chapter 21

Chapter 21: Mondieu

No man is an island,

Entire of itself,

Every man is a piece of the continent,

A part of the main.

….

Any man's death diminishes me,

Because I am involved in mankind,

And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;

It tolls for thee.

~ John Donne – No Man is an Island

A low set of clouds rolled in as the inspector reached the inn for the night. Already, a warm front was settling over the city, and the snow melted beneath the inspector’s feet. Was this another act of our villain, the inspector thought briefly, but was too tired even to answer his own question. It must be almost ten degrees, or more. Perhaps something was fixed with the weather controller? Maybe it was not so destroyed as the criminal thought? The inspector considered running back and checking on the weather controller, seeing if there was additional tampering, but he was tired.

                What had he done since he arrived in Garden? He couldn’t investigate anymore; he couldn’t even bolster the resolve to begin. The last days were upon them, and he’d questioned few people, set up some failed traps – though perhaps one of them was the villain, only he could not prove it – and floundered his way into a cloudy understanding of the designs of this evil mastermind. But what purpose, how, who: he had no answers for these questions, and many more.

                He craved a cigarette, which he realized was only a means of subliminal escape from pain, from his past and present, and it would bring no healing. The only time he had felt any sense of healing, of his former self lately was when… no, that did not bear consideration. Tomorrow, he would reset himself and begin the investigation in full. There was little time left, but there was time.

                The winds howled through the empty, dark streets, and the inspector tucked his hands deep into his cloak and entered into the inn.

                Dreams were vivid that night: a burning tree, it’s leaves a moon-bright silver, crackling into blackened ash and sparking into a night sky without stars. The city was burning. The ghosts of Addam and Lilya stared at red hands, looks of bewilderment written on their faces as a clouded figure, dressed in saintly white disappeared; wolves howled and snarled; birds called in the great distance, a lost summer song; the skies dimmed and stormed, swirling in a whirlwind mass, and then collapsed into the earth, and the sky and earth and lands became entangled, twisted into a chaotic mess of matter and mass, pulling everything in.

                And fire. The inspector stood in the marketplace, the menagerie, the arboretum, the top of the information tower, the police station, in front of the weather controller, and suddenly he was back in front of the tree, though ant-sized, tiny before the heaven-tall branches and mountain-wide trunk – a white figure stood beside him.

                Pretty, isn’t it: man’s enormous ego? We reached higher, this time. You should have seen the original babel – not near so high. The voice was androgynous, soft and bitter, full of asp’s poison and subtlety. The higher you go, the faller you fall. Is it worth it, Mondieu?

                The inspector tossed and turned, much of the night, and received his most deep sleep only as dawn brightened the day. A low, dense fog rolled in, a murky bog of clouds that clotted over the city like thick platelets on an enormous wound.  A pillar of clouds, high as the heavens, hung over Garden, and even the sun’s light scarcely brightened the morning.

                The inspector grunted into wakefulness, noting the early morning darkness immediately. He stumbled over to the window, pulling out his timepiece and checking it. Where did all this fog come from? Already, the inspector felt the day was warmer. He could scarcely tell if there was still snow, so dense was the fog covering the world outside.

                The inspector put his hat on, tightened his cloak and headed out of the inn, not even stopping for coffee. The air was cold, though far warmer than the previous evening, and a thick fog clung to the streets, brushing past in little wisps and ghostly trails. It was an eerie display of clouded, morning mystery, and the inspector was nervous about his ability at finding his way anywhere in this shroud.

                He trudged slowly along the cobbles, dragging his feet and realizing that not a hint of yesterday’s snow remained. Someone had lit the streetlamps, and they throbbed a dull yellow that served little in illuminating the path. This is a metaphor for my week, isn’t it? A claustrophobic fog and limited vision – was this the villains sixth crime? It didn’t seem particularly sinister, though a citizenry already frightened and on edge might easily tip over at such a morning. Still, he heard no screams or the telltale clicks of boots on the cobbles, even, and saw no other souls wandering the street wastelands.

                It was a long walk to the police station, but the inspector made it without mishap, and pushed open the door. Seth was drinking a steaming cup of coffee, and seated behind the desk, conversing with Vespars and DuMont.

                “Good morning, fellows,” the inspector said glumly as he entered.

                “Morning, inspector,” Seth replied. “It would seem our villain has struck again, though with the weather controller down, I can’t seem to understand how he managed it.”

                DuMont suppressed a low chuckle, and Seth glared at him. The inspector wearily took a seat.

                “I don’t think this is it, Seth. DuMont is right, with the weather controller down, there is no way the criminal could have expected this. I suspect this is what your winter weather would be like more often, weather controller notwithstanding.”

                “That’s absurd! No one could get anything done in this muck. Why would anyone choose to live in such a place?”

                The inspector shrugged. “What did we find last night? Did we examine the information tower and water veins?”

                “The information tower had nothing suspicious happening, it would seem. I guarded there all night and found nothing. Turners just slaved away, mumbling to himself and throwing wrenches. It would seem, however, that the water systems are in fine condition,” Vespars answered.

                “None have been affected adversely by the freezing weather?”

                “Nothing that the weather monitors are picking up,” replied Vespars with a hint of uncertainty. Was there something wrong? Or was everything just too out of whack to actually determine anymore if anything was awry?

                “And you, DuMont? Did you find anything with the water veins themselves?”

                “No, sir,” replied DuMont.

                “Nothing to report?” the inspector asked, and DuMont merely kept his affirming silence.  “Very well. Seth, did you find anything?”

                Seth sighed. “I checked the weather controller tower, to see if anything was tampered with any further. It’s simply beyond repair, and I don’t think it would be useful to anyone just now. When the fog rolled in this morning, I checked at the information tower and found nothing. All was quiet around the city.”

                The inspector nodded. As I suspected. Everything has been laid in place long before this week, and the villain has likely had nothing to do but wait. Clever, since we can’t catch him in the preparation of anything.

                The inspector lit a cigarette and puffed lightly, staring at the ceiling a moment, and standing up to pace the room. The eyes of the three other men watched him warily, a beast in their midst.

                “Seth, how long have you lived in Garden? And how much technical knowledge do you have?”

                Seth winced at the question. “Why, almost no technical experience, sir. The information tower is not my cup of tea. I’ve lived in this city almost my whole life. My parents moved here when I was fairly young.”

                “And you, DuMont?”

                “Less than a week, and I was once an computer specialist,” DuMont replied in a low voice, almost a growl.

                The inspector glanced at Vespars. “Less than five years, sir, living here that is. I have some computer experience, in a pinch. I’m nothing of a hacker, if you must know.”

                The inspector rubbed at his cheeks thoughtfully. “When you were perusing the crowd after the wolves assaulted Horten, did you find anyone who had been in the menagerie that morning?”

                “No one,” DuMont replied.

                “It was empty, then? Or no person in the crowd had been there that replied?”

                “I did not ask,” DuMont said brusquely.

                “And Vespars? Did you talk to anyone in the crowd?”

                “No, sir. I merely kept the crowd at bay.”

                “Seth,” continued the inspector, his hands clasped behind his back, continuing to wear a track in the floor with his sharp pacing. “Is there a caretaker of the ponds and animals that live outside of the menagerie? The birds, perhaps?”

                “It’s a shifting company, sir. Do you think someone in that group poisoned the waters?”

                The inspector ignored Seth’s question. “DuMont, why are you here?”

                “Seth called me in.”

                “Seth, how did you find out about DuMont?”

                Seth rocked back on his heals at the machine gun fire of questions, almost at a loss. “I, uh- it was that girl, sir. The one you see: Marie. She knew people outside, sir.”

                Marie? That is an interesting find. “And Vespars? What are you doing here? Who advocated you?”

                “I advocated myself, sir,” replied Vespars, scratching at his neck and glancing askance. He, too, appeared uncomfortable with the questioning. Only DuMont appeared untouched.

                “DuMont, what is your real name?”

                For the first time, DuMont reacted to the questions. Seth stuttered and a confused look passed over his face, and Vespars squinted at the inspector in bewilderment. A slow smile crept over DuMont’s face, though it did not touch his eyes, even briefly. “My real name matters not. DuMont is what I am called now, sir.”

                “Are you the murderer?” asked the inspector.

                “Would you believe me if I said no?” replied DuMont, the predatory smile remaining. “I am not your murderer.”

                The inspector was silent a few moments, digesting all this information. The game was afoot. Finally, he was beginning to feel like an inspector again. The inspector smashed the stub of his cigarette against the waste-bin edge and dropped it in. Hopefully there is nothing flammable in there.

                “Does anyone in here know Robinson?”

                “Nothing much, I don’t think,” replied Seth. “He’s been the Doctor’s butler for some time, now, though I do not believe he was always such. He’s been in this city since it began, if I recall correctly. Used to have a different job, if I remember right.”

                “See if you can discover what that job was, Seth. Vespars, DuMont, I want you to see if you can find anyone who was in the menagerie on that second day, or the first night. I want to know if anyone saw anything in the menagerie, or anyone. Ask also, in taverns or bars or anything, if anyone saw anyone approach the arboretum on that first night other than Addam and Lilya. Am I understood?”

                Silence hung over the room like the fog clinging to the earth outside, heavy and blank.

                “Then get to work, gentlemen,” the inspector yelled, shooing them out, “we have a murderer to catch.”

                DuMont was still suspicious: why had Marie called him in? Was it important that that wasn’t his real name? What, exactly, was Marie after with bringing up DuMont? The problem was, DuMont had no reason to commit the crimes. It seemed the crimes were targeting the city with a purpose, and DuMont had no purpose for destroying this city, and probably hadn’t even been aware of its existence a mere week ago.

                Unless… he wasn’t completely new in the city. There was always the possibility that he’d been here before, which would make it more reasonable that he seemed to know his way around the city relatively well. And Vespars? Was he just a man looking to help? And even Seth, who had been here his whole life. Was he looking for a way to get out of the city? That didn’t make sense. Seth seemed to enjoy Garden, from what the inspector had seen.

                The inspector left the police station, heading towards the information tower. He should be able to find that, easily enough, even if he had to walk straight into it to see it. About halfway there, as he passed in front of the fountain, he heard a quiet noise, a ticking. What was that? It sounded like a clock, or a metronome.

                A loud explosion blasted the inspector from his feet, and a shower of water cascaded over him, drenching him. More waves of water struck him with each passing moment, and he scrambled to his feet, heading in the direction of the blast. Shards of porcelain lay like pieces of ceramic on the cobblestones, and reached the edge of where the fountain had stood, now an ever increasing deluge of water pouring out of it, flooding the streets. Already, puddles were forming around his boots. In the distance, the inspector heard the echo of other explosions – more fountains. This, then, was the sixth day: the seas and land no longer separated, and a flooding over the earth.

                The inspector raced in the direction of the information tower, his feet splashing in the pools of water collecting in the streets. He pushed his way into the tower, almost running headlong into the doors without seeing them.

                “Shut the water off, Turners! Shut all the water off!”

                “I’m trying,” came the voice, echoing from the landing above.

                “We’ll have it in a second,” replied another voice. Simon?

                The inspector raced up the ramp, watching the water sloshing into the building below, and electronics sputtering as the water raced into the chassis of several computers sitting on the floor.  

                “I think we have it,” yelled Simon’s voice again. Mondieu reached the top of the tower, and saw Simon and Turners hunched over a set of terminals, frantically fighting with a keyboard. Turners was pointing at the screen and arguing, and Simon was punching things on the keyboard.

                “Have you fixed it? What are you doing here, Simon?” the inspector asked, shouting over the noise.

                “Just a moment, inspector!” Simon shouted back. “There, I think we’ve got it.”

                Turners and Simon stepped back, and glanced over the railing, through the mess of machinery and down into the base of the tower. It was difficult to discern if their work had the desired effect, because the water was rippling and sloshing into the tower in small waves. “Hopefully that fixed it,” mumbled Turners, scratching his back with a screwdriver.

                “What the hell just happened?” the inspector cried.

                “Someone sabotaged the fountains, it seems, and blew away the valves that prevent exorbitant quantities of water from spouting out everywhere. So, we got flooded.”

                “I can see that!” yelled the inspector. “How come no one caught it!”

                “I don’t know. That will require further investigation,” Simon replied, his brow furrowed in thought.

                “Simon, may I have a word with you?” the inspector asked, pulling Simon to the side.

                “Inspector, I-” Simon began.

                “I’ll ask the questions here. What are you doing here, Simon? How did you know to be here to fix the water?”

                “I didn’t,” replied Simon. “I just happened to be in the area at the right time. A hunch, us inspectors say.”

                “A hunch? Forgive me if I don’t believe that, Simon. Was it a hunch that you were near the arboretum on the first day? And a bunch that you were in the menagerie on the second? Seems a little bit of a coincidence to me. What do you think?”

                Simon smiled disarmingly. “My hunches seem to work, then, don’t you agree? I wasn’t even in the tower when it happened. I just happened to be near enough that when I heard the fountains explode, I rushed over here. I hadn’t even seen the water, though I assumed something had gone wrong with the tower if there was an explosion of any sort.”

                “And you have the technological expertise to fix things like that? Things that even Turners has had trouble with all week? Why didn’t you say so earlier?” the inspector’s eyes narrowed with barely concealed anger at Simon, and accusation, though Simon seemed to shrug it off like water over oil. A slippery customer, like an eel. I just can’t get a handle on Simon. He seems… too good.

                “I have some significant experience with computers, I guess. And I suppose I just didn’t think I could help, earlier on in the week. It seemed like you had everything under control.”

                Mondieu scowled. “What are you doing here, Temple? And don’t expect me to buy the story about DeMarc. That’s a bunch of rubbish, and we both know it.”

                “Know what, inspector? You just don’t trust anyone, do you? Well, I’m not going to give you another story, because you probably won’t believe anything I have to say. If I’m already suspicious in your eyes, what use is it inventing a more believable story? But I am not your murderer, inspector.”

                “Really? We’ll see about that, Simon. What were you doing in the menagerie on the second day? And what were you doing in the arboretum on the first?”

                “The first night, I was strolling in the area when I saw a crowd gathering outside the arboretum. Curious, I came over to investigate further, and that was when you arrived. I simply followed the crowd into the inner garden. The menagerie? Well, let’s just say that I had a hunch, what with the second clue being what it was, and decided it might be worth a try visiting the menagerie.”

                He just has an answer for everything. I wonder how prepared these answers are. Are they memorized? I’ll have to ask again at a later time, if there is time. “And why are you in town, Simon?”

                “I’m here as you are, inspector. I’m doing my job.”

                “Very well, Simon. Don’t be leaving. I’ll be needing you again, soon.”

                “I wouldn’t dream of it, Mondieu.” With a tip of his hat, Simon began walking down the ramp, whistling as he walked.

                “And Turners?” the inspector said, as Turners began to quietly try and sneak after Simon. “I’m not finished with you.”

                “Yes, inspector?” Turners said, a nervous smile creeping over his face. He spun the screwdriver nervously between his fingers.

                “Why did no one catch this last night? And is Simon more skilled with this than you are?”

                “I don’t know why no one found anything last night, sir. I think we are all more than a little tired. Though I do believe that Simon has far greatest skill with computers than I. He seemed to grasp everything instantly, even these damned ridiculous graphs that make no sense to anyone else.”

                Interesting. “Fix this up. I want nothing further to go wrong here. Get a crew out to fix the fountains so we can turn the water back on as soon as possible, understood?”

                “Understood, sir,” replied Turners, as though holding his breath.

                The inspector strode out of the information tower and header towards the arboretum. It was time to get some inspecting done, and to do that, he needed to head to where it all started: the arboretum. What was the importance of this crime? Why Addam and Lilya? Who were they and why were they killed?

                The water groped at his ankles, drowning his toes even through his boots in a cold wetness, and he shivered. Despite the mist, the arboretum was not difficult to find, central to the city and a giant, dimly lit bubble of a structure. Water lapped at the edges like a moat, and the inspector passed into the arboretum. Even the plant-life in here was dying. Some birds still called from inside the dome, probably incapable of escaping and fleeing to warmer climes, though mostly the silence was eerie. No wind brushed the trees, and the leaves were falling as the trees divested into deathly winter barrenness.

                As he rounded the last bend, he saw what he had almost expected, and for some reason he could not put a finger on, feared. This, more than anything he’d seen today, he had feared: the tree was dying.