Jump to content

Actaeon

Member
 View Profile  See their activity

  • Posts

    2,013

  • Joined

  • Last visited

 Content Type 

Blog Entries posted by Actaeon

  1. Actaeon
    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.
  2. Actaeon

    January 1 (Patterns)

    By Actaeon,

    In dark room above a dark shop, a man wakes with a start. Down the street, someone has set off an illicit firework. Next door, sounds of revelry intrude upon the solitude of a cramped studio apartment. This is what woke him, but they are not what keeps him awake.
     
    "Denver." He breaths the word like a curse.
     
    As he sighs and shuffles off toward the bath room, the everlasting hum of the city pursues him. He turns on the shower, runs the water until it achieves its maximum lukewarm potential, and curls up in the corner.
     
    ***
     
    The water is still warm an hour later, when he wakes a second time. It's one of the perks of sharing a building with a barbershop, he reflects as the phone rings a second time. Wrapping himself in a towel, he picks his way among empty pizza boxes and chinese food containers toward the telephone- an old fashioned rotary affair set unceremoniously on the floor near the front door. His teeth chatter as he picks up the receiver.
     
    "Hello?"
     
    "Speaking."
     
    "Yes, that Elliot Holt."
     
    "Dead? How?"
     
    "I see."
     
    "When?"
     
    "I'll be there."
     
    He hangs up the phone and glances around his dingy quarters. A twin mattress in the corner by the window, a pile of dirty dishes in the sink, a rickety desk barely supporting his gramophone and typewriter, and a half empty trunk in the corner. Not much to pack, but a very amount of straightening up to do before he can, in good conscience, surrender it to the landlord. He peers into the trunk. Moth-eaten slacks, frayed button downs, and a few odds and ends peer back at him. Not the sort of thing you can wear to a funeral.
     
    The last train leaves at 7pm- assuming Amtrak runs on New Years- which gives him plenty of time to pack, clean, and update his wardrobe. He crosses to the window and pulls back the shade. Below, East Colfax Avenue hosts a steady traffic of drunk drivers. He cranes his neck, trying to see west out of a north facing window. There, just visible, a line of darker blue leans against the horizon: the Rocky Mountains, or at least the foothills.
     
    He stands there for long while. There, somewhere beyond those peaks, his past is waiting. Or is it his future?
  3. Actaeon
    Observe Mr. Elliot Holt.
     
    He is disembarking the California Zephyr on a brilliant but chilly January afternoon. As he steps down onto the platform, he pulls a pocket watch from the breast of his frock coat and checks the time- an action which draws several sidelong glances from his fellow travelers. A somewhat surly porter wrestles his baggage- a rough leather case containing a "portable" typewriter- from under a sea of rolling suitcases and duffles. Mr. Holt accepts it with a bow and tips the man- with a gold coin.
     
    As he exits the station and slips on to Grand Avenue, Glenwood Springs Colorado, he illicits a stare from a teenager in a hooded sweatshirt, earbuds all but glued in and Jay-Z blasting loud enough to be heard clearly. Oblivious, he continues down the sidewalk like an actor that has lost his way to the theatre.
     
    You may think that such behavior is product of a sudden shock. A good friend of his has, after all, recently passed away.The truth is, however, that Elliot Holt has clung to an out-of-date worldview almost from birth- although his mother initially took his love of books over television as a sign of genius rather than a symptom of budding psychosis. In any case, death is a subject of particular interest to Mr. Holt, and mortality, even in the form of a friend's demise, is not something to ruffle him. Indeed, in his role in crafting obituaries for the local newspaper, it is likely that a bit less objectivism on the subject might have saved him from the round of lay-offs to which he eventually succumbed. On the other hand, the rather menacing aura produced by his sense of the macabre almost certainly helped in extorting a sizable severance package from the rather ironically named "Post Independent" and its parent company, Swift.
     
    During the course of this aside, our momentary protagonist has arrived at the regional bus stop, hesitated for a moment, and elected to keep walking. He will continue on this path, following a snow packed bike path along a small, turbulent river, for another ten miles, giving ample time to paint the scene in which he will shortly arrive.
     
    The last mountain of the Elk Range- a magnificent double peaked monolith which draws the eye from almost anywhere in the valley- stands sentry over a small town at the confluence of two rivers. The town itself is fairly unremarkable- a historic downtown with a fringe of modern trophy homes and golf-course communities. On the pediment to the East, however, a holdover of bygone days is perched. Nestled against the foothills of the Elks, the Neislanik Ranch provides a picturesque foreground for Mount Sopris, complete with a red barn, a green tractor, and a few grazing deer. Continue along this winding country road, however, and you'll find yourself walking among the tombstones of an aging cemetery.
     
    And that is just where we find Elliot Holt, as the last rays of light linger on The Mountain. He kneels beside one of the cemeteries few unoccupied graves, under the ominous branches of an ancient elm, and brushes aside the snow to read the name.
     
    Hank Dalton
    December 29, 1984 - December 31, 2012
    Husband. Father. Friend
     
    A female red winged black bird- sporting brown feathers from beak to talon- alights in the elm and surveys the scene as the sky fades from cold pink to warm blue. When the first stars begin to appear, they find Holt curled up at the foot of the stone, fast asleep and dreaming comfortably for the first time in more than three months.
  4. Actaeon
    "You crazy son-of-a"
     
    Elliot wakes to find a short, auburn young woman standing over him, fists on her hips.
     
    "Morning Linda."
     
    A frock coat makes a remarkably warm blanket, but as he pulls himself clumsily to his feet, his limbs cry out in numb protest. The woman offers no assistance, and continues to fix him with a steady glare.
     
    "I don't suppose you have someplace I could thaw out?"
     
    She rolls her eyes and wordlessly escorts him down the hill.
     
    ***
     
    A light breeze rustles the lace curtains of a beautiful Victorian Home. Outside, the air is so crisp that you could almost box it up and store it, sharp teetering on the edge of a chill. In the small front room of the Dalton residence, a tidy fire keeps the wind at bay, though the shutters are thrown wide and the curtains pulled back. The sun streams in through an eastern window, bathing the western wall in golden light and glinting off of a tidy collection of silver framed photographs. In them a common theme repeats itself endlessly: a man and a woman, sometimes alone but usually together, march through their lives hand in hand. Even when they don't touch, their mutual support is apparent. In one photograph, the man, tall with broad shoulders and a broader grin, perhaps thirty, has fixed the camera with such a delighted gaze that his wife, the photographer, might as well be in the picture. She is, in fact, reflected in his twinkling eyes, were any eye sharp enough to note it.
     
    The bright, airy room is at odds with the mood that inhabits it. A strange man has intruded on this sacred space. His graying hair, untidy goatee, and worn clothing clash with the ornate wallpaper and delicate antique table. Across the table from him, seated firmly in a casual position she is clearly straining to maintain, the woman from the photographs fixes Elliot Holt with a look of purest revulsion and taps a nine iron against her shoe.
     
    There is silence for a long moment. To anyone else, the awkwardness would be obvious, but Holt is too absorbed in the workings of his own mind to pay attention to such social underpinnings, blatant as they might be. He is quite content to sit and drink his tea, taking her in and composing the moving description of a grieving widow he will include in his magnum opus. Without the need for a note pad he logs her blue-green, red rimmed eyes, the new frown lines forming at the corner of her mouth, her disheveled auburn hair. He is dimly aware, as a few simple emotions sift through the reporter mode he has adopted, that he is not looking at the same Linda Dalton he once knew.
     
    Finally, he breaks the silence.
     
    "So... um... how-"
     
    "Drowned."
     
    Elliot frowns in confusion. Hank was an enthusiastic kayaker, but knew his own limits, and would not have ventured into the river at this time of year.
     
    "Drowned?"
     
    "Down by the water treatment plant."
     
    That makes a little more sense- Dalton supported his wife with a pair of humiliating part time jobs in water sanitation and garbage pickup."
     
    "James said it was ruled an accident."
     
    "That's what they're saying. But I spoke with the coroner, and the detective assigned to the case, and I get the sense that they're getting leaned on."
     
    "What other options are there? Suicide? You and I both know that Hank would never-"
     
    "If Hank was going to throw himself into the river, he'd chose someplace a little more scenic."
     
    "But that just leaves..."
     
    It's almost inconceivable. Hank Dalton was soft spoken, honest to a fault, and always tipped twenty five percent. What could anyone have against a hard working family man?
     
    Even, so, there's a gleam of certainty in Linda's eyes as she leans forward and almost spits:
     
    "Murder."
  5. Actaeon
    The I80 between Omaha and Des Moines is one of the more godforsaken stretches of road in the country, and most people would agree that anyone who would ride a motorcycle through such a scene on a bitter January evening would have to be at least a little crazy.
     
    This man, clad all in black, expression blank despite the cold and the speed, is more than a little crazy. Even as he takes a curve at just over ninety, he's busy reflecting on the deeds of the previous night.
     
    Lights from the police cars and ambulance beat counterpoint in the lenses of the mirrored sunglasses the man wore, even at night, but his dark coat faded into the shadows of the rooftop, and he had no fear of being seen. The body had already spent hours in the river, but the ring of police officers peering into the gloom as if their charge might be attacked again. The man on the rooftop quirked a sour smile. These sheltered fools had no idea what their small town had been plunged into.
     
    He glanced at the dark shape of the officer, standing with his back to the scene, head down, surveying the river. A hard man, to be sure. In his perch atop the Diner, he had seen Finch arrive, noted the calm determination of a seasoned veteran in the force. He had been warned about Finch; told that he would likely be involved, and advised to steer clear.
     
    Would the police pull more than he expected from the scene? Unlikely. He'd become quite practiced at covering his tracks.
     
    Lights suddenly loom ahead- a small town consisting of little more than a truck stop and a cheap motel.
     
    "I reckon this is far enough," he says to himself.
     
    He pulls up in front of the truck stop, swings down from his chopper, and prepares to light the day's last cigarette. As he clicks his Zippo, a bolt of pain shoots through his wrist. The last one had put up a helluva a fight. Almost like he'd had something to live for.
     
    The man signs and returns the Pall Mall to the carton.
     
    "I'm gettin' too old for this," he mutters as he strides inside.
  6. Actaeon

    January 5 (The Maker)

    By Actaeon,

    Our dramatis personae can be encapsulated in a single photograph.
     
    James Dalton, brother of the deceased, stands next to the gravestone with his hat against his heart. He cuts the figure of a movie star cowboy: a care worn face with a masculine jawline, eyes the same color as his faded blue jeans, a well starched white button up, and a turquoise-and-amber bolo tie. His eyes are upturned, his mouth set in a thoughtful grimace as he plots the next line of his ovation.
     
    Linda has her back to the camera. She is wearing a black, lacy garment- whether it's a dress or a blouse is impossible to tell from the framing. No doubt, she's controlling her expression, and that is why the photographer chose not to show her face. Instead, her slumped posture tells the whole tale. Every hair seems to rest at an angle of loss. You cannot point to a particular feature, but you know that you're looking at a woman with nothing left to live for.
     
    The county coroner, Elizabeth Birch, stands awkwardly to one side with Jack Finch, a detective with the Garfield County sheriff's department. Liz has somehow managed to be overdressed at a funeral, resplendent in a form fitting black gown fit for a Audrey Hepburn. Jack sports a well made but understated gray suit and boyishly handsome features.
     
    No one else is in evidence. The photographer, of course, is Elliot Holt, brilliant enough to capture a man's life in a single photograph, and too cerebral to know how inappropriate the timing is.
     
    The photo runs above a news brief in the local newspaper. It reflects in a pair of mirrored sunglasses in the waiting room of a Detroit high rise. The assemblage moves the man behind the lenses. Tragically small. Tragically devoted. It shifts something inside him. The vague beginnings of something new begin to assemble themselves in the back of his mind.
     
    Through a extravagant mahogany door at the other side of the room, a man stands in front of floor to ceiling windows and looks out at the crumbling sky line, secure in his power and totally unaware of the cracks beginning to form in his maniacally brilliant master plan.
  7. Actaeon
    As he steps over the police tape, he see her standing on the bank with her feet almost in the water. She does not look around at his approach, though his boots make a great deal of noise on the lose round rocks.
     
    "What brings you out to the field, Liz?"
     
    "The same thing that brought, I imagine, Jack. Doubt."
     
    "I didn't know you shared my feelings on this matter. Your report was pretty conclusive."
     
    "I established that cause of death was drowning, yes. He was alive when he went into the water. And no signs of struggle- hyoid intact, no bruising, no blood. Just perimortem damage to the cranium just above the foramen magnum. Easy to sustain in a chaotic environment like this one, but… If someone hit him hard enough to knock him out to but not kill him, and he fell into the river and drowned…"
     
    "A plausible scenario. The question is, why?"
     
    "That's your field, not mine."
     
    "I know, but homicide isn't something I have a lot of experience with. And so long as it's officially an accident, I won't be getting any help from the feds."
     
    She finally turns and looks him the eyes. Hers are piercing blue green with a cold, cerebral glint, framed by a pair of stylish green specs. His are a nondescript shade of brown, with a darker spot in the left one and a warmth behind them that brings calm to those they alight on.
     
    "I believe in you."
     
    "That means a lot."
     
    The tension between them mounts until she can no longer bear it. She looks away.
     
    "I assume you've ruled out his wife. Holt's got an alibi. I guess that just leaves his work."
     
    "Very insightful. In the morning, perhaps."
     
    "In the morning," she repeats in a flat voice.
     
    He shrugs and starts turns back towards the treatment plant and his car.
     
    "Liz?"
     
    "Yes?"
     
    He almost asks her.
     
    "Take care of yourself."
     
    "Sure thing, Jack. You too."
     
    He trudges back up the hill. Another day.
×
×
  • Create New...