Chapter 9

Chapter 9: Mondieu

Day 3: Friday

There are moments when even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad humanity may assume the semblance of Hell. 

~ Edgar Allan Poe 

Whose face was it the mirror showed? Now his, certainly not his. But whose? How far he had fallen, having at once been the inspective mastermind of a generation, a century, and, defeated once, reduced to this: stubble lining his long, angular face; dark, tired eyes; a gauntness attenuated his cheeks, saying “weary, weary… finished”.

                The spark in his eyes was buried deep, deep beneath the cooling coals of neglect – smothered, even, and his former ferocity was mellowed, gentled.

                He’d ever suspected marriage would usher the inevitable softening, not defeat. Why was this defeat so, terminal? No one is invincible, none without frailty.

                Everything was going wrong; he felt set up. It was a torturous affair, with the beautiful city suddenly stained with a poison, artistically insidious. Mondieu pulled out his notebook and pored over his notes thus far – questions, only, and more questions.

                How did the poison enter into the city, a city previously untainted by murder, by crime of any sort? If a drastic change occurs, inspect any altered variables, dissect for transformation. Who were the new players, so far? DuMont, Simon Temple, himself. These were high on the suspect list, so far.

                Which begged another question: if DuMont was new in town, how had Marie entered into his confidence so quickly? What was their relationship?

                The next questions were equally ambiguous in their responses: why were Addam and Lilya targeted? What was their connection to the rest of their crime? Or was there a connection? And Horten: was he killed for his knowledge? Or was it yet another red herring on a trail of distractions?

                What if the targets were random? It was all an artistic venture, he suspected, and artists were nothing if not meticulous. No, with murders there is always a connection, always a motivation. What was the link, then?

                He knew nothing, still. One failure left him debilitated, two might destroy him entire. He traded one last, meaningful look with the mirror-man before closing the curtains leaving the room steeped in darkness. It was time for a resurrection.

                The best cure for existential quandary: coffee, black and bitter, biting as the step into eternity. The inspector let the innkeeper refill his mug, ignoring the coffee and cream.  The Bear sat down opposite him at the breakfast table, cheery in the glow of morning.

                “So, inspector. How has your stay been in merry Garden? Are you finding your stay satisfactory?” The Bear grinned robustly, dumping spoonfuls of sugar into his own coffee.

                “Nothing is going as planned,” the inspector replied with a sigh.

                “Well, drink your coffee, eat your food. Nothing like breakfast to kickstart the day. Seems to me that if anyone was to blame, it might be an outsider,” said the innkeeper, staring at the inspector with one eye over his coffee mug as he imbibed a healthy sip.

                “Indeed,” replied the inspector, avoiding the glance through a sudden interest in his breakfast.

                “You’ll figure it out,” The Bear said, leaning back in his chair, sighing.

                “That’s the idea.” The inspector wiped his mouth with the napkin and stood up, brushing off his immaculate jacket. “Thanks for the breakfast.”

                “Good luck, inspector,” said the innkeeper, as Mondieu walked out the door. “You’ll need plenty.”

               

                How do you stop a murder in a giant city, where the criminal may strike anywhere? The situation was impossible. The inspector left the residential district and headed east, towards the police station. If anyone knew anything, it was there.

                There was something odd about the morning as the inspector walked into the city. What was it? A chill breeze brushed the trees, sending a shiver down the inspector’s spine. That was cold. Unusual.  But that, too, was not the oddity. Something else was unusual.

                The sun shone brightly, midmorning hanging high in the sky, and nary a cloud shrouded the heavens. That wasn’t it, either. It was the birds. It should have been obvious, but the inspector had been too deep in his own introspection. The birds were silent. The inspector frowned.

                He hurried into the police station, finding Seth sleeping at his desk. As the door slammed shut, Seth scrambled to wakefulness. “Inspector, uh, sir. Welcome. I didn’t expect to see you here. What time is it?”

                “Seth, good morning. I suppose I can’t ask you if anything has seemed odd this morning, can I? Where are Vespars and DuMont?”

                Seth rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “I told both to go home this morning, and resume their posts as soon as possible. I simply cannot guard the whole city all day with so few personnel.”

                “I understand. I’m beginning to gather the vastness of our predicament, myself,” the inspector said, sinking into a chair and drawing a cigarette from his cloak pocket.

                “Isn’t it a little early to be smoking, Inspector Mondieu?”

                “Hmm.” The inspector took a deep drag. “Would it seem strange if all the birds fell silent, Seth?”

                “What? What do you mean?”    

                “Nothing, Seth. Just thinking out loud.”

                And then the city erupted in a cacophony of noise. Thousands of birds simultaneously erupted into squawking, raucous flight – a hellish frenzy of hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands of birds hurling into the air of a sudden. The flapping wings, hundreds of falling feathers and droppings striking the earth like rain, a chill wind curling through the streets – a cyclone of birds, black clouds roiling in the heavens, thunderous with explosive birdcalls.

                The inspector and Seth hurried out into the streets. People were gathering at every corner, staring into the skies as birds, every bird it seemed for miles, rose into the sky above the city, flocking into a blackening sky.

                “What’s going on?” Seth screamed above the bedlam.

                “I’m not certain, but I think this is the work of our criminal. Find Vespars or DuMont. See if we can discover where the murderer has struck this time!” the inspector yelled in reply. To what end was this? What purpose could the criminal possibly have?

                Seth merely nodded and ran off towards the residential district. The inspector began sprinting towards the IT tower when he noticed something else odd. In the pond on the side of the road, the fish were rising to the surface, belly up. Dying. But why? What was killing the fish, and riling up the birds?

                The inspector stooped near the pond, smelling the air rising. What was that smell? It smelled foul – had someone poisoned the waters? Hopefully not the drinking waters as well.

                The inspector grabbed a fish from the water, its body covered in a slime, and he turned it over in his hands. With so many fish dead, it must be poisoned. What was this accomplishing?

                Mondieu raced towards the information tower, hurrying inside. “Turners? Are you here? We have an emergency!” the inspector cried, hurrying up the ramp.

                “I’m up here!” a voice cried from high up in the tower. “Is that you, Inspector Mondieu?”

                “Yes, I’m coming up. How do we check the water’s toxicity? I believe someone has poisoned the waters!”

                No reply sounded from above, only a racing of footsteps. Turners met the inspector at a corner three-fourths of the way up the tower. “An emergency? Someone poisoned the waters? Did they poison the air, too? The birds are going crazy!” Turners replied, waving a wrench in the air over his head as he spoke.

                “I’ll check the water information.”

                “Let me know what you find. Quickly!” The inspector hurried the rest of the way up the tower to the roof, climbing up the ladder at the top and pushing through onto the building’s rooftop. The birds cycled above and beneath him, a rising mass of cawing birds, en masse and circling in the sky like a vast predator, stalking around the city as prey.  

                Down below, the inspector saw the faces of every citizen, upturned and pointing into the sky, shielding their eyes from the fierce sunlight. On the rooftop, a wintry wind gusted, and the inspector pulled his cloak close around his face, shielding his eyes. What was happening to the warmth?

                The inspector saw Seth at the base of the tower with Vespars, asking people where Mondieu had gone, no doubt. Shortly, Seth scampered into the tower, appearing on the roof moments later.

                “Seth?”

                “Inspector,” began Seth, huffing with breathlessness. “We’ve asked around the city, and no one appears to have discovered any deaths. The fish are dying in every pond, but, so far, all the drinking water seems untouched.”

                As he said this last, Turners showed up on the roof, walking over to the inspector with a sheet of graph paper in hand. “The drinking water looks clear of chemicals, Inspector. But there is something very wrong with the ponds.”

                “And what is it?” the inspector asked sternly.

                “I’m not certain, yet. I’ll need more time.” Turners said.

                “And the air? Has that been poisoned as well? What has upset the birds?”

                “I’m not certain, Inspector. Something has gotten the weather controller out of whack. I’ll need to run some diagnostics.”

                “Well, get running them, then!” shouted the inspector. “We’re in the dark here, and the criminal has us by the seat of our pants!” he growled.

                Turners nodded. “Right away, sir. I’ll start that right away.”         

                “And Turners,” the inspector stopped Turners as he reached the trapdoor into the building. “Could anyone have tampered with the weather controller? Is there any way that everything could have been meddled with?”        

                Turners cringed. “I hope not, sir. I’m out of my element with most of this technology stuff. It’s way beyond my ken. I’ll see what I can do.”

                “Is there anyone more knowledgeable about the technology? Anyone who might know how to manipulate the weather?”

                “Beats me. I’m the only worker in the tower, but anyone can access the computers. We don’t lock anything up.”

                “Very well. Run the diagnostics, and get back to me immediately,” the inspector replied, and Turners disappeared into the building.

                “What should we do, Inspector?” Seth asked, watching the wheeling of the birds in the sky overhead.

                “I think we should be on the lookout for any additional crime. I’m not sure what our criminal is up to, but I don’t like it. Get a network set up of people so that if anything happens, we know immediately. I want to know if the criminal strikes again, and quickly. If you see Simon Temple, send him my way.”

                “Right, sir,” replied Seth, saluting with nervous hands. Seth retreated down into the building, and the inspector lingered at the top for a few moments longer.

                As he watched, the long, black cloud of birds resolved into a line, a migration pointed as sure as an arrow to the south. Slowly, methodically, every bird in the city, and for miles around, turned hind and fled, fled the doom the inspector was beginning to realize. The fish dying, the birds fleeing – what was this devilry being wrought? Was there time yet for the city’s salvation?