Dead Waters

7

I wasn’t normally one to strip in the partially walled office cube that comprised the space Connor and I shared, but by the time we got back to the Department of Extraordinary Affairs, I hadn’t dried off at all and was shivering from my jump into the pool. Jane left me with Connor and ran off to report to Director Wesker over in Greater & Lesser Arcana as I hung up my satchel to dry out, and then peeled off my suede leather jacket before dropping it into a plastic-lined bin I now kept next to my desk.

Connor looked down at it. “Nice idea, kid. When did you put that there?”

I leaned against our partners desk as I struggled out of my wet Doc Martens, which were now clinging to my feet like they were glued on. “After that ectoplasm in the popcorn-machine incident in that off-Broadway theater,” I said. “My cleaning bills are through the roof, and even before these cuts, the Inspectre stopped letting me expense them. You’d think damage done in the line of duty would be covered . . .”

“I wouldn’t press him, kid.”

“No?” My Docs didn’t want to come off. I undid the laces even more and wiggled off the first one, tossing it in the bin.

“No,” Connor said. “It could be worse.”

“Worse than bagging my clothes up here on a weekly basis and then dragging them to the cleaners on my own dime? How could it be worse?”

“You press the Inspectre on it, and they might start issuing us uniforms. You want to wear a tan jumpsuit with your name stitched over the pocket?”

“Depends,” I said. “Do I get to be Egon? Do I get a Proton Pack?” My other boot came free and I put it with the other one.

“I don’t think so.” Connor pointed to the mountains of files and paperwork piled on both of our desks. It had grown several inches in the few hours we had been gone. “Think of what it takes to even get ballpoint pens from supply. You rip a field-issued jumpsuit and try to requisition a new one? You’ll be roaming the halls in your boxers at least a week waiting.”

“Speaking of which, can you watch our cubicle door? I need to finish getting out of the rest of this stuff.”

Connor turned away. “Gladly. Although why you need to do it here . . .”

“It’s just easier,” I said. I walked around to the work side of my desk, slid the lower-left-hand drawer open, and fished out a dry T-shirt. I pulled off the wet one, threw it on top of my boots, and slid the new one over my head. The front of it read: I BRAKE FOR IMAGINARY CREATURES. “I’m living out of my drawer here.”

Connor laughed. “Now you know how Jane feels at your place.”

His comment stung. I tried to ignore it, but another flare of the tattooist’s way over-the-top emotions hit me. I bit my lip and fought the urge to say something, instead focusing on putting on a dry pair of jeans that were also sitting in the drawer. I slid them on, thankful to be dry once again and forcing the emotions down. “Okay,” I said. “Done.”

Connor turned and gave me a skeptical look.

“What?” I asked.

“Your face, kid. What’s the matter? Did I strike a raw nerve with my Jane comment?”

I sighed. “Yeah, I guess,” I admitted. “That tattooist emotional-baggage thing flared up again.”

I sat down at my desk and Connor walked over to his.

“Look at the bright side,” he said, sitting down. “You probably won’t have to worry about Jane getting the itch to marry you.”

“I won’t?”

“You jumping to conclusions that Jane wanting more drawer space means she wants to move in should land you in a padded room long before that.”

“Comforting,” I said. I set to work writing out the details of the events of the past few hours, almost enjoying the silence while doing it. At least Connor wasn’t jabbing me about my newfound domestic issues with Jane. When my eyes started to blur from all the paperwork, I stopped and gathered my papers. I stood up. “I’m going to run this up to the Inspectre.”

“Go crazy, kid,” Connor said, looking up from his own chaos of paper across from me, “but aren’t you forgetting something?”

I thought for a moment, and then shrugged.

Connor pointed at my bare feet. “No socks, no shoes,” he said. “No service.”

I opened my lower-left-hand drawer once more. “Thanks for the reminder,” I said. “I don’t know where my head’s at. Maybe that water woman squeezed some of my brains out when she was trying to drown me.” Fresh socks and dry boots, and under that, nothing more. I pulled them out and put them on. “Time to restock my wardrobe. Looks like this is all that’s left.”

“Then you better hope you don’t run into anything heading up to the Inspectre’s office,” Connor said.

I stood up, feeling almost human again, the leather of the new boots stiff against my feet. “A wandering monster encounter is highly unlikely. I think I can manage.”

I turned and headed away from our desks, walking off toward the stairs that led to the Inspectre’s office up on the second floor.

“Oh, you say that now,” Connor shouted after me, “but don’t forget where we work.”

I slowed my pace as I walked. Connor had a point. A healthy amount of paranoia about danger lurking around every corner had kept my older partner alive so far, and if there was ever a place full of potentially menacing corners, it was the Department of Extraordinary Affairs.

I found the Inspectre buried in a paperwork mountain all his own when I got to his office. The usually neat and orderly British gentleman’s office was littered with more casework and files than I had ever seen, little piles of manila folders dotting the rich cherrywood finish of the room.

“Sir?” I called out as I stepped into his office. He finished what he was writing before looking up at me, a bit agitated. “I’ve prepared a file on Mason Redfield . . .”

“Dammit, boy,” the Inspectre blustered, standing up. He came out from behind his desk, crossed over to me, and snatched the folder from my hand. “You mean to tell me you’ve been back long enough to write out a case file and didn’t think to come see me first?”

I stepped back, a little surprised by the anger in the Inspectre’s voice. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just thought . . .”

The Inspectre turned away from me and went back to his desk. He threw the folder down, not even bothering to look at it. He breathed in like he was getting ready to yell, but stopped himself. He slid his thumb and index finger under his glasses and rubbed his eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said, softening. “Perhaps I didn’t make my request clear enough for urgency in this matter.”

“I was just following standard protocol . . .”

“Of course you were,” he said, waving my words away with his hand. “Bully for you. I trust you have something to report. . . ?”

“Yes,” I said. “My report is . . . in my report.” I pointed at the folder on the desk.

The Inspectre put his hand on it, but made no effort to open it. “I think I would prefer to hear it from you, my boy.”

For the first time I noticed the deep weariness on his face. His eyes were heavier than usual, full of exhaustion.

“Absolutely,” I said. “Of course. When we found Professor Redfield’s body . . .”

The Inspectre raised his hand off the folder in front of him. “Spare me the more gruesome details, my boy. Friends from long ago haunt you the most if you know too many particulars about their passing.”

“Sorry,” I said, picking up the folder and searching my papers for what should and shouldn’t be said.

“No need for apologies,” the Inspectre said, sounding sad this time. “It’s something they simply don’t prepare you for in what passes for training around here.”

I had written so much down, I didn’t know where to start editing, so I closed the folder. “One thing is for sure, sir. Mason Redfield’s death was not of natural causes.” I tried to imagine what it would be like to drown from the inside out like that, but couldn’t. “There were no signs that he struggled. He looked almost . . . peaceful.”

“Good,” the Inspectre said, solemn. He took off his glasses. “That is something. It may seem like a small thing to you, Simon, but when you get to be my age, there is a . . . comfort, I suppose, in the thought of dying peacefully. Truth be told, I never expected to make it past fifty. Then again, neither did Mason.”

Curiosity got the better of me. “You mentioned earlier tonight that the professor was a friend of yours . . . ?”

The Inspectre stood and turned to the display case behind him that took up most of the wall. It was filled with books as well as a few ornamental museum pieces scattered among the shelves. His hand rose, gently gliding along the edge of the top of it. It came to rest on a length of dark polished wood with a thin band of tarnished copper near one end of it. A walking stick. He pulled it down, held it carefully in both hands, and stared down at it, fixated.

“He was more than just a friend,” the Inspectre said. “He was my first partner in the Fraternal Order of Goodness, our older brotherhood of investigators which predates the government-run Department of Extraordinary Affairs by several hundred years.” He tossed the cane to me. “See for yourself, my boy.”

I caught it with both hands and sat myself down in one of the chairs on the other side of the Inspectre’s desk, inspecting the cane as I did so. Along the metal band read the word DAMOCLES. The object crackled with energy in my hands, almost eager to reveal itself to my power like a child wanting to tell about his day at school. There was rich history in this object. With that much power ready to release, sinking into the chair was my best option. I wanted to use my psychometry on the cane, but I didn’t want to fall over from blood-sugar depletion from such a heavily charged object.

I pressed my power into the cane and my mind flashed back through time. It was nighttime in an old graveyard somewhere along the East River. A large jagged fissure in the earth gaped open where grass met the rise of a short, rocky slope where a young Argyle Quimbley was busy fighting his way through a steady stream of pale, ghoulish creatures crawling up out of it. Riding the vision out behind his eyes, I was surprised at how good he was doing—my Other Division boss was kicking ass like it was going out of style, cutting quite a striking and dashing figure. I felt his youth and prowess as a young agent. He was a far cry from the man I knew—muscular and dressed for combat action in khakis and a leather bomber jacket.

Argyle Quimbley slammed the butt of the cane into the gut of one charging creature, and then slid a hidden blade out of its other end and plunged it into the chest of another. The ghoul roared in pain and Argyle Quimbley raised his boot and kicked it free from his sword. He was a swashbuckling dynamo, but as I watched, I realized the Inspectre had a bigger problem than simply cutting them down. The creature that Quimbley had just stabbed in the heart got back on its feet and started after him once again.

“Could you research a little faster, Mason?” Quimbley shouted as he continued to fend off the swarm. “These ghouls don’t seem to be staying down and it would be advantageous to know their weak points. Judging from that last one, I’d say we can rule out the heart.”

Having just been thrust into the mind and body of a young Argyle Quimbley, I had barely taken notice of Mason Redfield standing there. He stood only a few feet away, flipping through a dark green file folder, but looked far less fashionable than Quimbley did. With elbow pads on his tweed jacket, Mason Redfield almost looked like the modern-day version of the Inspectre. A tiny flashlight floated above his head as he pored over the file. His hair hung down across his forehead in a wild mess and he pushed it out of the way as he thumbed through the file.

“I’m reading as fast as I can, Argyle,” he shouted, “but these damn files are out of order.” Mason’s accent was pure American next to the Inspectre’s English tones, although he sounded as if he were trying to affect a passable Clark Gable. Even so, the man sounded flustered and nervous. “It’s like trying to read an encyclopedia in the dark. By the time I assess the proper ecology of ghouls, I suspect we may be good and dead.”

“Now, now,” Argyle said, slashing at two more off to their right. “We’ll have none of that talk while we’re still breathing. You keep reading and I’ll keep fending.”

“Who has the time for all this paperwork these days, I ask you?” Mason sniped. “If the Fraternal Order of Goodness doesn’t watch out, they’re going to kill their membership by sheer weight of paperwork alone.”

Despite the peril of constant fighting all around them, I couldn’t help but smile at that. It was oddly comforting to hear how little that had changed in the past forty years.

Mason continued thumbing through the contents of the folder.

“Hurry up,” Argyle said. “There are more scrabbling about down below. I can hear the nasty buggers.”

Mason looked up, his face going white. “We’re not venturing down there as well, are we?”

Argyle leaned back to dodge a series of claws slashing at his face before he could answer. He stabbed at the ghoul, driving it back but not killing it. “Are we going into the fissure?” he asked, looking around for the next incoming ghoul. “No. Not intentionally, anyway.”

“Good,” Mason said. “For a second I—”

Argyle watched as a dark shadow flew up and out of the fissure. The creature was heading straight for Mason at breakneck speed. Quimbley sidestepped one of the other creatures already engaging him, slicing it in two across its waist as he went, sending both halves of it tumbling back into the fissure. Now free, he ran to help Mason, but judging from his distance, he wouldn’t make it in time. The charging creature blindsided Mason, wrapping its arms around him and tumbling Argyle’s partner to the ground. The tiny hovering flashlight over Mason’s head fell with him, skittering across the ground. As Mason started to struggle, Argyle finally closed the distance and kicked the creature off his partner. With a flick of his wrist, Argyle’s nimble blade slid out into the night, lashing off the creature’s head. Its body dropped in a writhing heap to the ground and, much to Argyle’s happiness, stayed down.

Mason flexed his hand as he stood back up, calling his flashlight back over to him like he had Jedi powers. It swirled back into place above him, the light once more falling on the folder still in his hands. He pulled one of the papers from the folder, held it up, and shouted. “The head,” he said with excitement. “It seems to be the only way noted in the file.”

“Yes,” Quimbley said, quite pleased. “It appears so. Of course the head. Tends to work for most creatures, really. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?”

I felt the sparkle in his eye, the way his adrenaline pumped him up with hope. Just knowing how to take them down was enough to turn the tide of this battle. With renewed vigor, he swung his sword into action, beheading the creatures left and right like he was the Tasmanian devil on steroids.

Mason joined him in the fray, pummeling the creatures with an impressive type of telekinetic arcane, using nearby stones as his projectiles. The rocks alone weren’t enough to stop the monstrosities, but they were enough to hinder and distract them while Argyle Quimbley moved in to deal the deathblows. The dispatching of the remaining ghouls went quickly, and in the end, there were only the two agents from the Fraternal Order of Goodness left standing in a sea of headless ghouls.

“Are you all right?” Argyle asked, huffing and puffing. He dropped his sword to the ground and bent over with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath.

“I believe so,” Mason said. He held his hand out under the flashlight and it dropped out of the air, slipping through his fingers. It clattered to the ground and the light went dead. “Can’t say as much for my light source.” He bent down to retrieve it, giving a groan. Young as they were, the pains of combat were still on them. They might bounce back quicker, but peril still took its toll.

The graveyard along the fissure was a little darker for the lack of light, but there was still enough ambient city light that I could make out Mason’s movements, even though they were far more shadowy. Despite that, I sensed another shift among the shadows and I felt Quimbley’s muscles tense.

“Mason!” Quimbley shouted. “Behind you!”

Mason stood up with his dead flashlight and spun about, but his focus was too high. The threat was at his feet. The upper half of the ghoul that Argyle had cut in two moments ago had clawed its way back up to the lip of the fissure. One of its arms lashed out, its sharpened talons catching the fabric of Mason’s pant leg. Using its other hand for leverage, the monster grabbed onto one of the jutting rocks down in the fissure and started pulling Mason toward him. That split second Mason wasn’t looking down undid everything, and as the creature tugged, Mason lost his balance. He fell down, wincing as several of the pointier rocks dug into his back.

Argyle Quimbley dove for his friend, his heart racing. Mason flailed on the ground, trying to flip himself over while kicking at the ghoul, but each move he made only drove him farther toward the fissure. Argyle caught Mason’s hand in his, rolling his partner over. Mason grabbed at anything he could with his free hand.

“Pull!” Mason screamed out, his face pure panic. Terror filled his eyes, the widened whites of them standing out in the dark graveyard.

Argyle pulled, but it was having little effect. “I am, blast it!” he shouted. “Just mind your feet! Don’t let that thing bite you.”

While sound advice by my reckoning, the thought of being bitten only caused Mason to panic more. He started lashing out with both of his feet over and over, catching the ghoul in its maw of decaying teeth every time. The creature cackled as if it were relishing the pain of it all. What was worse was the fact that with every kick, I could feel Argyle’s grip on Mason Redfield slipping.

The creature bit down on Mason’s boot with its gnarl of teeth, tugging hard on it. A chunk of it tore free in its mouth, taking a bit of sock with it and exposing the pale white flesh of his ankle. Time was running out. Mason was either going into the abyss or was about to become a ghoul thanks to a leg chomp.

Argyle let go of Mason with one of his hands and felt around on the ground. His fingers found the edge of his blade and he grabbed at it with care until he grasped the wooden tip that acted as its pommel. He wrapped his hand around it, slashing through the air as he turned back toward the fight. He lunged the sharpened steel tip toward Mason.

A new terror sprung up in Mason’s eyes as he saw the blade coming toward him. The blade flashed inches from his face, continued past it, and slid along the backs of his shoulders until it tore straight into the mouth of the ghoul, breaking off two of its teeth. It lodged there, keeping its maw from closing on Mason’s ankle. Argyle pushed forward until the blade came out of the back of the creature’s head and then twisted it.

The creature howled, letting go of Mason. The agent scrabbled back from the fissure while Argyle Quimbley kept the skewered monster at bay. He yanked the blade upward and it was too much for the creature. A horrid pop came from within its head before the bones of its jaw shifted, floating loosely under its rotting skin. Once Mason was clear, Argyle stepped forward, raised his boot to the creature’s head, and pushed it away to dislodge it from the sword. Broken, the creature fell back into the fissure, howling all the way as it fell.

Argyle backed away from the hole in the ground, not daring to turn his back on it. The tip of the blade hissed and bubbled underneath a thick slime of the creature’s innards. The ichor continued to eat away at the metal until the end of the blade fell off, bluntly hitting Argyle’s foot. Once he put some distance between himself and the opening in the ground, he turned his attention to his still-prone partner.

“Mason, are you all right?” he asked.

Mason scrabbled across the ground like a crab as he moved away from the edge of the fissure. He crawled toward Argyle Quimbley and rolled on his back, still shaking. His deep breaths of exhaustion turned to hysterical laughter as he sat up, brushing himself off.

“When you went for your sword, Argyle, I thought you were simply going to put me out of my misery.” Mason’s nerves were thick in his voice, the look on his face pained. “I thank you for being more levelheaded than that.”

Mason raised his hand out to Quimbley for a hand up, but the broken blade of Quimbley’s sword stayed in place between the two of them. Argyle made no move to lower it, keeping it leveled at his partner.

“Argyle. . .” Mason started, suspicion in his eyes.

“Now, now,” Quimbley said, sounding disarming. “Surely you recall Fraternal Order protocol. You show me your boot there, the one with the nice chunk out of it. If the skin’s not broken, then we can talk.”

Mason looked hurt, but offered up his foot with the torn boot over it. Argyle used the jagged tip of the sword to inspect the area, causing Mason to flinch in response.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Argyle. Be careful with your damned sword, won’t you? You’re just as likely to break the skin and let ghoul contagion in as if they had bitten me.”

Argyle ignored him and continued inspecting the hole in Mason’s boot until he was satisfied. He lowered the sword and offered his free hand to Mason. His partner took it, but there was a bit of fire in his eyes now.

“So very trusting of you, Argyle,” he spat out.

Quimbley remained calm and moved to pick up the broken end of the blade using a handkerchief, wiping it down.

“Nothing personal,” he said, “but you can never be too careful. You know that. Sentimentality can’t enter into things if we’re to survive in this world.”

“Such times,” Mason said, brushing himself off, “when friends may turn on friends.”

Without another word, Mason began hefting the corpses of the dead ghouls back into the fissure. Argyle’s tension in the silence weighed heavily on his heart, and I felt every ounce of it. There was nothing to say right now that would make the situation any less awkward, so instead he joined Mason in the task of body disposal.

When it was done, Mason stared down into the fissure, unmoving with a face that was a mask of dark seriousness.

“Come, now, Mason,” Argyle said. “We’d best be going. I doubt we’ll see any more activity here. The sun should be up soon. I’ll see if anyone at F.O.G. knows of a good contractor to come fill this fissure in with concrete. You can go about carving protective runes in it later. . .” Argyle started along a path leading back through the cemetery, and then turned back when he realized Mason wasn’t following along with him. Quimbley turned to look back. Mason Redfield remained by the lip of fissure, staring down into the abyss. “Perhaps you would prefer to stay in the graveyard?”

This seemed to snap Mason out of his trance. “No, I would not,” he said, agitated. He turned and pushed past Argyle Quimbley as he headed up the main path leading out. “In fact, not only do I want out of this graveyard; I think I want out of this life.”

Argyle ran to catch up with him, using his cane to stop him. “Surely you don’t mean suicide?”

Mason looked horrified. “Good God, no,” he said. He pushed the cane out of his way and continued up the path. “I meant the Fraternal Order of Goodness.”

“You can’t be serious. We can’t afford to lose someone as promising as you. Think of what your leaving would mean. Who’s going to fight things like that?”

“I don’t know,” he said, weary, “but it won’t be me. I am sure there is a surplus of eager young men out there willing to die for a good cause, but after almost falling into that hole, I’m not so sure anymore. I would like to see thirty, forty, and, God willing, eighty.”

“Nonsense,” Argyle said, a bit dismissive in a cheering sort of way. “You’re just shaken, is all. Come. We’ll have a few drinks down at Eccentric Circles. In a few hours, you’ll feel fine.”

The look on Mason’s face was a distant one. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t suppose I will ever feel fine leading a life like this.”

Quimbley clapped his partner on the back. “Save any decisions for the light of day,” he said. The two men started up the graveyard path together, but only one of them looked certain in his steps.

I pulled myself out of the vision, feeling a bit shaky from how long I had been in it. The Inspectre had his head down in one of the files on his desk, but looked up when I took in a deep breath. He reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a small covered dish, and slid it across to me.

I pulled off the lid and looked inside. “Sugar cubes?” I asked.

“I am English,” he said. “I keep the sugar cubes around because I’m required by British law to take teatime. What did you see?”

I took turns between scarfing down the much-needed sugar like a show pony and explaining to the professor just what I had seen. He listened without interruption, giving a wan smile when I finished.

“I was probably around your age then,” the Inspectre said. “Thought a sword cane would be the most inconspicuous weapon, but I don’t think many young men of my time were seen with them.”

I looked down where it lay in my lap still and pulled the blade free from the cane. The metal was worn with age now and well corroded at the end where it had broken off. I rattled the hollow section of cane and the remaining piece of the sword slid out onto my lap. “You never fixed it.”

The Inspectre shook his head, solemn. “Some things are better left as a reminder of what can be broken,” he said. “My friendship with Mason, for one. He was my first partner in the field.” The Inspectre held his hands out. I set the pieces of sword in them, careful to lay the blades down flat. With care, the Inspectre slid them back into the cane, and then placed it back on the rim of the top shelf again. For several moments, he stood there with his back to me until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“What happened?” I asked. “After that night.”

The Inspectre turned around, looking a little older. He sat back down in his chair. “Mason simply didn’t come in the next day. Or the day after that. I heard from a colleague who ran into him in the street that he looked different. Happy, if I remember it correctly.”

“So he just walked away from the Order?” I asked, anger creeping into my voice.

“Now, now,” the Inspectre said. “Don’t judge so hastily. Mason simply chose to live his life. . . differently.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” I asked. “Did one of those ghouls actually bite him? He went evil?”

“Oh, heavens no! Surely you saw the look on his face when I pulled him out of that fissure. Mason was stone-cold scared and all too willing to walk away from this life.”

“But why?” I asked. “I mean, if I had seen all that he had seen, I don’t think I could turn away from a life of fighting the dark horrors that haunt this city.”

The Inspectre looked at me over the top of his glasses, his face fixed in a very serious expression. “The Fraternal Order of Goodness is not for everyone, Simon. You have to remember that in the old days, there was barely even a Department of Extraordinary Affairs. Life within F.O.G. is thankless work with long hours and few benefits, even fewer now with these recent budget cuts from downtown. An agent of the Order has to love what they do, I suppose, in some perverse, masochistic way.”

Who was I to try to second-guess Mason Redfield? He was a man I had met only twice—once through a psychometric flash and once as a corpse. “I guess I understand.”

The Inspectre gave me a surprised smile. “Do you, now?”

I nodded. “When I came to the D.E.A., I was searching for something, something greater than a paycheck. Up until that moment, I would have gone on using my psychometry for heists and low-level thieving forever . . .”

“You would have eventually been caught,” the Inspectre corrected.

“That’s my point,” I said. “I chose the D.E.A. and becoming a F.O.G.gie because I almost was caught—caught up in betrayal by the old crowd I ran with. You do recall Mina Saria, don’t you?”

The Inspectre nodded. “That psychotic redhead, yes? Currently missing and in possession of Edvard Munch’s The Scream, I believe.”

“Correct,” I said, shuddering at the thought of her. My encounters with her were harrowing enough to fill a book. “Surviving those near misses in my old criminal life with her woke me up. I wanted control of my life, a sense of purpose. Doing good, as simplistic as it sounds, is a far more rewarding fit. It gave me a better purpose.”

The Inspectre steepled his fingers against his chin as he considered what I said. “That’s what I meant about the Order not being for everyone,” he said. “Mason Redfield had his sense of purpose scared out of him that night. He turned to another purpose that had caught his eye prior to joining the Order—his love of cinema and a desire to teach. Ironically, it was his love of horror films that drove him to the Fraternal Order of Goodness in the first place.”

It was hard to imagine the semifailed swashbuckler at the head of a classroom, but hey, it worked for Indiana Jones. “Turned to teaching film,” I said. “Makes sense. There, the monsters can’t really get you.”

The Inspectre’s face sobered. “I hadn’t really considered that when it happened,” he said. “I was too angry at him. You see, at the time I was new to the game myself. I hated Mason for abandoning what I thought was his true calling. I handled myself. . . poorly.”

“How so?” I asked.

The Inspectre’s face turned red and he shifted in his chair, unable to find comfort in it. “I took his leaving as a personal affront. All I knew was that I was left on my own within the Order. I hated him for abandoning me like that, selfish as I was. Stubbornly, I refused to break in a new partner, insisting on doing everything on my own from then on. Some called me foolish, reckless. . . but to me it only meant I had to work harder and be more careful. I kept myself busy and it made it easy not to get in touch with Mason much once he left the Order. By the time I worked through my foolish anger, too much time had passed. Any thoughts I had of reconciling the situation would only have been too little, too late.”

The Inspectre fell silent.

“So you never talked to him again?”

The Inspectre shook his head. “To what end?” he asked. “To give me closure? Mason walked away from it all, and who was I to come back into his life as a constant reminder of all the evils waiting to be confronted in the world? I kept tabs on him at first, naturally, making sure he was adjusting to the mundane world once again. He settled into the world of academia, and all I had to do was let things lie at that point.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “I felt part of what you felt when I was in my vision. I saw the friendship you had with him. You could have still had that—”

“Don’t you think I know that?” the Inspectre snapped, barking at me. “Don’t you think I know what I lost that day?”

I jumped in my seat. Seeing the Inspectre this unnerved rattled me more than I expected.

“It kills me,” he continued, angrier with each word that flew from his lips, “that I should go so many years only to hear about the man’s death and worse, in a paranormal fashion on top of it. Do you know how much that guts me, how asleep on the watch it makes me feel?”

“Sorry,” I said. There was little healing power in the word, but maybe the Inspectre wasn’t looking to heal. Maybe he didn’t want someone to fix it. It had been broken too long for me to think anything I said would actually help. It was like trying to put a Band-Aid on a shark bite. Sometimes people just needed to vent and get it out of their system. I decided on another tack—getting back to business.

“So he was a teacher,” I said. “That’s as good a place to start as any. I should probably ask around and see if any of his students or other faculty noticed anything strange about him over the past few weeks.”

The talk of the Inspectre’s dead friend in an investigative capacity seemed to help him compose himself. His anger faded from his face and he nodded.

“Yes,” he said. “I would check his offices over at New York University. Take Connor with you. Mind you, use discretion.”

“Don’t we always?”

“Yes, my boy, but now more than ever, given our precarious state of affairs with the city. I would hate to give Director Wesker or Dave Davidson any reason to suggest any sort of impropriety when it came to handling this personal case over others. For instance, some might see this as me exploiting Departmental resources.”

“But Davidson brought us this case,” I said.

“True,” the Inspectre said, returning to the pile of papers scattered in front of him. “Nonetheless, exercise extreme prudence in your investigation.”

“Got it,” I said. I stood up and headed for the door.

“And, Simon,” the Inspectre said, lifting his head up out of his paperwork. “Please be careful. Given the supernatural nature of his death, maybe the good college professor wasn’t as out of the arcana business as much as I previously thought.”