Chapter 23

Chapter 23: Mondieu

the fencer and the painter

a dualism picturesque and particular.

draw me as the ocean breathing

above a coral reef

with your sweet palette mixed

in this fluid motion,

we are the ribbon dance

we are the hummingbird

we are the wind in the wildflowers

galvanized

until each sunflower is only electric

with our souls the conduit of eternity;

it is the rainbow and the breeze

born of storms and souls

spinning, weaving, then

pirouette until

we are the fireworks and

we are the waterfall

we are the hearth flames

Mondieu circled the tree, slow, as a prayer labyrinth of introspection. The tree, whether knowledge or life, now drooped subtly, the silver underbelly of leaves blackened, drying up and folding inward, as though each leaf curled into a protective fetal position, cradling its last ghosts of life. Each silvery star of a leaf dimming and dying, and the branches of the tree whose heavens were once brilliant now lost its constellations, its life.

                The inspector picked up a piece of fruit from the garden floor, now swarming with tiny worms. Was it the cold, the flooding, or was something else poisoning the tree? Or, was it simply time, an inconvenient timing? Too inconvenient. What did it mean? Was it important, or simply a byproduct of the city’s devastation? The tree’s branches looked lightly blanched, and its wrinkled more poignant. The branches that once tickled the highest reaches of the dome now sagged, borne down under the weight of an end, a bitter end.

                Mondieu crouched at the base of the tree. What was it that irked him about this particular instance of crime? Something to do with Addam and Lilya? Tiny bloodied marks had pooled near the cobbles, beyond the grass surrounding the central tree. It was a heart shape, and the inspector could still see, etched into his memories, their figures, entwined, naked, pale, and bloodied beneath the boughs of the tree.

                It wasn’t only this tree, either. All the trees, bushes, flowers alike collectively ached, a back-breaking passing into sorry death.

                Was this an accident? Or were these people selected? Was the snake motif important, the fangs penetrating their necks and ankles? What was the nature of the poison that drained their life-forces so easily? Maybe Marie had more information.

                Mondieu watched the tree for a while, its leaves no longer a delight, the fruit of its branches, but a burden, creaking like tired ship-masts after a tempest, or old stairs too often walked upon. A short while later the inspector left the arboretum, heading towards the menagerie. Water collected on the streets, leaching into the muddy soils and swamping the beleaguered plant-life. Fog collected in heavy wisps, obscuring the edges of the street and swirling around posts and branches in eerie manacles.

                The menagerie was empty, a ghost city within whose animals moved ponderously. They gazed at Mondieu’s passing with bleary-eyed indifference. Here was he who has not saved us, a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

                Mondieu reached the wolves’ pen without seeing another soul. Surely someone must still feed these animals? Everyone was hiding away inside, huddled together for warmth. The inspector hopped over the ledge and dropped into the wolf pen. There were no wolves remaining. A stench remained, and bloodstains marked the stones. The ground wasn’t wet with flooding, thanks to the low stone wall surrounding the rim of the pen, though the sands were still dark with precipitation. The sign in the back with the criminal’s words had been rubbed away, painted over in a charcoal matte.

                This crime was different, somehow, than the rest. What was it? Something about this crime said that unravelling this one might tear the seams out, recursively solving each of the rest. Why was that? This one was the messiest. The inspector walked around the pen. The sands were mussed up with the movements of the policemen, cleaning squads, and the inspector himself, but the bones of the murder – how was it a murder? – still reeked, a redolence not completely dissipated, raw and primal.

                How had the murderer anticipated Horten’s arrival? Unless, of course, Horten wasn’t necessarily a target. Perhaps no one was. Was this an inadvertent murder? Without a triggering mechanism, there seemed no means of targeting any specific individual. If anyone had snuck in and trained the beasts, someone would have noticed, eventually. But nothing was locked, and anyone could have snuck in and simply fed the wolves a drug, a virus, and they went rabid, right at feeding time. Was it simply a convenience? The devil of a villain was too careful to rely on simple convenience as the delivery mechanism for each crime.

                Was each target of each crime deliberate? Or merely coincidental, and thus unimportant? Horten had been the only recipient of the first clue, and had disregarded it immediately, though he had

                So what was intended here? Day six was creation of man and creature, though day seven was only a day of rest. That was a piece of what irked him. Why the deaths on day seven? How was that symbolic of rest? Or was it not? Maybe it was a symbol aimed at the fall itself, the paradise lost. Were the wolves important or another red herring in a long list of such?

                Mondieu crouched down beside the stone on which Horten’s head had lain, reimagining the scene. Only a couple pieces left that didn’t quite fit. He just needed to find, and ask, the right question. What was that question?

                Briefly thereafter, the inspector left the menagerie, heading out through the city. What could have caused all the birds to leave? The fish he had determined the cause of: asphyxiation. Seems a strange way for a fish to die, to be sure. Still, at least there was one answer in this mess of questions. The birds, though, did that make sense? Mondieu had a clue, or an inkling. He headed towards the information tower – he needed to go there anyway, maybe he could kill two birds with one stone, as they used to say.

                Turners was sponging up the water in a giant mop and squeezing it out into a bucket when the inspector arrived, mumbling to himself.

                “Turners?” the inspector asked, his boots causing the water to ripple in waves and slap against the metallic chassis of the machines on the floor. Turners glanced askance, and grumbled something obscene under his breath.

                “Yes, inspector Mondieu?” Turners replied, mopping up more of the mess and squeezing it into his pail.

                “I need to speak with you more about the virus left on these computers. What can you tell me? I must know everything.”

                Turners sighed, leaning heavily against his mop a moment before setting against one of the tables and rubbing his sweaty palms against his trousers.

                “Well, what is there to say? I completely removed it, if you must know, not that there is anything more I believe it could accomplish. This is a shell of a town now, and in it you can hear the ocean of inevitability.”

                The inspector stared at Turners, waiting for more, but Turners said nothing.

                “How long was it on the computers before you found it? Was it a timed release, or a manually run process?” the inspector fired, his tone brooking no evasive ambiguity.

                “Everything was time, I suspect. I don’t think anyone could have entered into the information tower without notice. Also, someone was inside the tower at each of the moments of the crime. So it could not have been manually initiated unless…” Turners fell silent, realizing the inspector may very well believe him a suspect. I do, thought the inspector. Everyone is a suspect.

                He’d known it already, but needed to hear it again. A recurring element was appearing, and patterns were the core of clues in these investigations. When you mark a pattern, follow it. It will lead you clear as paw prints in the snow to your predator.

                “So there are no remnants of the virus left intact? No evidence of its former existence.”

                “No,” replied Turners, swallowing nervously and slumping backwards into a desk behind him, jostling the machinery and almost knocking it over into the waiting pools.

                “Hmm…”  The inspector hummed darkly and dramatically, and watching the effect on Turners. “And when, exactly, did the virus take effect? What are the earliest signatures of anything outside the realms of normal?”

                “Follow me,” Turners replied, turning and scampering up the ramp towards the upper limits of the tower. When they arrived near the ceiling of the tower, Turners tapped some keys on a keyboard and brought up some graphs on a series of screens.

                “What is the first instance of change?” the inspector asked.

                Turners pointed at the graph, showing the deviation of the line over time. “The weather itself began deviating in a slow, downward crawl the day the birds fled. A brisk wind rolled over town, and even in the warm sun, there was a taste of winter.”

                The inspector nodded, following the graph downward in temperature over time. “So why did you not mention this earlier?”

                Turners gulped. “I, uh… I meant to, sir. Sometimes the weather controller has hiccups, and the weather can drop a few degrees or gain a few, here or there. Nothing to worry about, usually, sir.”

                “Hiccups? How often?”

                “Oh, once every couple of months, the weather might drop a couple of degrees. A little gust of wind seemed within the standard deviation,” Turners replied, staring at the ground, the monitors, anywhere but the inspector’s face.

                The wind. The birds felt the weather coming before it arrived – winter. Something in their genetics, their long evolution explained their escape mechanism: South, warmer weather. But surely that could not account for every bird leaving, simultaneous, could it? Was there something else there? There was a motif, a pattern evolving in the inspector’s head. Finally, it was all coming clear. He was figuring it all out.

                “And why wasn’t the virus noticed before?”

                Turners cringed at this last. “No one thought to look for it, sir. I’m none so good with machinery as I should be. Whoever this villain is, he’s better I tell you.”

                “Hmm. Well, keep it up, Turners. I’ll be seeing you soon, I’m certain. Don’t be going anywhere.”

                “Yes, sir. See you soon.” Turners simply stood still, moving only his eyes as the inspector walked down the ramp and out of sight, and he only moved when the inspector passed out of the tower, slogging further east towards the weather controller.

               

                Mondieu stopped by the police station and picked up a lantern before heading towards his next destination.  The police station was empty; even Seth was not lurking behind that great desk of his. The weather tower was a walk, and the inspector filled the time piercing his new theory with holes and tears of queries. Is this piece complete? Where is the fabric patchy and riddled with holes? Is there anything more I can learn at the weather controller?

                The weather controller loomed, taller and darker seeming than the first time the inspector had investigated. Now that he knew this weather controller had arrived almost forty years past, he could see the wear on the stones, the sun-bleached weathered nature of the walls and the hunger of the grasses and vines clambering up the walls and crawling across the cobblestones.

                Mondieu lit the lantern and entered through the threshold, already swimming in a new sea of sounds: mechanical whirrs and scrapings, a humming of electronic life. The weather controller was a mess, a pile of twisted and broken. A pair of metallic wings tore free from the side, angled awkwardly as though a nightmare-terror prepared to fly.  Lights studded the interior like capillaries and blinking maggots. What was this once, this magnificent technology that changed the weather, stopping the storms and the natural turning of seasons to create the perfect Eden?

                The inspector dropped down into the lower sections of the weather controller, sniffing a stench of chemicals, and touching at the shrapnel indentations lining the walls of the machines stomach, revealing the intestines of this technological monstrosity whose heart no longer beat. Another pattern, perhaps, and telling in its own way. All of these crimes, all of these clues possessed a number of things in common, and the identity of the villain was being forged in a montage of water-blurred images.

                What mysteries were hidden here? Still, the pattern held. And he knew, before he even visited the latest crime, that the pattern was reflected throughout the crimes. Now he merely had to reconstruct the mirror and reproduce the image, the face whose visage these broken images displayed.

                As the inspector walked back towards the police station, he considered how few people he actually knew within the city limits. One advantage gleaned through the criminals involvement was the clues. They indicated that the criminal kept his eye on the scene, wanted to know each element as it came and how much the inspector himself knew. That meant that the villain was involved, and had likely already met Mondieu. A city wide investigation, and still he only knew a handful of people. Who could it be?

                Seth was fidgety and unpredictable, young and inexperienced – expectedly so; Vespars and DuMont: did he know anything about them? Vespars was hiding something, he could see that. DuMont? Taciturn and brutish, though with a strange grace, and he had met with Marie that second morning, trading something: fruit? Supplies? What interest did he have in the exchange, and what was he getting out of it?

                The Doctor and Evelyn, fighting their way through their own investigation: suspicious. They knew at least as much as the criminal would, and seemed to find out ways of discovering more. And then there was their appearance at the tower on the night of the first stakeout. And Simon? Something about Simon was off-putting. He was skilled in too many areas, too easily sliding into the role of inspector, or mechanic, or technician, or finding things around town despite his inexperience with Garden and its people. He knew too much, too fast.

                Then there was Marie: who was she, and did she want something from him? He sensed his weak spot here, what was her motive?

                The Bear and Pavloh were outside characters, but what did they know? They both seemed wiser, patient in their years, but knowledgeable. They both knew things the inspector didn’t, he suspected. What were the right questions?

                And Turners. Somehow, he didn’t suspect Turners intelligent enough to accomplish all of these things. Unless he was hiding something, or appearing purposely foolish. The villain, whoever it was, certainly displayed the capability of cleverness, to some extent, though a sly sort of intellect.

                The inspector returned the lantern to the police station and walked towards the fountain at the center of the square. It was a wreck. Porcelain and plaster covered the ground in a splattering of pieces, some scattered even as far as thirty paces distant. Mondieu approached and glanced over the remains of the fountain. Was it the same explosion? The same chemical smell lingered over the remnants of the fountain as the weather controller, which indicated a similar explosive. Likely, whatever they were, they had been made in batches, and probably used chemicals that had been imported somehow, or brought into the city. Unless a secret, more advanced lab existed in the city, no one had the technology to create such timed devices – or a remote detonation.

                Did the mist mean anything? With the weather controller destroyed, unless the criminal had his own weather controller, which seemed like it might be difficult to hide, it would be difficult creating inclement weather on the fly. Plus, Turners had mentioned the downturn of the weather the day before the actual event. Wouldn’t the weather have already started getting warmer again earlier yesterday? Maybe, maybe not. Technology of this magnitude was beyond the inspector’s expertise.

                It seemed, however, that it was a timed explosion of some sort. The inspector remembered hearing a ticking, as of a clock, just prior to the explosion of the fountains. Maybe in the final moments before explosion, it ticked as a timer, or something set it off to start the countdown? Either way, both required circuits and technology, both of which were only clustered in one place in the entire city: the information tower. And even the information tower probably didn’t have the capacity, without special ingredients, to produce bombs like this. They would need a battery, or a large discharge of power, somehow. Still, even this last of crimes followed the pattern.

                Could he stop the final crime, knowing what he did now? Only a few pieces remained, and the mirror would be complete.

                The inspector checked his timepiece: four in the afternoon. Plenty of time before a dinner date with Marie. Heading south along the road, it seemed the fog was dissipating slightly, though vision was limited, and night was not long in the coming. No street lamps were lit, and few people walked along the roads as Mondieu aimed towards the Doctor’s lab.

                It looked like the Doctor was in, and alone, at the lab. Mondieu had not expected to find the Doctor so easily, but it certainly made things easier. He pushed open the door into the lab and stood opposite the table as the Doctor.

                “Good evening, Eve-” the Doctor began, before looking up and seeing the inspector. His face filled with surprise. “Inspector Mondieu? A pleasant surprise. What can I do for you?”

                “Doctor, I was hoping you might have some more information for me about the first couple of crimes. Did you ever discern anything regarding the poison in the first crime?”

                The Doctor slumped into his chair, his eyes tired and carrying dark baggage. “Apologies, inspector. I do not believe my equipment is of sufficient quality for this investigation. You ask for forensics, and my microscopes barely function, my material is shredded, and someone appears to have stolen some quantity of it. The poison loosens the blood, and causes a heavy stupor, so they slept, while their blood drained, I suspect. Though I am uncertain, to be honest.”

                Should I tell him it was I who stole the samples? No, it is better that he does not know. If he is guilty, it will make him antsy, and did he think he was the sole owner of said samples? “Stolen, you say?” replied the inspector, raising his eyebrows. “That is interesting. I’ll consider that later. And the second crime? Did you discover anything of note?”

                The Doctor shook his head. “Nothing that my instruments detected, though perhaps the samples have too little blood remaining, or the sand and stone mixed in has ruined my initial tests. I’m certain there is something if only I can find it, because if it isn’t something in their bodies, how could it be? A sound, a signal, a trained mechanism for attack? Who would train wolves to attack Horten, why Horten?”

                The Doctor’s eyes filled with tears, though he did not let them fall, squeezing his eyes shut and keeping them in, covering his face with a hand.

                “Thank you, Doctor. I’m sorry to press. And your friend, Evelyn? Have you discovered anything more with her to tell?”

                “Nothing, Mondieu. I think we’ll leave the investigating up to you from here on in. It was a delusion, I suspect, and an ego. I hope you will find it in you to forgive us.”

                The inspector merely nodded, solemnly, tipping his head in acknowledgement to the doctor before slipping out into the night. A suspicious fellow, though honest. He was certainly intelligent enough to be the culprit, and he did own a lab for constructing such things as bombs. If he did, he’d probably already hidden the material elsewhere.

                I’ll keep that in mind for later.

                A successful day, and the pieces are filling in so nicely. Why could I not strengthen my resolve earlier? The cloud that had enervated his recent years felt as though it was lifting. A cycle of resurrection, driven from the detritus of another’s death: the inspector stepped out of the ashes.

               

                Mondieu arrived early at the restaurant, and the area was empty, even of servers. In only six days, the entire city was transformed in to a phantom, like a tumbleweed town in those ancient western flicks – nothing but dust and memories. Should he continue to wait here for Marie, or leave to find her? Perhaps dinner was off for the evening.

                As he considered leaving, Marie arrived, wearing a svelte white dress, sparkling like starlight and white as the caps of mountains. Her steps were soft and delicate, even in the puddles that lay as lakes on the cobbles, and she wore tall clogs, making her only a hand-span shorter than the inspector himself.

                Her hair was elaborately woven, and tumbled out and down past her slender neck. She was a swan of motion, sliding through the night, the moon swimming over the ocean, white and bright as first light.

                “Mondieu? I believe we have a dinner engagement?”

                The inspector floundered with words for a moment, enraptured. “Marie? Why are you dressed so elegantly?”

                “This may be our last night, Mondieu. I figured it might be nice to add some flair. It seems our favorite dinner location is vacant.”

                Our last night? “It seems so. So what shall we do?”

                “Do?” Marie asked, tilting her head and flashing a brief, coy smile. “Why, we shall dance. And then you will take me home, and we shall have dinner.”

                “Dance? But I do not-” Marie took the inspector’s hands, and propelled him onto the empty dance floor, soggy with water.

                Marie closed her eyes and began humming, and Mondieu held her hands limply. What do I do? I’ve never danced, and I don’t think boots are the properly footwear for this sort of graceful movement. It seemed Marie did not mind, pulling the inspector close and putting his hands around her back and her hands on his shoulder, gently swaying.

                “Can you imagine the music, Mondieu?”

                “I don’t-” the inspector began.

                “It’s violins, gently played. The moon, full, sheds its silver light over a salted floor, shining as black glass, and the violins sway with the mournful solemnity of eternity, the ocean tides, the swing of the seasons, and the deliberate, patient journey of mountains.”

                And they danced.

               

                “Thank you for that, inspector. I’d been hoping we might get a chance to dance,” Marie said with a smile.

                The inspector looped Marie’s arm as they walked back through the city towards residential. “What now, Marie, on this, our ‘last night’ as you say?”

                Marie just smiled. “You’ll see.”

                They arrived at Marie’s house, and the windows were lit with the dim, flicker of candles. As they entered, Mondieu noticed as dinner was set up.

                “Marie…” the inspector began, a gruff tone rising up. “I’m investigating murders, and crimes that threaten to destroy a city. I don’t believe I have time for a dinner.”

                Marie pouted, extending her lower lip slightly. “Oh, well… can we discuss the murder and any questions you have over dinner? I’ll tell you anything you like to know.”

                Mondieu sighed and sat down, and Marie smoothed her dress and sat across from him, uncovering the dish and serving the inspector roasted lamb, green beans, potatoes, and apple sauce, and filling up his glass with what appeared to be a white wine.

                “Well? Any questions, inspector? I’m sure you must be teeming with them, overflowing, really. If you just need an outlet, here I sit, awaiting your words.”

                “What did you meet with DuMont for?”

                “I already told you. He gave me samples of the tree,” Marie replied, her brow scrunching in confusion.

                “But what did you give him?” the inspector asked.

                “Money, actually. He’s not from around here, and appreciated something which I had no use for since I arrived in Garden.”

                “And Robinson? Did you meet with him as well?”

                “Robinson provided me with information about the tree, and some samples when DuMont was busy, particularly in these most recent of days. The tree has changed so much in the past week, you know. I think it is dying, though I cannot determine why. Perhaps it is just the cold or maybe it is something else, some inner determined time of death, like fall or…”

                The inspector held up his hand, cutting off Marie’s quiet monologue, as she had started mumbling to herself, almost forgetting the inspector’s presence. “What did you give Robinson in return?”

                “Nothing, actually. He was solely interested in the product of the research itself. I don’t think he liked the tree much, to be honest, and considered that maybe my research might spark an interest from the outside world, and someone would take it away for study. I’m not actually entirely certain of his motives, to be honest. A strange fellow, that Robinson.” Marie swished around her wine glass, staring down at her plate of untouched food, and sipped delicately at the wine.

                “Why do you say that Robinson is strange?”

                “He’s always out, doing something or other, but it’s never obvious what he is doing. He’s hungry for knowledge, but never anything in particular. He’s like a mob boss without a mob, a collector of facts. I’ve never been able to quite put a finger on him, or why he works for the doctor.”

                They sat in silence for a while, each tasting the food and glancing at each other over the candles. The inspector broke the silence, eventually, setting down his fork with a metallic burr. “And the Doctor? What do you think of him?”

                “I think he’s out of his league, with this investigation stuff,” replied Marie simply. “Oh! I found something, and I had meant to tell you earlier. Follow me.” Marie picked up her napkin from her lap and tossed it over her unfinished meal, before standing up and walking over to her bench against the wall. The samples from a dozen fruit were affixed to slides and lined up before the microscope, each meticulously labeled and tracked in a journal set to the side.

                Marie picked up a slide she had placed on the other side of the microscope and lined it up beneath the lights, twisting some knobs and lining it up properly beneath the magnification. “Look here, Mondieu.”

                The inspector looked through the glasses and saw a strange yellow substance nestled against a runny crimson and white liquid.

                “Do you see it?” Marie asked expectantly.

                “What am I looking at?” Mondieu asked, expecting the answer before he heard it.

                Marie told him, and another mirror piece slid into place: all but one. The image was almost clear now.

                “What is it, Mondieu?” Marie asked, alarmed at the inspector’s sudden silence and wolfish grin.

                “Nothing, Marie. Everything will become clear, soon enough. Where were-”

                The doorbell rang.

                “I’ll get it,” Marie said, starting for the door.

                “No, Marie. Let me. I think I know who it is,” the inspector replied, slipping past Marie and opening the door only a handbreadth, blocking Marie’s view of the visitor.

                The inspector turned around, holding an envelope sealed with wax and the criminal’s sign. Sliding out the letter, he read it briefly.

                LAST LIGHT BEFORE ETERNAL NIGHT

                GARDEN’S PLIGHT, HAVE YOU SAVED IT?

                “What does it say,” Marie asked, trying to peer over Mondieu’s shoulders, but he slipped it back into the envelope and tucked it away into his cloak.

                “Thank you for dinner this evening, Marie. I had an exemplary night. I’ll be seeing you tomorrow,” the inspector said, putting on his hat and opening the door.

                “But Mondieu!” Marie called, but it was too late. The inspector had already slipped into the deep, utter blackness of night. And it was evening, and it was night: day six.

Chapter 22

Chapter 22
Garden
Daylight and more



Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave 
A paradise for a sect; the savage too 
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep 
Guesses at Heaven; pity these have not 
Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf 
The shadows of melodious utterance. 
But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die; 
~Keats



Evatt looked at Evelyn she sat up, her hair tousled and a bit nested in chaos.
She was still not fully awake; her eyes were still moving slowly up and down in a desperate bid for freedom from the grains of sleep.
She was dressed in what she had worn the day before; they both had fallen asleep whilst they talked late the night before.
She threw the overcoat off of herself with a violence that startled him from his aimless gazing.
"Evelyn, what is the matter?" He asked hurriedly, his voice thick and full of the night still.
"Nothing. That is what is wrong: nothing!" She cried back, the violence of her actions full in her voice. She no longer looked anything like she was tired or still caught on the flotsam of sleep's heavy tide.
"We are no closer to solving these crimes than the day before!"
"We don't know that's true." He protested mildy. "I think that we made some progress last night. "
"You did, did you?" Her voice this time not only contained suggested violence, it seemed to have dropped to a different level of danger.
Noticing this, but ignoring it for now, the Doctor  continued, "I think we are on the right track. I think that by finding the motive behind everything, we will solve much of this mystery."
"Your assurance is overwhelming Evatt. I feel much better."
He gazed quizzically at her, a question slanted in the quirk of his eyes.
"Well, I do. I was sarcastic, but I still meant it."
She got up and walked over to him, and they stood before the small window overlooking the street.
It was not completely light yet, but the darkness was receding before the onslaught of the dawn.
"Evatt, it's the next day...."
He just shook his head wonderingly.
"Something is going to happen or has happened already." She shivered.
"Cold?" He asked, concern in his voice.
"No," She answered puzzlement in her voice. "Evatt, I think it is a little warmer today."
"Is it? I hadn't noticed anything."
"I wonder if that means something." She shrugged and changed the subject.
"Evatt, what did you mean that Garden might know something about what has happened?"
"I think.....that perhaps there is more to this all than meets the eye, and that hidden within these messages of warning, there might be something that pertains to Garden Herself."
"What do you mean?" Her voice was dangerous again.

Simon woke slowly himself that morning.
He had left Robinson last night and gone walking around Garden by himself.  He had much to think about.
**I wonder what I am to do next. All of my original plans seem thwarted.*** He laughed, and in the outer darkness, he almost heard an echoing laugh.
"Who's there?" He called, but there was only silence for answer.
Suddenly, there was  a flaring of light to his side. He turned slowly, expecting to see the Inspector light his cigarette, and smiling sardonically.
Instead, it a small, flickering light far in the distance. He wondered at that; the fire must be much bigger at its source.
He hurried forward, towards the source of the light.
It did not grow very much in the first couple minutes, it just flickered hazily as if to beckon him on.
It did start to grow though finally, and how it grew.
By the time he got close enough to realize what it was, he running full tilt.
There was a fire in the arboretum, the glass panels transporting whatever flames there were inside, into feiry chaotic fingers, all reaching and clutching to get out of the center dome.
The door was open, and he hesitated only a moment.
He plunged in, the smoke practically nonexistant. He ran one circle, then another. The inroads were getting smaller as he got closer and closer to the center. Though it seemed to take him a century to make a complete pass, he was sure it could not be that long.
When he reached the center, he skidded to a halt.
The tree was burning.
Flames licked hungrily at the base and strove to get higher. There was a roaring noise to accompany the visuals of orange and brown. There was searing and popping as the fruit boiled and baked in the heat.
He just stood there just watching, unable to move or take his eyes off the scene.
There burst a scent so strong in front of him, he nearly fell to his knees in almost agony of the deliciousness of it.
The green of the tree slowly started to turn brown from the extreme heat on the outer edges, and the center of the flames started to emit a crackling sound of heating and burning.
Though he felt as if he had run here and stayed watching for many hours, he noticed the tree wasn't actually growing in flames, instead they just gathered and bunched, in their throes of ecstacy to burn the timber.
He also noticed that though the flames were burning the tree and the green leaves, there was no smoke to accompany the inferno.

Then, a voice spoke from the flames.

I am hidden behind these flames, manling. Best you not see me now. Best for me and best for you I mean.
I see the end you know, it is all here, written in pages that I flip, and ages that I live.
Flames that eat and devour are here, what are you going to do to help?
I see you strain and fight, but the end is the same and near.
Watch, see your salvation....and your doom.
Watch....
Watch....

Water burst suddenly from the panels of glass around the tree. A sudden downpour and deluge of liquid that cascaded around the tree.
The overwhelming tide struggled with the flames for hardly but a moment before engulfing them and drowning them.
Simon breathed a sigh of relief, for the danger for the tree was past.
The water continued though, the level in the dome now equal to the base of the tree. It continued to grow even and in a mere moment, it was more than covering the feet of Simon.
After a moment, he saw that it had risen to his knees.
The deluge had even gotten stronger, the water breaking through more panes and panels and outpouring into the Dome, filling it like a teacup.
See, I do help you.
The same voice had spoken again, the volume filling the dome and reverberating around in the decreasing volume.
The water level was over Simon's head, but still he didn't struggle or flail. He just lay in the moving water, letting it pull and push him any which way. He was human jetsam, but he didn't care; he couldn't move.
The level was nearly to the top of the dome by now, and he thought of the Dome bursting and flooding Garden.
It pained him beyond anything and he screamed in pain. That sound almost seeming as if he couldn't hear it over the sound of rushing water.
The measure of it all, what had happened and would happen again struck him. Tomorrow another crime...and another victory.
The water burst through the Dome, there was the sound of an explosion and suddenly the water level began to drop.
He fell with it, no more tumbling but instead a smooth fall as if through air. He landed with a small bump on solid ground.
Simon blinked and looked about him.
He realized the truth of it now, a vision had come upon him while he walked through the Garden's shadows. It was a sobering realization, the helplessness of it all, the futility of the slippery slope, only to find none of it had been real.
 He had gone back to his small flat then and had sat in the darkness thinking and smoking. Small bits of ash scattered themselves around him, tendrils of smoke curled around his head. He felt as if this was fitting and kept on smoking.
He did smoke very fast, it was a slow, thoughtful process for him.
He would draw one out, with his other hand grabbing a couple matches. Then he would slowly put the cigarette up to his lips and slide it out of his fingers. He would then bring up his hand slowly and snap his middle finger and thumb together while holding the pair of matches. They would strike and spark, and after this, he would stare for a brief moment at the small flame.
He would put it up to his lip held cigarette then and draw it while it lit.
The tip would change colour, from black to gray and then orange as it burned.
The smouldering tip would illuminate his face for a moment now and then, most of the time it was in deep relief.
When he was done and had smoke for a while, thinking and musing, he laid himself down on his bed fully clothed. He laid his head on his small pillow to rest, and perchance to dream.

That is how he slowly awoke  the next day, laying on his bed fully clothed and very tired. He sat up and wondered how early it was.
There was not much of a window facing the East, it rather faced a little more to the North,  but he thought he could just catch of glimpse of shadows created by the rising sun.
Rising quickly, his feeble mind protesting at every step, showered, dressed warmly and went out.
He might have guessed wrong as to how to dress, he thought to himself drily.
The temperature was much warmer than yesterday, though he could not see any of the promised sun. Instead, there were roiling clouds across the heavens and a low, dense fog already rolling in.
He muttered a silent oath and took off his jacket as he walked.
He headed toward the Arboretium, his pace measured and sure.
The vision last night had unnerved him slightly; with the next day of creation today, he had wondered if the vision was prophetic in any way.
He had already cursed himself for a fool for paying attention to his slight ravings, but he couldn't shake the feeling that some part of the dream had been mirrored in reality.
So much so in fact, as he got closer to the Dome, his breathing grew a little laboured and he found himself walking faster, his fists clenching and unclenching in tune to his stride.
When the Dome was fully in view, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was complete, intact and appeared wholly peaceful in its hermitage.
The area around it was not however.
A woman was outside, about to walk inside.
Briefly wondering who it was, Simon shouted his hello across the small glade.
The woman stiffened, and almost looked poised for flight in her surprise as she looked for the source of the noise.
Making himself as known was possible, Simon hurried across the empty space.
"Hello." He said approaching her.
"Hello. You must be, at a guess, Simon Temple?"
Her voice was pitched low and intimately, and he copied her tone as he answered.
"I am, how did you know?"
She was a young woman, and now that Simon stood nearer to her; he saw she was very beautiful. She was dressed in a slacks and a soft woolen shirt the colour of cream.
"I was told what you looked like. What are you doing here this time of morning?" Her gaze was direct, but not confrontational in its cool measuring.
Simon found himself liking this chance meeting more and more.
"You might laugh at me." He warned, a small smile creasing his face.
"I might, though you might run that risk with anythig you say or do." She quirked her own small smile at him in return.
"That.....is true." He almost stammered and then laughed.
"I had a dream last night. About this Dome, about the Tree inside. It was....burning." Now that he was here, in the morn, away from the gloom of the night, he felt himself a little ridiculous for his fears.
"Did you really? That is very...interesting." Her tone was a little more interested than he expected, so he continued.
"It felt....as if I should come here this morning and...." He stopped, at a loss to explain how waking had felt to him.
He had woken with but one thing on his mind: the visuals of the night before, the Tree with flames all around it, but not burning, The flood of the Tree, but that not as a saving grace.
He thought of the flood then, the whelming flood that did not save. He thought of the Tree, burning, being put to death, but not saved by the soporific water.
"I needed to see the Tree this morning." He finished simply.
"Have you had other dreams? Any waking visions?" She asked, this time her tone of voice obviously interested and excited.
"Well, the dream last night was not while I was asleep....It was while I was walking through the City."
"That's even better!" She cried. "I myself have had something like this happen a couple times."
She paused to think, her hands unconsciously rubbing together in excitement.
"I think the Tree is emits hallucinagenic pollen!"
A silence from both of them greeted her words. Simon just stared in wonder at this woman he had never met.
"Miss...Who are you? What's your name?" He broke the awkward silence, inquiring gently.
"Marie, my name is Marie."
"Marie, that is a strange thing you said...About the Tree and visions I mean." He almost stammered again, and he cursed inwardly.
"Strange how? We are currently standing outside of a Arboretium which houses a Tree whose fruit can extend your life a hundred years. The Arboretium is inside a City that has almost no social problems, a lack of poor or homeless and no crime until six days ago. What part of what I just said is the most strange?" She smiled when she finished.
Then she said unexpectedly, "Come, I need to get samples." She motioned him to follow her inside.
They walked together, side by side, down the twisting strand of a path.
"Are these samples something to do with your theory?" He asked as they walked.
"Yes...and no. I am here researching the Tree,  but that is something I merely was thinking as a byproduct. I am actually studying the Tree from a merely biological viewpoint."
He didn't say anything and after another moment of silence, she continued. "I want more of these Trees in the world, and for that, I need to discover why this one is sterile."
"It's sterile? I had wondered why there was only one here."
"Not just here. This is the only one in existance that I know of, and it's a very closely guarded secret."
"How long have you been studying it?"  He asked, changing the subject.
"Only for about a week. I started with some samples of the dirt and analys of the root structure. I then branched out to the fruit and pollen. I am going to get leaf and fruit samples now."
"I thought you already studied the fruit?"  He asked smiling.
"I did. The problem is, my studies take longer than the fruit stays fresh....I also tend to eat most of it before I have the chance to test it." She smiled.
He laughed and they walked on.

There was no laughing, no happiness in this place. Neither smiled, neither could think of any emotion save one akin to deep sadness and fear.
There was no courage, or it seemed much life in this place. There were no small moments of chaos and life as a breeze would tumble lazily around, interacting with all.
The center of the Dome was the same as ever. There was the tree, there were the leaves, on the tree and the ones that had fallen, brown in their death.
The Tree was different than it had been, each of them saw and compared with their idyllic memories of this place.
The tree, no one solid color of life, now lay in spreading spectrum of the colors of decay and rot. The leaves, not a healthy brown of aging gracefully and deciduation, rather the black of forced death and inside rot.
Marie made a slight noise, almost the sound of a catch in her throat. Her hands were again clutching and unclutching nothing at her side.
Simon, tearing his gaze away, looked at her and felt even more sadness threaten. He put on hand up to her shoulder and gently held it there, offering what comfort he could silently and with a touch.
After a while, after he felt like an appropriate time had passed, he asked carefully, "Why?"
She just shook her head and didn't answer.
"Do you think this is this the sixth day's work of uncreation?" He asked, again after a while.
"No." The surety of her tone was a surprise to him, as well as the answer.
"This has nothing to do directly with the sixth day in particular I'm sure."
She turned to look at him, and when he still looked confused, she went on.
 "...And God made the expanse and separated the waters that were under the expanse from waters that were above the expanse. And it was so. And God called the expanse Heaven. And there was evening and there was morning, the second day."

Then, suddenly, it was all clear to him. He had dreamed of it last night, hadn't he?
He bolted from the grove without saying anything, his passing only as more of an absence of life now from the grove.
Marie called after him, but he was already gone.

He ran as he not run for quite a long time. His strides had settled into a nice rhythm and he felt like he could run for quite a while.
He wished it were colder, frozen actually.
His memory, the one he had thought of before bolting from Marie, came back to him then.
***It was no longer freezing outside, all the snow would melt, all the ice and there could be the potentical for flooding: all the waters could joined today in a vast uncreation of the dividing of the waters. ***
That's why he had bolted. He was making his way to the IT Tower as fast as he could.
He didn't even know what he was going to do when he got there.
He suddenly saw himself, as if from a great distance away and high in the sky.  He watched as he ran, seeming to cover little ground from so high a vantage. He could almost see his dream overlap to his reality now. He couldn't seem to cover enough ground fast enough, it was if he was standing still. The Tree, the City still burned and there was to be a devestating flood. It would calm the hurt, but in such a way as to not heal. He almost could see, from his vantage point, the IT Tower, crumbling and blackenend as flames sprang up all around.
He sped up even more.  He was about halfway there. He cursed, aloud this time and fluently in his eloquence.
A minute later he had arrived.  He came panting to a halt, right in front of the door. Without bothering to knock, he entered and started to yell for Turners at the same time.
"TURNERS!" He cried a number of times, before he heard any kind of response.
"What!...What is it?" Turners cried from high above, his face peering down from the scaffolding.
That's when it happened.
Simon could only point towards the sound. "That! Turn off the water mains! Now man!"
It started as a series of pops and then a much bigger sound: the sound of an explosion nearby. Then they heard another and another, and more following in their wake. It sounded like the City was being shelled.


The Doctor and Eve stood in the doorway and wondered, together and separately, what they were doing here.
They had discussed much the past morning.
***An interruption had come as the explosions had rocked Garden and his lab. After detonations had subsided and they had checked the damage done, the two of them had gone back to his lab, walking through the water that now bogged the City's streets.
"I think that if we search through Garden's past, we might find something." The Doctor said, his voice and bearing tired.
"Who would do that for us?" Eve replied, just as tiredly. "Who would know enough to seek out the right information? I think it might be interesting and fruitful, but more than somewhat out of reach right now."
The Doctor stopped in his tracks and Eve walked on, stopping after a second when she noticed he had stopped.
"What is it?" She asked.
"Seth would do it."
She shook her head. "What? The previously lone policeman of Garden?" She laughed a little and made a disparaging sound of her displeasure.
"He has been here almost since the beginning. He might remember anything of that. He also has an extensive private collection of books in his library."
Her eyes grew a little wider as she listened.
"He also  is, as you said, the policeman of Garden."
"True, but what good will come of this? We only have one day left, and we would rely on Seth, the only policeman of a crimeless City?"
Evatt nodded. ********
That had had that discussion on the way to the Yard. Now they stood in the doorway and wondered what they were doing.
They looked at each other one more time; the Doctor's face flinty and slightly twisted with emotion, while Eve's was hard and emotionless.
Then they walked in and closed the door behind them.
Seth was at his desk, reading from a dossier. When he heard the door close, he looked up.
"Eve...Doctor." He nodded at them, then said as if remembering something, "Oh, I wanted to talk to you." He nodded at the Doctor.
"And....we wanted to talk to you." Eve said, her voice flat. "About Garden and about the tree."
He just stared at them, the import of their tones not lost him.

Chapter 20 Finissimo

Chapter 20

A city
Long time ago

He had been a small boy then; both in physical stature and in morals.
That is what he clearly remembered. He had always been able to steal whatever he wanted; his smiling, angelic face gainsaying any part in wrong-doing when caught, which wasn't often. More like he was able to twist, wiggle or squirm his way out of any predicament he found himself in.
The memory that bore the brunt of his childhood though, that was almost a epic tale in and of itself. That is what he thought anyway, if anyone ever asked him.

All of these these thoughts and more ran through Tom Robinson's head as he walked. He had slowed his feiry pace down to a fast walk and found he had covered a lot of ground by the time he finished his mental review. He was almost to the outskirts of the City now.
He stopped walking and just stood there, gazing at the end of the City. Nothing seemed to fill his gaze: nothing or everything. The last few houses stood silent in their watch; their eyeless windows now shuttered, closed and draped. The dwellings also stood coated in a fine dusting of snow,with a much heavier accumulation on the roofs.
He wondered for a second if the roofs would collapse eventually; he didn't think that they had ever been designed or made with an idea of any kind of precipitation.
He shrugged and started moving again. He turned though, after a moment of walking and headed back the way he came.
The City lay before him, though he had no eye for its beauty.
Garden glistened in the light of day, the bare, hidden sun seeming to be amplified and refined by the pure snow of the ground. The buildings and things of metal or glass also seeming to purify what little light there was into something greater than itself.
Light was everywhere: glinting off the frozen dew of the morning, shining from the frozen pond, mirrored by the glass, no longer a conduit of photons, instead, almost new sources.
He did not seen any of this though, his eyes were cast down, and he saw what little things there were to see there.
The green of the fields and streams were brown now, dead and broken. He passed a stream, the stench of rot and decay now lessened by the cold. The carcasses were still there, but frozen in the act of putrifraction and scent creation.
His musing was interrupted then by a cool voice.
"I have been following you for a long time Tom. More than just today, now. For the past few days...I have followed you."
Robinson wheeled in a fast arc to face the speaker.
"Simon Temple? I was wondering when we would meet. Doctor Evatt has spoken of you fairly well." He grinned while saying this; he thought it disarming.
"And you as well Tom. What are you doing here?" Simon didn't smile, his manner uncharacteristically ernest.
"I just returned from the future." He raised his arm and pointed. "Over there. There's even more snow then though. I think I liked it now more, so I came back." He stopped smiling, and spoke slowly again.
"Temple, you said you had been following me?"
"I did. I wanted to see this elusive butler of Evatt's. I thought we have common cause." Now Simon grinned, though in a different way than Robinson had.
"Common cause? Common sneaking and prowling is what I call it, if you'd a mind to ask." A light voice said, breaking into their rhythm of words.
This time it was Simon who wheeled around to face the new speaker.
It was a group of two: the Doctor and Eve.
"Now Evelyn, you know that wasn't very nice." Chided the Doctor gently nodding at the same time at Robinson and Simon.
For a moment there was just silence as everyone looked at one another, with almost a question in everyone's gaze.
"Well this is cozy, isn't it?" Asked Simon brightly of no one in particular.
"Doctor, I see you were a bit late with my idea." Robinson indicated the snow lying around them.
"What are you doing Robinson?" Evelyn broke in, her scorn more than evident.
"Miss Waugh, I am walking here in the beautiful City of Garden. It is still a free City, is it not?"
"No, it is....no." The Doctor said in response, then followed quickly with, "What part of GarIden is free? I "have always thought of this mortal plain as a bit more costly then spendthrift."
"Well, I can pay for myself Miss Waugh, and I have the money to prove it." Robinson patted his pocket as if to say where his treasure lay.
Nonplussed, Evelyn continued her original train of thought. "The Inspector is looking for you, he knows you had something to do with these horrendous crimes."
"He does?" Robinson also appeared nonplussed to hear this. "I do wonder what he is going to do with that bit of information?"
"That is mostly what I wanted to talk to you about, actually." Simon proffered.
"I as well." The Doctor said, nodding his head.
"Gentleman, what can I do for you?" Robinson asked carefully. "Though I might suggest we keep walking, it's a little too cold for my bones."
He started to walk, the others falling into step right behind him.
They headed in the direction of the Market, their muscle memories less sharp than their real ones.
"I heard you seemed to know what was going to happen the other night before it happened, is that true?" Simon asked, his voice carefully neutral.
"I wanted to ask you Tom, something I have been somewhat lax about before. Do you know anything of these happenings that you have not already told us?" The Doctor was not so carefully neutral. Instead, it spoke of carefully coiled anger, hidden beneath his calm surface and ready to be let loose at any moment.
"Doctor Evatt..." With eyes only for him, Robinson spoke again.
"I am no murderer Doctor." Robinson replied and that was it.
Evelyn merely gazed at them both, her brow furrowed in concentration.
They had come to a stop in the snow, and Evelyn and Simon and stopped as well to listen.
"Oh...well good." The Doctor breathed a sigh of relief.
"Is that it?" Evelyn cried, her voice brittle with tension. "That is the only proof of his innocence you need Evatt? I can't wait till you are the only one to see me standing over a victim with a dripping knife. I would merely tell you I had just pulled it out....And you would believe me!" She finished in almost a whisper, the fainter voice serving as accent to her words.
"I would Evelyn, I have an eye and an ear for these sorts of things...And Tom is telling the truth, I know it." He looked at her, his gentle eyes only a little mocking.
"Evelyn, Doctor, if I  may?" Simon interrupted.
They nodded and he continued. They had started to walk again by this time.
"Tom, all I wanted to ask you is: how did you know what the next day would bring? I only ask because...we have precisely two days left of crimes before the moment of perverse creation happens."
Simon stared Robinson after saying this, not saying or doing anything, the picture of waiting.
"It was obvious...I thought." Robinson said easily.
"Easy because you knew something beforehand?" Simon shot back at him.
"We know already  know you're a scoundrel Tom Robinson." Evelyn interjected.
"Is that something you know?" Asked Robinson musingly. "Temple, it just seemed obvious. These two," He pointed at Evelyn and the Doctor, "asked me for help and I did...Simple."
Their walking, by this time, had led them back to the center of the City.
"Here, let's go inside to where it is a little less frozen." The Doctor suggested, pointing to his lab.
There were near silent murmurs of assent, but almost instantaneous movements of assent.
The first one through the door, Evelyn, lit a lamp for them all. It was midday still, but the gray cloud cover and small small windows did not encourage light to enter.
They all found a chair of some kind and sat down, around the Doctor's surgical table.
Robinson sat in the overchair he had found in the small waiting room. He had pulled it close to the table where the Doctor had lit a small burner for the heat. Simon had pulled the Doctor's visitor's chair from the other side of his desk right next to the small table. The Doctor had offered Evelyn his office chair from behind his desk, and when she declined, had pulled it close himself. Evelyn sat on the edge of the receiving counter, a little outside of the group.
The flickering light from the burner did not contribute an aiota to the dim light in the room, instead creating shifting shadows which were created and destroyed almost instanteously in a crazy dance across their faces and around the room.
"Tom, I only ask because....well I need to know." Simon cleared his throat. "I am an Investigator as well as the Inspector. I arrived in Garden purely by chance and find now that my services are required for something completely different."
This announcement was met differently by each member of the room who heard it.
"A Pinkerton?" Asked Evelyn eagerly, her face bright. "I knew you weren't a scoundrel." She looked at Robinson after saying this and then continued. "Not like Robinson here." She smiled hard at him, not showing the whites of her teeth.
"An investigator?" Echoed Robinson, his face impassive and stony. "What are you investigating?"
"Believe it or not, Simon, I  knew there was something about you." The Doctor winked and tapped his nose.
Ignoring all of the questions except for the one asked by Robinson, Simon said, "I might be investigating a robbery of certain jewels...and I think you could help me Tom."
He smiled. Robinson did not.
Simon continued. "I was on the trail of DeMarc Douglas when I came to Garden. I do not think it coincedince that when Demarc is here, that these things have happened."
Silence lay around them like a thick blanket suffocating them until Evelyn broke the silence.
"Demarc here? In Garden?" There was no eagerness to this question, it looked to be as if she had asked Robinson to keep her money safe from thievery.
"Demarc in Garden, yes. I was on his trail when I heard a rumor he might be here. I showed up the next day to investigate. The day I arrived, the first murder happened."
"Why do you think Demarc would do this?" The Doctor asked confusedly.
"I do not think he did." Was Simon's quick and only reply.
"Demarc has never done anything like this before. He has always thieved yes, but this so far has been anything but a robbery." Simon turned to the Doctor, his face now in shadow and now flickering light from the burner.
"Doctor, you say you have an eye for this sort of thing? I have had my eye his character for a while; I know Demarc, he is not behind this. However, I think that by catching Demarc, I might find out something new about this case of Garden's sudden crime wave."
"What do I have to do with Demarc?" Grinned Robinson. "I am not him if you are wondering."
"I knew you could not be." Replied Simon, who then turned to Evelyn.
"Why do you say Tom here is a scoundrel Evelyn? In these troubled times, that might say a lot...maybe too much."
She didn't say anything at first, just looking in silence at Robinson and then Simon.
"He just is, always known this about him...Even when I first met him."
"That is true," The Doctor admitted looking at Simon.
"Well that is not proof, is it?" Simon said, looking at the both of them in turn.
"I just thought, maybe Robinson knows who Demarc is?" He turned to Robinson slowly.
"Wouldn't tell you if I did." Robinson grinned.
"How did you know the weather was going to change?" Simon changed the subject quickly.
"I told you Temple." He stopped grinning and said slowly. "I don't know what is happening in Garden now, but I know one thing: everything happens for a reason."
"What do you mean, everything happens for a reason?" Simon asked sharply.
"Temple, I guess if you're asking me that question, then yes; I guess I do know something about Garden that I haven't let on." Robinson shrugged.
"Now, as I seem to be less than well thought of in this council, I am going to leave. If you all with excuse me?" He got up to leave without waiting for any answers.
There was no dissenting opinion, and in a moment Robinson was out of the door and into the cold. The only mention of his passing was a litte bit of snow on the rug where he had opened the door.
"Everything happens for a reason?" Asked Evelyn again to the group and herself.
"He knows something that he hasn't let on?" Wondered Simon aloud, before jumping up racing out of the door.
"I'm going to ask him about that!" Came a distant call as Simon put distance between himself and the Doctor's lab.
The Doctor and Eve just stared at one another in response to this.
"Well..." She said.
"Well?.." He replied, his voice dreamy and a little lost.
"Now that that scoundrel is gone, I think we should restart our investigation here." She resettled herself more comfortably, a little closer to the flames burning merrily on the table.
"Why do you think Simon is a scoundrel?" Asked the Doctor, his eyes twinkling.
"He might be lying about why he's here. I simply cannot imagine Demarc here in Garden of all places. That kind of story just needs to be taken with a grain of salt."
"He could just..." The Doctor started to reply.
"I can't stand liars...of any kind Evatt." She said, her voice final.
"Touche." He smiled. "Now, what were you saying before about our investigation?"

They worked into the night that night; comparing, creating notes and inferences, drawing conclusions and reasons out of thin air. They hoped and prayed that night, that their efforts would not be in vain.
Predawn, the next day, the Doctor work with a start. He had fallen asleep on his small bench, his legs bunched next to the wall while his head mostly was supported by the other end.
Evelyn lay in the armchair, covered with a small blanket she had found, still sleeping in the early morning.
Some sunlight streamed in the small window; this is what had woken him.
He got up slowly and stretched.  His muscles screamed as they tensed and shook, expanded and moved in lethargic equality.
He was still tired, he discovered a couple minutes later, as he sat slumped as his desk. His mind though, active behind the screen of slow speech and even slower reactions, worked on what ideas they had come away with last night.
He had suggested that the reason behind everything was the key to the puzzle. "Solve the motive, and narrow down who did have that motive and then cross it with who could have done it, and you've got your man." He said through steepled fingers crossed in front of him. "...Or woman." 
"Evatt, come now!" Evelyn said cajolingly.
"It is true, Evelyn. You, of all woman, must confess that a woman could have done these things." 
"I don't think I want to talk to you Evatt about how I could possibly be guilty for the murder of four as well as all the other crimes." She said shaking her head at him. 
"I do not think I do either, Evelyn. I think that if that were the case, I would shortly succumb to your wiles and die a most quick and undignified death." 
"Evatt!" 
"It is true. I think you could be as ruthless as they come, given certain reasons." He protested her quick, vehement denial. 
"Well you could be our fiend as well!" 
He raised his eyebrows at her in response; then waggled them wildly in a frenzied attack onto his eyelids. 
She burst out laughing and between wheezes said, "Come Doctor, I think it is high time we discuss motive."

They discussed the reasons behind the first crime, the murder of Addam and Lilya.
"I think that the point of the murder is not the killing itself." Evelyn said slowly. "What I mean is that we have been warned before every attack of what crime is going to take place shortly."
"Perhaps our criminal is crying desperately for help, for solace and peace in these attacks? What I mean to say is that, perhaps you are right and that the point is the warning and the happening, rather than the moment of the crime itself." 
He rubbed his jaw and yawned. 
"If the point is to warn, why commit them finally?" He asked. 
"Than the crimes themselves must have some intrinsic value, something we just haven't seen or been able to catalogue yet." 
She listed on her fingers the list of motives so far. "Money is perhaps one of the most common causes. However, Garden doesn't have any monetary system for someone to gain from. So this appears to make that idea a bit moot." 
She reconsidered for a moment. "I think I could see Robinson doing something for some personal gain of himself."
"Let's pass over that theory for a moment, Evelyn, and focus on what we know." 
"The motive could be hate or love, or some mixture of the two." She pondered this for a moment. 
"Perhaps a love of Garden?" She mused aloud. 
"Or perhaps a hatred?" He asked carefully, knowing what she would do. 
"The idea is absurd!" She cried. "No one could hate Garden that much....or at all!" She finished gamely. 
"Then, perhaps this was just meant to be...The origins of Garden are still more than somewhat shrouded. Perhaps this is all part of a plan, all a part of Garden, you could say." 
She sat there and thought about that. He followed suit and was silent, thinking of other matters. 
"The Tree has given us longevity, Evatt. Are you trying to tell me, now it's trying to take our gifts away?" Her voice was soft and distracted. Her eyes unfocused and wandering, she stared at him. 
"Evelyn, I don't know what I am saying anymore. It is very late and I am very tired."  He said slowly, ignoring her question. 
"Perhaps you meant that there is some sinister agent of our forerunners, those who founded this City, and that they are doing these deeds as part of some grand design?" 
He sighed. 
"Evelyn, I do not know much about Garden. I have lived here many years,  and I can still say that." He hesitated here, choosing his words even more carefully. "I just think, that, there is more Garden has to say about these things than we have asked her."

Evelyn jerked him out of his review as she stirred slightly and sat up.
"Good morning." The Doctor said, his mind on other things.

Simon caught up to Robinson not too far away from the Doctor's lab.
"Tom, hold up a moment, will you?" He called to the retreating figure.
Robinson stopped and turned around.
"What is it Temple? Must have the last word eh?" He grinned again.
"Tom, if you know something, please tell me. I want to help these people."
The entreaty was genuine, and the concern in Simon's voice was enough to give Robinson pause.
"I do believe that was the first thing I have believed of what you said tonight Temple."
"What do you mean?" Simon asked, all concern gone from his voice.
"I think that you are here in Garden for a different reason than what you gave. I also think you're the dark horse among us." He paused for effect before continuing. "I also suspect that you are the most guilty of us all here."
Simon just stared at him, surprise clearly in his face.
"Now, you want me to help you?" He spat on the ground suddenly, spoiling the white powder with a dark stain.
"I would find out what that Marie is up to. She came here before all this happened, but I wonder why? She prowls around; even asked me, a complete stranger to help her steal the fruit from the Tree."
Simon cocked his head at that, seemingly to absorb all he heard.
"I also would stop trying to catch this person in the act. Everything has been well planned and thought out already by the looks of it. I would focus instead on taking their options away."
At this Robinson paused and just looked at Simon.
They just stared at each for a moment before Robinson asked grinning again, "Do you think I am Demarc then?"
"I suspect that you are the most guilty of all of us here at that, yes." Simon grinned.


I might go back and edit this and add in them talking about the dreams and the tree causing them







this is the garden: colours come and go
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden: pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured as among
The slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
~Cummings

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.