building. All Simone could make out was a shadow, a hat, and a trench coat. She took some photos anyway, hoping she could enhance them later. Henry’s voice came in clear on her earpiece.
“Why are you here?” he asked. Apparently, this wasn’t the person he was waiting for. There was a long pause; she couldn’t hear the other person’s voice. “Yes,” Henry said, “I did. You didn’t care about it.” Damn. Still nothing but Henry’s voice. “Not yet.” The other person must have been standing far away or talking softly—like he knew he was being observed. “No, I won’t. I need it.”
Then, all at once, the sound of Henry yelling “what?” and a gunshot. Simone ran for the building. Too fast—she slipped on a wet plank of the bridge and went skidding towards the edge. No railings. Once she hit the water, she’d be dead. She’d be sucked under by currents or thrown into underwater debris. She grabbed for the space between the slats, and caught one, but she was already dangling over the water, her toes just touching the surface, her chin and neck just barely higher than the bridge. Splinters dug into her fingers, and she could feel blood making her skin slippery. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t falling anymore—not until her fingers slipped off—but a wrong move and the wood she clung to could snap off. She turned her head towards the building anyway. A shadow was leaving the building from the opposite exit, carrying something large. Carefully, she clawed her way back onto the bridge as quickly as she could, the rough wood gouging into her palms over and over. She pulled slowly, trying to test each moment of pressure so nothing cracked or snapped. It took far longer than she wanted, but soon she was back on the bridge. There was no time to catch her breath, to dwell on her near-death plunge, to pluck the splinters from her bloodied hands. She ran down the bridge and around another, heading for the building. The bug in her ear fizzled out into static. She reached the room, her heart pounding, and stepped slowly inside.
In the center of the room under the bright lights was a pool of blood, slowly creeping out towards the edges of the room.
FOUR
----
WHERE WAS THE BODY? Was there a body? Simone went out the opposite exit, careful not to step in the blood. No one in sight. She checked the water. It was dark now, and the fog was heavy, making it hard to tell, but she couldn’t see anything besides a single plastic bag, a few feet below her like a boil on the water’s skin. Gunshot, blood, no body.
Simone saw two possibilities: Someone was injured, but everyone had escaped, or someone was dead, and his body was bobbing somewhere just out of sight. She could hear her father’s voice in her head, his old lessons drilled into her, telling her she couldn’t be certain of anything.
She stared at the pool of blood as the light outside disappeared completely and the waves grew louder, angry. She could call the police, but she wasn’t sure what to tell them, and they would definitely screw up her investigation. Kluren would see to that. She could call Peter. But he was a Boy Scout, he’d call it in. Instead, she called Linnea. Voicemail.
“Linnea, it’s Simone Pierce. Please call me back as soon as you get this. Thanks.”
Simone crouched down in front of the blood and took out a small piece of cotton from her pocket. She dabbed it in the blood until it was nearly red all over, then took out a metal vial and stuffed the cotton inside. She locked the vial and looked down at the top. The screen there was blank for a long moment. She felt the wind pick up and shivered. The vial finally beeped and Simone read, “O positive, male.” Simone couldn’t remember Henry’s blood type, but O positive was common, and unhelpful. Making a mental note of the location, she headed out the way she’d come, winding slowly east over bridges, towards home. The wind blew her coat up around her, spraying her damp
“Why are you here?” he asked. Apparently, this wasn’t the person he was waiting for. There was a long pause; she couldn’t hear the other person’s voice. “Yes,” Henry said, “I did. You didn’t care about it.” Damn. Still nothing but Henry’s voice. “Not yet.” The other person must have been standing far away or talking softly—like he knew he was being observed. “No, I won’t. I need it.”
Then, all at once, the sound of Henry yelling “what?” and a gunshot. Simone ran for the building. Too fast—she slipped on a wet plank of the bridge and went skidding towards the edge. No railings. Once she hit the water, she’d be dead. She’d be sucked under by currents or thrown into underwater debris. She grabbed for the space between the slats, and caught one, but she was already dangling over the water, her toes just touching the surface, her chin and neck just barely higher than the bridge. Splinters dug into her fingers, and she could feel blood making her skin slippery. She took a deep breath. She wasn’t falling anymore—not until her fingers slipped off—but a wrong move and the wood she clung to could snap off. She turned her head towards the building anyway. A shadow was leaving the building from the opposite exit, carrying something large. Carefully, she clawed her way back onto the bridge as quickly as she could, the rough wood gouging into her palms over and over. She pulled slowly, trying to test each moment of pressure so nothing cracked or snapped. It took far longer than she wanted, but soon she was back on the bridge. There was no time to catch her breath, to dwell on her near-death plunge, to pluck the splinters from her bloodied hands. She ran down the bridge and around another, heading for the building. The bug in her ear fizzled out into static. She reached the room, her heart pounding, and stepped slowly inside.
In the center of the room under the bright lights was a pool of blood, slowly creeping out towards the edges of the room.
FOUR
----
WHERE WAS THE BODY? Was there a body? Simone went out the opposite exit, careful not to step in the blood. No one in sight. She checked the water. It was dark now, and the fog was heavy, making it hard to tell, but she couldn’t see anything besides a single plastic bag, a few feet below her like a boil on the water’s skin. Gunshot, blood, no body.
Simone saw two possibilities: Someone was injured, but everyone had escaped, or someone was dead, and his body was bobbing somewhere just out of sight. She could hear her father’s voice in her head, his old lessons drilled into her, telling her she couldn’t be certain of anything.
She stared at the pool of blood as the light outside disappeared completely and the waves grew louder, angry. She could call the police, but she wasn’t sure what to tell them, and they would definitely screw up her investigation. Kluren would see to that. She could call Peter. But he was a Boy Scout, he’d call it in. Instead, she called Linnea. Voicemail.
“Linnea, it’s Simone Pierce. Please call me back as soon as you get this. Thanks.”
Simone crouched down in front of the blood and took out a small piece of cotton from her pocket. She dabbed it in the blood until it was nearly red all over, then took out a metal vial and stuffed the cotton inside. She locked the vial and looked down at the top. The screen there was blank for a long moment. She felt the wind pick up and shivered. The vial finally beeped and Simone read, “O positive, male.” Simone couldn’t remember Henry’s blood type, but O positive was common, and unhelpful. Making a mental note of the location, she headed out the way she’d come, winding slowly east over bridges, towards home. The wind blew her coat up around her, spraying her damp
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