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January 7 (Happiness is a Warm Gun)


Actaeon

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Elliot and James arrive at Waste Management's headquarters north of town to "collect Hank's belongings" and do a little snooping. Meanwhile, Linda does the same at the Town Hall.

 

Their visits follow an almost identical trajectory. The secretary offers polite regrets for their loss, then escorts them to the employee lounge, where personal affects are kept. They stay as long as they dare, searching the room for something awry, and reading coworkers for signs of deception. As she is leaving, Linda passes Liz Birch, visiting on some pretext, while Elliot and James encounter Jack Finch.

 

They meet to exchange notes at Java Joes, a coffee shop downtown.

 

"As a reporter, I've learned to find interest in almost every subject, but I'm not sure anyone could make a decent story out of that run down hole in the wall."

 

"The town hall is no doubt cleaner, but no less dull for that. Besides which, one of the P&Z guys tried to flirt with me. Men have no class."

 

James shoots Elliot an exasperated look. Linda continues as if she didn't notice.

 

"Anyway, the only thing I found that seemed out of place was this."

 

She pulls a manila envelope with a large, stylized hourglass (or is in an infiniti symbol?) scrawled on the front. They all lean forward as she opens it. Inside are a series of measurements. Various psychoactive chemicals present in the city waste water. Estrogen, alcohol, nicotine, and THC lead the charge.

 

"What in the-"

 

"Probably irrelevant."

 

"I saw Hank sketching that symbol just a few days before his death. It's not nothing."

 

"Come to think of it, I think I saw somethin' of the sort in the bathroom at the trash facility."

 

The three stare at the papers in silence for a long time.

 

***

 

He packs his sunglasses in a mesh bag with his other effects- Glock .22 in a waterproof case, butterfly knife, an assortment of fake IDs, and a sizable wad of cash- and straps it to his back before diving into the river. The cold is almost unbearable, but he keeps his eyes glued to the park on the other side and gives it his all.

 

Ten minutes later he arrives, dripping, in Windsor, Ontario.

 

When he arrives at his small apartment nearby, he's nearly hypothermic, but he has an electric blanket and a shot of epinephrine waiting by the door. Once his condition is more stable, he steps into the shower and cranks the heat. He smiles as he lathers. In a drawer by his bed, his passport sits idle. One stamp entering Canada, nearly three weeks ago, and none leaving. The perfect alibi. He's beyond the reach of a law, and ready for some rest.

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