathered and pieced back together into a landscape that was forever cracked, but at least made sense. Maybe, eventually. But not now.