Hour of Departure
(prompt #2 - highlander)
Hour of Departure
by justin p.
Chapter One: Of Now Done Darkness
The summer of 1939 was the hottest I'd seen in more than twenty years. With the rising heat came many of the usual concerns which trouble large cities at such times, though fortunately the summer fevers which were so endemic to urban areas during most of my lifetime had been mostly vanquished by modern medicines and sanitation standards.
Still, there were other problems. Hot temperatures meant hot tempers, and by mid-June we had already recorded 135 homicides, a record number of assaults, and six near-riots over nothing in particular. That summer was my fifth with the New York Police Department and my second as a detective.
I was nominally assigned to the 37th Precinct in downtown Manhattan, but that summer I spent most of my time handling civil disturbances in Harlem, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. Tensions in Europe were rapidly reaching their breaking point, and at times it seemed as if the air of hostility had somehow been transmitted across the Atlantic Ocean and gone on to infect the general population. Everyone was on edge, and in a place as crowded as New York City, that meant violence.
I was enjoying the rarity of a quiet day, which I'd spent catching up on long-overdue paperwork, and eating a hot dog at my desk when Patrick Flynn came up and put an end to my temporary peace.
Patrick was a big, genial Irishman, running to fat, who could move like a striking snake if necessary. He packed a punch like a mule's kick, which many an unruly felon had discovered to his dismay. I'd been partnered with him for a year and enjoyed his company; still, the look on his face as he approached told me that my lunch break was over.
"Something happening?" I asked, stuffing the last half of my hot dog into my mouth.
"Christ, Matt. You keep eating like that, you'll choke yourself. Where do you put it all, anyway?"
"I have a hollow leg. What's going on?"
"Homicide in Central Park," Patrick said. "Some bum found a body at the Mall, and we're the lucky bastards who get to go out in the heat and take a look." He gave me a sidelong glance. "You've got mustard on your lip."
"Thanks," I wiped it off as I rose. "You want to drive?"
"Sure."
I tossed him the keys, fished my wallet and my cigarettes out of my desk drawer, and followed him out the door into the sunlight.
***
"So, what do you think?" Patrick asked as we climbed out of the car and made our way to the crime scene.
"About what?" I asked, reaching into my pocket for my cigarettes.
"The fourth of July. You think we'll be stuck working?"
"Most likely," I said. We both flashed our badges to the uniformed officer guarding the barriers, and ducked under them. "With the way things have been lately, do you really think we'll get the day off?"
"Hell, no," Patrick said grumpily. "We'll both be at work all fucking night."
"C'est la vie," I said, as we came up to the little knot of officers and forensics guys around the body.
"Yeah, sure," Patrick said. "Excuse me." This last was to one of the crime scene photographers, who had backed into him without looking. The man excused himself and got out of the way.
"What have we got?" I asked.
"We've got a guy with no head is what we've got," said one of the uniformed officers. I heard his next words with a rising sense of dismay. "We've also got a big fucking sword with a lot of blood on it, if you'll pardon my language, detectives."
"Don't worry about it," Patrick said. "I've heard worse from my mother-in-law."
"Most of it aimed at you, I'm sure," I said absently.
"Nope. She cusses at the kids most of the time. I don't run around the house screaming and knocking shit over."
"Yes, but you're the one who decided to have five boys," I told him. My responses were coming without thought, my automatic reaction in response to an unwelcome surprise to act normally.
"Hey, I'm a good Catholic," Patrick shrugged. "Besides, it's fun."
"Having five boys?"
"Making them." He grinned, then sobered. "Let's take a look, then."
"Yes," I said grimly. "Let's do."
My first look at the body confirmed my worst fears. The corpse wore a long coat and leather gloves despite the unrelenting heat, and the lack of blood around the body was caused by the instant cauterization of the fatal wound as the man's Quickening passed from his body to the victor. The sword that the uniform had mentioned was no murder weapon. It was the dead man's own blade, and he had gone voluntarily to participate in the duel which had killed him. He might even have been the challenger.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Patrick swore.
"You said it," I agreed, though I was appalled for different reasons. A challenge was not murder and though I personally disliked the Game, I had no right to interfere, or even to pursue the winner too actively. What disturbed me about the scene in front of us was not crime, but carelessness. Leaving corpses lying around for mortals to stumble over was not only stupid, it was negligent. We would all suffer if Immortals were discovered, which made cleaning up after one's self only mannerly.
"Has anyone found the head yet?" I asked. One of the first things I'd done upon coming to New York was to find out how many other Immortals lived there and whether or not they were likely to make my job difficult. I'd discovered that there were seven of us, including myself, and that none were active hunters. If my corpse were a stranger, that might be the end of it. If I knew the guy, it might mean that there was a hunter in town.
"Yeah," the other uniformed officer said. "It's over here."
The head was about three feet from the body, the eyes staring blankly into space. I recognized him immediately. Patrick must have seen something in my face, because he was next to me in seconds.
"What is it, Matt? You know this guy?"
"Not well. He runs an art gallery on 119th street. His name's Andrew Marks." It was the truth, as far as that went. Certainly the man's paperwork would all carry that name. I had no idea if it was actually his.
"Well, at least that saves us having to run all over town trying to figure out who he is," Patrick observed.
"Fortunately for us," I said, staring down at Marks' body.
It didn't seem right for him to be buried under a false name. I wanted to know who he really was, if only because someone should. No one should go to their grave completely unknown.
It was with that thought in mind that I went to pay a visit to one of the most dangerous Immortals in New York.
***
( Chapter Two)
Author's Notes: This is going to be a long one. I'm already a good four chapters in. Argh.
Feedback? Always a good thing. A beta-reader? Would also be wonderful.
Hour of Departure
by justin p.
Chapter One: Of Now Done Darkness
The summer of 1939 was the hottest I'd seen in more than twenty years. With the rising heat came many of the usual concerns which trouble large cities at such times, though fortunately the summer fevers which were so endemic to urban areas during most of my lifetime had been mostly vanquished by modern medicines and sanitation standards.
Still, there were other problems. Hot temperatures meant hot tempers, and by mid-June we had already recorded 135 homicides, a record number of assaults, and six near-riots over nothing in particular. That summer was my fifth with the New York Police Department and my second as a detective.
I was nominally assigned to the 37th Precinct in downtown Manhattan, but that summer I spent most of my time handling civil disturbances in Harlem, Brooklyn, and the Bronx. Tensions in Europe were rapidly reaching their breaking point, and at times it seemed as if the air of hostility had somehow been transmitted across the Atlantic Ocean and gone on to infect the general population. Everyone was on edge, and in a place as crowded as New York City, that meant violence.
I was enjoying the rarity of a quiet day, which I'd spent catching up on long-overdue paperwork, and eating a hot dog at my desk when Patrick Flynn came up and put an end to my temporary peace.
Patrick was a big, genial Irishman, running to fat, who could move like a striking snake if necessary. He packed a punch like a mule's kick, which many an unruly felon had discovered to his dismay. I'd been partnered with him for a year and enjoyed his company; still, the look on his face as he approached told me that my lunch break was over.
"Something happening?" I asked, stuffing the last half of my hot dog into my mouth.
"Christ, Matt. You keep eating like that, you'll choke yourself. Where do you put it all, anyway?"
"I have a hollow leg. What's going on?"
"Homicide in Central Park," Patrick said. "Some bum found a body at the Mall, and we're the lucky bastards who get to go out in the heat and take a look." He gave me a sidelong glance. "You've got mustard on your lip."
"Thanks," I wiped it off as I rose. "You want to drive?"
"Sure."
I tossed him the keys, fished my wallet and my cigarettes out of my desk drawer, and followed him out the door into the sunlight.
***
"So, what do you think?" Patrick asked as we climbed out of the car and made our way to the crime scene.
"About what?" I asked, reaching into my pocket for my cigarettes.
"The fourth of July. You think we'll be stuck working?"
"Most likely," I said. We both flashed our badges to the uniformed officer guarding the barriers, and ducked under them. "With the way things have been lately, do you really think we'll get the day off?"
"Hell, no," Patrick said grumpily. "We'll both be at work all fucking night."
"C'est la vie," I said, as we came up to the little knot of officers and forensics guys around the body.
"Yeah, sure," Patrick said. "Excuse me." This last was to one of the crime scene photographers, who had backed into him without looking. The man excused himself and got out of the way.
"What have we got?" I asked.
"We've got a guy with no head is what we've got," said one of the uniformed officers. I heard his next words with a rising sense of dismay. "We've also got a big fucking sword with a lot of blood on it, if you'll pardon my language, detectives."
"Don't worry about it," Patrick said. "I've heard worse from my mother-in-law."
"Most of it aimed at you, I'm sure," I said absently.
"Nope. She cusses at the kids most of the time. I don't run around the house screaming and knocking shit over."
"Yes, but you're the one who decided to have five boys," I told him. My responses were coming without thought, my automatic reaction in response to an unwelcome surprise to act normally.
"Hey, I'm a good Catholic," Patrick shrugged. "Besides, it's fun."
"Having five boys?"
"Making them." He grinned, then sobered. "Let's take a look, then."
"Yes," I said grimly. "Let's do."
My first look at the body confirmed my worst fears. The corpse wore a long coat and leather gloves despite the unrelenting heat, and the lack of blood around the body was caused by the instant cauterization of the fatal wound as the man's Quickening passed from his body to the victor. The sword that the uniform had mentioned was no murder weapon. It was the dead man's own blade, and he had gone voluntarily to participate in the duel which had killed him. He might even have been the challenger.
"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Patrick swore.
"You said it," I agreed, though I was appalled for different reasons. A challenge was not murder and though I personally disliked the Game, I had no right to interfere, or even to pursue the winner too actively. What disturbed me about the scene in front of us was not crime, but carelessness. Leaving corpses lying around for mortals to stumble over was not only stupid, it was negligent. We would all suffer if Immortals were discovered, which made cleaning up after one's self only mannerly.
"Has anyone found the head yet?" I asked. One of the first things I'd done upon coming to New York was to find out how many other Immortals lived there and whether or not they were likely to make my job difficult. I'd discovered that there were seven of us, including myself, and that none were active hunters. If my corpse were a stranger, that might be the end of it. If I knew the guy, it might mean that there was a hunter in town.
"Yeah," the other uniformed officer said. "It's over here."
The head was about three feet from the body, the eyes staring blankly into space. I recognized him immediately. Patrick must have seen something in my face, because he was next to me in seconds.
"What is it, Matt? You know this guy?"
"Not well. He runs an art gallery on 119th street. His name's Andrew Marks." It was the truth, as far as that went. Certainly the man's paperwork would all carry that name. I had no idea if it was actually his.
"Well, at least that saves us having to run all over town trying to figure out who he is," Patrick observed.
"Fortunately for us," I said, staring down at Marks' body.
It didn't seem right for him to be buried under a false name. I wanted to know who he really was, if only because someone should. No one should go to their grave completely unknown.
It was with that thought in mind that I went to pay a visit to one of the most dangerous Immortals in New York.
***
( Chapter Two)
Author's Notes: This is going to be a long one. I'm already a good four chapters in. Argh.
Feedback? Always a good thing. A beta-reader? Would also be wonderful.