

IMMORTAL BONES

Detective Saussure Mysteries

Book I

Copyright © by Trinidad Giachino, 2016

**1** st **Edition–September 2016**

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this ebook. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from your favorite retailer. Thank you for your support.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Editors: Martha Paley Francescato and Elizabeth Copen

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# Table of Contents

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Epilog

Reviews

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Connect with the Author

#  I

THERE I WAS.

It had been drizzling, so I adjusted my hat and raincoat before ringing the doorbell. The weather matched the landscape. A climbing plant stretched its branches from the ground up, covering the walls of the Edwardian mansion nearly to the top. Winter had taken the leaves with it and color followed close behind. All that was left was a vertical carpet of rooted limbs trying to swallow the house with their cold embrace. This almost castle had two towers guarding the flanks, rising over the flat lifeless kingdom the house ruled upon.

The entire construction was gray, matching the fainting brown of the surroundings. It was a barren moor, a sea of death as far as I could tell. As if life had escaped from that piece of soil centuries ago. That square pile of exhausted bricks with cylindrical joints was the only thing I could see around me. No other buildings or constructions. No trees. No garden. No lakes or any kind of water except for the one drenching my coat. It all looked like the earth had decided to stop breathing in that particular space. I had forgotten how long the drive had been from the entrance gates to get to the house. This gate had stout iron bars, some curls here and there, but nothing too fancy. These folks were old money. They didn't need to show off. An overwhelming wealthy austerity dripped from the entire place. They owned a lot and they knew it. And so did everyone else.

The doorbell sounded almost mechanical. It ripped the overcast silence with its piercing beak. I waited. And waited. And waited. Eventually, the silence patched itself up where it had been torn, as if nothing had happened. Maybe I had come to the wrong place? I followed the instructions they had given me. I was beginning to think life had escaped from inside those walls as well. That entire place was doing a tightrope walk on the border between life and death, leaning towards the latter with each step. Perhaps my hope was supposed to die there, too.

As I slowly walked to my car after ringing the bell for the third time, a sudden breath of fetid air caught my nose and my attention, and would not let go of either. The door had been opened by a corpse in livery. It is possible that I was influenced by the surroundings, but my instinct told me that the man belonged there. It turned out he had a pulse but just barely, as everything else in that forgotten place.

"In a hurry, sir?" He asked in a wrinkly voice that came from an even more wrinkled face.

There were so many furrows imprinted on that skin that any expression line got completely lost to the naked eye. It was the ultimate human paradox: he had so much expression on his face that he was expressionless. _Too much of something can be a bad thing,_ I thought to myself. Later on, I would find out how true that random statement had been.

"I believe Lord Hurlingthon is waiting for you, Mr....?"

"Saussure. Richard Saussure," I answered, hurrying inside the house since the rain was getting thicker.

"This way, please," the valet said, moving aside and leading me to the stairs.

The interior was breathtaking in more than one way. The room I had first walked into had incredible dimensions. It made me forget I was inside due to the ceiling being so high. Funny how the murky sky I had been under felt heavier than the roof over my head. The outdoors was far more oppressive with their stubborn loneliness.

Inside the house, the lack of plainness was the rule. The pop-up feast of lavishing furniture and exquisite textures infused into my body all the life I had lost outside. The carpet, the drapes, the chandeliers, the fireplace working with exuberance, the paintings and sculptures... Everything, as far as I could let my professional eye stretch, was set up to give a luxurious embrace that would warm up the coldest room in any heart. An embrace of money that would be. A human one seemed a much more difficult task to achieve.

"I'll meet you upstairs, Mr. Saussure," the talking corpse said. "Please, do not wander off when you reach the top."

And as I asked myself, _the top of what?_ he proceeded to turn his back on my bewildered face and enter into something that can only be described as a large birdcage. When the doors automatically closed and the valet began to detach himself from ground zero, I realized it was an elevator.

The staircase wrapped itself around the lift, so I trotted upstairs while staring at it the entire time. It was the first time I had seen an elevator inside a family house. Of course, I had never dealt with a _family_ like that one before. I resented the valet for not taking me along with him, but then again, I wasn't sure I wanted to share an elevator with a man like that without having a crossbow with me... in case it turned out to be a zombie.

Once upstairs, I was quickly led into another enormous room. This one looked more like a multifunctional space, although its primordial objective had been to be a bedroom. A four-poster bed, swimming in satin and carmine velvet with sheets trimmed in lace, reigned at the end of the room. To the right, a floor to ceiling window let some gray light in. Someone sitting in an armchair, looking out to the land, was the only person in the room. The opposite wall was covered by shelves overloaded with books and a desk with nothing on it, except for a lazy lamp that had been waiting to be used for a very long time.

"Mr. Saussure has arrived, Lord Hurlingthon," the doorman announced. I noticed: not an armchair but a wheelchair. The lack of light did not allow me to see any further.

"A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Saussure," a shadowy voice greeted me.

If I had thought that the sound the doorman made was old, this new sound entering my ears was beyond recognition. It was not only wrinkly but also dusty, thin, breakable, inhuman, gasping for oxygen one minute, and cracking up the next. The words sounded as if the material they were made of was breaking into sharp points every time they were pronounced.

"A pleasure to meet you too, s... Lord Hurlingthon," I replied, walking towards the man and extending my arm to shake his hand. I had never dealt with nobility before. It had not occurred to me that greeting him by shaking his hand couldn't have been the best option in terms of manners.

"You'll have to excuse me, Mr. Saussure, but I can't lift my arms anymore. Please, sit down. Perhaps Marlon could prepare you a drink, or coffee?"

"No, thank you, Lord Hurlingthon."

I took my hat off as I sat down. It was a miracle I was able to find the armchair, not only for the lack of light but for the hypnotic image in front of me. This man was like nothing I had ever seen before.

"I take from your silence that you are in shock by my appearance."

I began to mumble an apology, but he stopped me.

"That's alright, don't worry. I've not been able to look at myself in the mirror for a few decades now. I don't exactly know how I appear to be on the outside, but I do know how I feel on the inside. And it is not pretty."

He was more than right about that. His presence was mesmerizing and appalling at the same time. It looked as if his voice had taken human form. If Marlon looked dead, Lord Hurlingthon's body seemed to be well into the decomposition process.

His skin, covered in wrinkles, lines and furrows, was a frightening shade of pale blue, about to shake hands with a watery green. Some veins were trying to be red, to pretend they carried some blood, but they failed miserably. Although that breathing pile of human remains was wrapped up in the most exquisite Italian suit, it could not hide away the fact that he was as dried of life as the land outside the window.

Lord Hurlingthon's hair was gone. Only a few yellowy strands of hair here and there, tossed around over the spotted skin that covered his unintentionally well-defined skull.

The arms fell lifeless to the sides.

His eyes were long gone. Although the eyeballs had remained inside their cavities, they were covered by a veil of cerulean mist. He was gone and right there at the same time.

There was no denying the old man's statement, so I went right into business mode.

"I'm here at your service, Lord Hurlingthon. What is it that you need me for?" I tried to smooth away the edge in my voice.

"Right to the point. I like that, Mr. Saussure. No wasting time. I can't afford it."

_He's correct about that, too,_ I thought to myself.

"Actually, that is not right. I appear to have all the time in the world to spare, Mr. Saussure. But in my condition, as you surely can attest to, I don't enjoy anything anymore."

That puzzled me. What did he mean? He looked like he was going to die in the next five seconds if he wasn't dead already.

"I'm... I'm not sure I follow, Lord Hurlingthon."

"I am two hundred and thirteen years old, Mr. Saussure."

A grin started to take shape in my mouth, but the blank face of the two men in the room stopped the reflex.

Dead silence around me.

"Surely that is not true. Are you trying to fool me? What kind of twisted joke is this?" I pretended to be more outraged than perplexed, which was what I really felt.

"Marlon, please hand him the papers. No joke, Mr. Saussure."

The valet approached me and gave me a pile of papers. The first one was a birth certificate for a _Hugh Hurlingthon_ , son of _Lord Frederick_ and _Lady Adora Hurlingthon_. The date on that yellowy piece of paper corroborated Lord Hurlingthon's statement, but that did not make it true.

"It has to be a mistake. It is simply impossible for you to be that old. To my eyes, there's absolutely no difference between you and Marlon." A completely false statement, but I had to say something before fainting or vomiting on the beautiful Persian carpet. Where the hell were the crossbows of this world when I needed them? "How old are you, Marlon?"

Marlon looked at his master. Lord Hurlingthon made an almost imperceptible head movement.

"Eighty-four next November, Mr. Saussure."

"Alright then. How old were you when you started working for Lord Hurlingthon?"

"I have been at Lord Hurlingthon's service since I was a toddler. I was born here, in this very house. I remember being a little boy and helping my father with his chores."

"Marlon's family and my own have been together for several centuries, Mr. Saussure. We're more like one big family." A sad smile of satisfaction formed on Marlon's face. "Well, not so big anymore." The grin completely vanished.

"Right. Then, how old was Lord Hurlingthon when you were born?"

"A hundred and thirty, sir."

"No, see... that's not possible..."

"Mr. Saussure," Lord Hurlingthon interrupted my mild tantrum, "let me save you a considerable amount of energy. If you care to join me, I would gladly explain everything."

"No! I demand to know! Why am I here?!"

I was out of control. My fear was triggered by the strange situation and those creepy characters. I was shooting all over the place.

"Do you want me to call the police, Lord Hurlingthon?"

"No, Marlon. It's alright. I understand his confusion."

"Damn right I'm confused!" I screamed, pacing the entire room.

"Are you sure, milord? Detectives are ten a dime. There's no need for you to tolerate this kind of behavior."

"Do you even know how to work a phone, you old bag of bones?!" I shouted at his imperturbable face.

"Mr. Saussure, I beg you not to insult the help. If you sit down, I could tell you my story and the reason for your visit. If you don't believe this is the right job for you, Marlon will escort you outside and you'll be back to your everyday life in no time. But I would like for you to listen since I'm in desperate need of help and running out of options."

The old man was right. What did I have to lose? They were obviously insane people and confronting them would not be of any use. If anything, it could make them more dangerous since I had no idea what kind of madhouse I had stepped into.

To walk or not to walk? That was the unspoken question. Lord Hurlingthon seemed like a fairly reasonable man. Apart from being over two hundred years old, nothing in his personality stood out screaming _nutcase!_ I didn't like Marlon, but it wasn't a matter of sanity, it was a matter of skin. He could smell the old raincoat and worn-out shoes on me and I could smell _Heno de Pravia_ soap and silver polish on him. He pretended he was wealthy. I knew I was poor. That kind of skin problem.

"Alright, I'll stay and hear your story. But let it be on the record that I do not believe what you claim to be."

"Should I get a pen?" Marlon asked wearily. We had definitely started on the wrong foot.

"Marlon, watch your manners. Mr. Saussure, please be seated. This may take a while. Coffee?"

I accepted the offer just to get Marlon out of my face, at least for a few minutes, and then I returned to my original chair. As intrigued as I was by that man's story, I wanted to finish the interview and get the hell out of there.

"Please, take the papers Marlon has given you. I'll explain everything as you go through them."

#  II

"THE BIRTH CERTIFICATE FOR HUGH HURLINGTHON BELONGS TO ME. _Hugh_ is my first name. My parents were Lady Adora and Lord Frederick. My mother died giving birth to me and my father didn't recover from this terrible loss. He never remarried. I was raised by a number of excellent governesses throughout my formative years. You'll find a list of all them in the green folder. The most significant one -who also stayed the longest- was Miss. Hildred Milford. You'll see a star next to her name. I doubt there is any of her family alive. And if indeed they are, I don't believe they have any kind of knowledge about my situation... but it could be worth a try. As a young man eager to please my father, I attended law school to take over the management of our lands in the end. I despised it, but all I ever wanted was my father's approval and if becoming a lawyer was necessary for me to fulfill his expectations, then so be it. I had a good number of friends during college, all coming from noble families. There is a list of them, too, but Anthony Maliccioni was my closest and dearest friend, and we remained in touch over the years. Our wives were close as well, and eventually, the Maliccionis moved to the property to our left. I assume their descendants are still the owners of that estate. They had two boys: Albert and Edward. I always hoped one of them would marry my Emily... but I guess it was never meant to be. Alicia, his wife, left us first. And when Anthony died, I lost all contact with the boys. The last thing I knew was that they were both married and living abroad. At this point, I assume they're dead, like most of the people I used to know. It was Alicia who introduced me to Greta, at a party. My lovely Greta and I got married when I was thirty-one and she was twenty-two. A couple of years later Emily was born. You can find paintings of them around the house. Every day I thank God I still have my memory intact, so I can remember their faces... Although, there are some things I would like to forget."

The rhythm of Lord Hurlingthon's breath changed. He was trying to fish the next memory out of a very dark pond.

"Emily died when she was only five years old. She barely had any chance to savor life. Her medical records and the list of doctors who treated her are also among the papers. She contracted scarlet fever, and it was severe from the very first day. Doctors told us her body couldn't fight back the disease and Emily was debilitating sooner than she should, as if she was letting death in. Her tiny body was too fragile... too breakable... too thin... If I had known then what I know now about my... _condition_ , things would've been different. I could have spared us the pain. My poor Greta... she deserved better. I am convinced it all has some connection. I feel it. We didn't have any other children. It was too sinister to even try to think about having another baby. I don't believe we could've endured it. The idea of filling our aching void with a life that was initially not wanted was... revolting. It still is. We bore the grief the best way we could. It wasn't perfect, but the immense rock-solid sorrow crushing our chests gradually lifted and we could breathe again. Slowly, steadily. Not a deep relaxing breath, but just enough for the occasional grasp and some shallow breathing. Enough to survive. My Greta and I parted ways after forty years of marriage, and I hoped to follow her soon enough. Obviously, I've failed. Anthony died seven years after my wife, and all I had left was Marlon's family and this estate."

I was unintentionally at the edge of my seat. Failing to die must be the most unexpected deception.

"I waited and waited. But death never came, as if I had fallen off her to-do list. Years went by and I felt fine. I took a swim in the lake for my hundredth birthday, trying to convince myself that I should be proud and celebrate my longevity, my good health. I did it every year for my birthday. I stopped when I turned a hundred and fifty-five. It was disheartening. And this constant state of depression debilitated me severely. By the time I turned a hundred and seventy-four I was too weak to stand on my own. Eight years later, my eyes stopped working properly. That's when I started hiring people to do this work for me."

I was so absorbed by this man's story that I had forgotten to pay attention as a professional: to take notes and to follow the scent of a lie so I could discover what on earth was going on there. But this person and his fantastic tale had me enraptured, and the sadness on his screechy voice was so palpable that my true mission had slipped off my mind.

He remained silent, and I realized I had to step in. Lord Hurlingthon was waiting for my brilliant input to this puzzling matter. I had none. My mind was flat and numb with amazement.

"Hire people... to manage the estate, you mean?"

"No. To find out what is wrong with me."

"I see... Well, I'm sorry to ask the next question, Lord Hurlingthon, but it is necessary for me to understand all the facts. It's a delicate matter..."

"Yes, I've tried to commit suicide before. On numerous occasions, in fact. I've tried shooting myself, but the gun always got stuck. I even hired hit men five different times. The last one, warned by my previous experiences, was so committed to fulfilling his job that when the gun didn't work, he attacked me with a hammer. I was left in pretty bad shape, but not dead. After a month in bed, I was on my feet again. I also tried to hang myself, but the first and the second time the rope gave in and I landed on the ground. The third time Marlon found me and took me down, despite all my protests. The fourth and last time I locked myself in the studio, so no one could reach me. I hung from that rope for two days until my servants kicked down the door. I only had a few bruises around my neck. That was all. I tried to drown in the lake. That didn't work either. But the most frightening suicide attempts were those when I sliced open the veins in my wrists. The flesh, the veins, the skin... all healed in less than two minutes. I actually timed it the second time I did it. It is impossible for me to bleed out."

"Perhaps with some medicine? Have you asked your doctors to... help you?"

"Mr. Saussure!" Marlon barked behind me.

"Marlon, please. He is doing his job, just like the rest of them. Be at peace. Yes, Mr. Saussure. I had intentions of an overdose, whether by doing it myself or with the help of a physician. But I never got anything more than a mild intoxication. All my medical records are in a box Marlon will give you."

"I already did, milord."

"As with everything else, there is a list of all my doctors. The current one is Dr. Pierce. He runs a private practice. Surely you would like to check all the facts with him..."

"I am not sure I'm the right person for this, Lord Hurlingthon. Maybe a priest would be more suitable. Or a pastor, whatever your beliefs are." Or the Dalai Lama for all that matter. Anyone but me.

"Well, either they don't believe me, or they are too busy, or they think I have a mental issue, but they can't help me. You see, no member of a religious congregation would recommend suicide as a solution."

Right.

"The last thing I've tried was a shaman my cook's niece contacted for me. But I was told that, when he was here, he wouldn't cross the gates. He refused to see me and ran away."

"When was this?" I needed to talk to this woman, maybe even the shaman. What was I thinking? I was not taking this case.

"Two years ago."

"You'll have to understand that this line of investigation will be my first. This is an incredibly abnormal case, a most peculiar situation."

"There isn't a single person on this planet able to help me that I haven't contacted already, Mr. Saussure. No one specializes on people that can't die. It's seen as a blessing. I need your expertise to release me from the reality of this curse."

I was trapped. How could I say no? Money would be no object, so how could I refuse him when he was not hiring me but asking for my help?

"I don't wish to upset you, but you're not... uh..."

"Normal?"

"I'm sorry."

"That's not necessary. You don't unsettle me. Over the years, I've learned that rage is the most useless emotion we humans can engage in. I'll take sadness and misery over rage any day, Mr. Saussure. And God knows I've had my fair share of those. Rage is a waste of time and energy. I used to be very angry about my condition, but it didn't help me at all. Now, I'm burned-out. I just want my heart to stop beating. Do you understand, Mr. Saussure?"

"Yes, I do."

No, I really didn't. I didn't understand the desire to stop one's heart, but I did understand wanting something to cease so badly that you would do anything to achieve it.

"Don't make me beg. I'm afraid that if I lose all hope I'll go mad. Who will take care of me? Marlon is not getting any younger. Please, save me from the embarrassment of having to entrust my body to a stranger."

My heart sunk to my ankles then jumped back up to my throat and stayed there, as I tried to find the answer stuck inside my mouth.

"I'll see what I can do. Give me a week to sort through all this paperwork and find a place to start. I can't make any promises."

"Anything you can get is better than this absurd nothingness I'm in. I appreciate your effort and calmness, Mr. Saussure."

As I walked to the door overburdened with papers of every shape, size, and color, I took one more look at Lord Hurlingthon. What on earth could possibly possess him to come up with a lie like this? What did he gain from this type of outrageous situation? If anything, he just looked worn-out from life and devastated by the exhausting recollection of past events. And how did he find me? I was just a regular detective with a small office downtown.

"If you don't mind my asking, Lord Hurlingthon, where did you learn about me?"

"The maid that had contacted the shaman, Lucy, found an ad in the local newspaper. She asked around and it seems you always finish the job. So of course, she recommended you."

_Thanks a lot, Lucy_. But it was right. A few weeks ago I had placed an ad in the paper. The business was a bit slow, so I thought it couldn't hurt. Wrong thinking.

I wasn't completely out the door when Marlon slammed it behind me. Boy, that man did not like me. It was pouring rain, but the fresh damp air was good on me after my deadly lockup. Now all I needed was a cup of coffee. And to think.

I had a lot to think about.

#  III

FIRST THINGS FIRST. I had to check how crazy this old man was, then figure out how much time I was willing to waste on this ludicrous case. Caffeine had kicked in about fifteen minutes before, just as I realized I had not discussed money with this... person. My list started with getting on the phone to check Lord Hurlingthon's assets and find out if this man really existed. At that point, anything could be possible.

I needed my good friend Quiet Charlie. As a former police officer, I have some contacts inside the banks, and he is one of them. With his unassuming bank clerk appearance, he had the ability to sneak into vaults and arks, sniff through hundreds of files or even state documents. Charles Anderson could check any accounts under the name of Hugh Hurlingthon. As I talked to him, I realized nobility titles are often stored in banks and, most importantly, if it wasn't a family account, he could tell me exactly when the account had been opened.

Charlie would call me later. Now I needed to go through all the papers. Not an easy task, but if I had any chance to help that man, all the answers had to be there: in a mountain of old paper that smelled funny. Great.

I separated the documents into different piles: medical records, newspaper clippings -mostly related to the family investments. Nothing too fancy nor too detailed. I was not sure how much information I could get out of them, but if I got desperate...-, information about friends -especially the Maniccionis. Maybe I could contact them-, the nannies, his college experience, letters...Now, that was a good place to find something. If the old man was crazy, maybe it would show in his letters. Although, as I sifted through them, I realized they were not all from him or to him. Even better.

The piles went on and on. All around my desk. On the couch. Over the coffee table. I needed to come up with a system, or some form to edit that incredible amount of information. If Lord Hurlingthon's situation was some sort of hoax, he sure had put a lot a work into it. I was submerged in a sea of letters when Quiet Charlie finally called back. I tripped over everything I had just organized to get to the phone.

"Hello?"

"Saussure, I have what you need."

"Shoot."

"You sound so tempting."

"You woke up on the funny side of the bed today, Charlie? Hilarious."

"What's in it for me? What will I get in return?"

"I won't tell your wife you're sleeping with that petite blonde assistant from the bank. By the way, she isn't twenty-two like she told you. She's twenty-eight."

Stunned silence was the answer I was going for, and the one I received. Truth can be so effective sometimes. Since Quiet Charlie was stuck in his embarrassing silence, I decided to push him a little.

"Atta boy. Now, spit it out."

"The..." It took Quiet Charlie a moment to let the numbness go. "The nobility titles checked out, as well as the money. They're loaded. They have five more estates like the one you described before. I'm sure they won't have problems paying your exclusive fee."

"Don't get smart on me now. What else?"

"No will. I don't know who will inherit all their properties and cash."

"How much?"

"You weren't taught to count so high at school."

"So, over ten?"

"Definitely. And it's a family account. It's been open forever."

"Thanks, Charlie. Don't worry, your secret is safe with me. She's got great legs, you know? Especially when you get all the way to the top."

He was called _Quiet Charlie_ for a reason: the quick comebacks were not his specialty. However, he could also find out anything about you if he wished to do so. It was important to keep him on his toes.

"Good boy. Go fetch a cookie now." I hung up on Quiet Charlie without waiting for any type of answer.

The money was there. At least the old man seemed to be who he said he was. Next step.

I searched the medical pile for Dr. Pierce's contact information and called the number next to his name. I got a receptionist who informed me Dr. Pierce was busy at the moment. She asked how she could be of help. I told her I needed to talk to Dr. Pierce about one of his patients: Lord Hugh Hurlingthon. She was silent for a beat and then asked me to wait.

"Hello?" A male voice.

"Dr. Pierce? My name is Richard Saussure. I would like to make an appointment to talk about Lord Hurlingthon."

"Are you the new detective?"

That caught me off-guard. Had he told the doctor about me?

"Yes, I am."

"Good. I'll clear my agenda for tomorrow. Please be here at nine o'clock. And bring all the files."

"Alright... Thank you."

This doctor was a little too used to the drill for my taste. How many detectives had contacted him already? Was he part of this absurd role play, too? I was going to need a new doctor, someone I could trust.

It was past five, so I could only do one thing. I took my raincoat and the birth certificates, along with my car keys, and headed for the door. It was time to pay a visit to Truthful Willy, my favorite conman.

I had met Truthful Willy eleven years before, also while on duty. My partner and I were working on a murder case related to a money laundering operation, and we needed someone to corroborate the bills. We heard of Truthful Willy and, quite frankly, even if he didn't walk on the right side of the street, I never found anyone better. And I'm not squeaky-clean either. Truthful Willy was the man who provided me with a solid lead to find the man who had murdered my wife, Kara. He was also the man who kept his mouth shut when I took him out. We had a bond based on inner justice.

I shut up about him.

He shut up about me.

"Marco!" I shouted when I reached his house, just outside town, in the countryside. I drove for two hours to get there.

"Polo!" Truthful Willy yelled back while stepping out of his home. "Saussure, what are you doing here? Who opened Hell's door?"

"Hi, Willy. I need your help. Are you expensive as usual?"

"Well, I have special deals for old friends, you know that. Come inside, will you? It's getting cold."

I grabbed the papers and entered the conman's humble abode.

Truthful Willy wasn't the usual criminal. An Oxford graduate, he came from a family so old you could trace it back to kings, queens, and witches. And he was in his seventies.

I once asked him why he got into the business since he clearly didn't need it. He said it was the thrill of the chase. Of course, I then replied, "You like being on the run?" and he responded: "No, not that kind of chase. The chase for the perfect drawing." Truthful Willy actually had an entire philosophy on the originality of art. But then again, every criminal has one. I have one, and I am a murderer. If we didn't, we wouldn't be able to sleep. Ah, my friend Willy: a conman with a heart.

And let it be on the record that he did not do badly. He owned a house with a bit of land in the country, and I believe he had another house on the beach. Bastard. All I had was a rundown apartment and a cracked-up car. Bastard, indeed.

Truthful Willy met me with two glasses of bourbon and we sat by the fire. It was nice to be near warmth after a day of close encounters with the coldness of death.

"I'm all ears," Truthful Willy said.

"I have these birth certificates and I need to know if they're fake."

"Alright. Anything else you'd want me to know?"

"Not really. I'm not sure what I'm dealing with exactly."

I handed over the certificates and Truthful Willy inspected them for a while. He touched, looked, smelled and weighed every sheet of paper. He held them in front of a lamp and then he used the fire for the same procedure.

"Initially I would say that, if they are fake, it is an excellent job. How much certainty do you need?"

"150%"

"That's what I thought. Come, let's go into my studio. Oh, but first, let me tell Elise to make you a snack or something. This will take a while."

~*~

I took a bite out of my sandwich as Truthful Willy worked on my papers. His studio was a giant vault with everything one might need to forge any kind of work-related to paintings, legal documents, and currency, among other things. Over the years, Truthful Willy had built an impressive catalog of different types of papers, inks, pigments, bills, instruments and machinery for diverse procedures used during various periods of time. If you needed a letter from the King of England from the fifteen century, Truthful Willy could get it for you. If you needed a letter from the current King of England... Willy was the man.

He was right. It took him hours to come up with some good results.

"It's all good. The paper, the writing -printed and handwritten-, the ink. They match the time and zone they are supposed to be from. They're as real as they can be. These should be in a museum. Some of that ink is impossible to get anymore."

"If you don't have it, how do you know what it is?"

"I said it is impossible to buy. I make my own ink. You know that."

I did. It wasn't possible to trace it if he made the liquid himself. If he bought the ink or any other material, it left a trail of witnesses behind that eventually would cause trouble. And that was why Truthful Willy was expensive.

"Well, then. Thank you, Willy. Seven, as usual?"

"Make it five, you're a good sport."

"Thanks, Willy. You're going to heaven, you know that?"

"For lowering the fee?" He gave me a crooked half-smile. "I'll save you a seat."

Truthful Willy walked me to the entrance door, not without first offering me to stay overnight, as it was almost midnight when I reached my car. I declined the invitation. You dine with the enemy, you don't sleep with him. Besides, in the morning I had a doctor's appointment. I needed to be fresh and stay on my toes.

Just as I was saying goodbye, I shot in the dark.

"Say, Willy, do you know a Dr. John Pierce?"

"In town? Yeah, he's Elise's doctor."

"Is he good and clear?"

"Like vodka. Why? Is he into this?" Truthful Willy pointed at the birth certificates in my left hand.

"No, I don't think so. Better safe than sorry, you know."

"Take care, Richard."

"You too, Willy. And give my best to Elise."

"Will do."

The drive back home left me exhausted. The day was finally ending, although it was technically tomorrow. I thought I might get home and read some more, but I had no more living force in my body left to spare. I had taken with me the last three letters from the enormous pile I dove into that morning, and I had stored them inside my raincoat pocket before heading for Truthful Willy's house. If I hadn't found anything in the rest of the four hundred and thirty-six letters back at my office, I doubted there was something in the last three that couldn't wait a few more hours.

I took a quick shower to help me generate a bit more heat in my body and then went to bed. Thanks to Elise's snack, all I needed was sleep.

A shiver ran through my spine as I had one last thought before losing myself in dreamland. So far, everything was being corroborated. If all the information turned out to be true and it wasn't a hoax, where would I look for information to solve a case like this?

#  IV

AS I DRANK MY COFFEE THE NEXT MORNING, I went over the box of medical records I would take to the doctor. All the diseases and every single suicide attempt were documented there, even the ones that didn't require a physician: the cuts that had healed themselves. The times Lord Hurlingthon had tried to drown were pretty impressive as well, especially the one that took place in winter: his body temperature had dropped to 59ºF. He should have died of hypothermia.

_He should be dead already_. The idea was steadily taking shape and gaining weight in front of my eyes.

Greta's records were also there, but it wasn't too special. And Emily's. Emily and her unlived life were a relatively thin stock of sheets. Especially if I compared it to that of her father's: his records had been crammed inside a tattered double flap folder. The footprint of someone's life should last longer than that. It should weigh more. It should be more... just _more_.

I placed all the death back in the box and drove over to Dr. Pierce's office, located in the upper side of town. My patched up car stood out in those neighborhoods. I liked that. People living there looked down on me and I looked up to them, with the advantage of being so close to the ground I could make them trip on any piece of garbage I had scratched from the soles of their shoes.

The place was closed. Maybe I had it wrong? Maybe it was at 9 p.m.? Odd, as with everything else related to this case. Now what?

"Hello," a voice sounded behind me, as I pressed my nose against the glass trying to look inside. "Sorry to make you wait."

"Dr. Pierce?" I turned and extended my hand while staring at him in awe. I was expecting an old man, someone capable of buying into this delusion. But he was a middle-aged man, not over fifty. Short trimmed brown hair, pale blue eyes, and a perfectly tailored deep brown suit made him look reliable. And it made me wonder if I was the only one in this town who dressed like a homeless person.

"Mr. Saussure." His firm handshake left me even more perplexed. "Please, come inside. Have you been waiting for long?"

"No, I just got here."

I walked into a waiting room decorated in sienna and dark-brown, all very polished and professional-looking. There were several armchairs and a sofa, along with a coffee table. A big oak desk at the back dominated the room and prevented any unexpected visitor from trespassing the door that led to the doctor's area.

"Please, all the way to the back." Dr. Pierce extended his arm towards a room at the end of a narrow hallway.

~*~

"Tea?" he offered once inside his office, as I took a seat at the desk.

"Coffee, please." He glowered at me like I was committing a war crime. I had discovered his flaw: he drank tea in the morning. Who the hell does that? Tea? Really?

He brought the beverages to the desk.

"Shall we?" he politely asked for the box. But I had some questions first.

"Actually, I'd like to know first when did you start to take care of Lord Hurlingthon's... health?" Yes, ' _health'_ was an awkward word to describe the state that man was in, but nonetheless, he was two hundred and thirteen years old.

"Five years ago. His former doctor unexpectedly died of a heart attack, so he came to me. He barely needs me, as you know. But sometimes his body hurts, or he has a cold. Nothing too serious."

"Wouldn't it be more logical if he didn't seek help for a cold and let it take its course until it turns into something more... fatal?"

"When he came to see me the first time, he had pneumonia. It had started eleven months before. He won't die, regardless of how much he tries."

His coldness was appalling.

"Doesn't this strike you as irregular, to say the least? I mean, in all honesty, I was hoping you could put my mind at ease by assuring me he is mentally ill."

"Lord Hurlingthon is not insane."

"The man claims he's over two hundred years old. How do you explain that?"

"I don't. I can't. And as a man of science, it bothers me profoundly. But as a man of faith, I believe he's God's finest work of art."

"The man can't die! It sounds more like a work of the Devil to me."

"Be that as it may," Dr. Pierce took a sip of his smelly tea. "But to be able to sleep, years ago, I decided the man of science would subdue himself to the man of faith. And in the case of Lord Hurlingthon, all I can do is treat him like any other patient and help him. I can't kill him. I've tried and failed. I've tried, even at the risk of my license being taken away, because I saw the pain in his eyes. He was given a gift he can't carry anymore, Mr. Saussure. It's time to give it back, but I can't help him with that. I can only make the burden a bit lighter. For the rest, I'm afraid that's why you're being hired."

Those people never ceased to amaze me. Not in a good way.

"I am not a hitman," I responded forcefully. "Have you tested him? Have you recommended a shrink or a psychologist?"

"Of course I have and he took all the tests. Once we get to the box, you'll see all the procedures he has endured over his life, including the ones implemented by myself or under my recommendation. Don't think for a moment that I take this case lightly."

"You don't seem very upset to me, Dr. Pierce."

"Mr. Saussure, I have been living with the knowledge of his existence for the past five years. This state of anger and skepticism you're experiencing right now... it wears itself out, trust me. After meeting him, I tried for a year and a half to prove him wrong, to find a mistake. A flaw in the records that might show they were wrong. But it didn't work. I wasted time and money because I didn't believe him. That is the best advice and the finest piece of information I can give you: believe him."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Pierce, but your word alone won't simply convince me. I don't think... I don't know what to think anymore."

It was true. I couldn't understand how a reputable professional like Dr. Pierce would allow himself to be seduced by such a sham. Something like that could ruin someone's career. Mine. His.

"Think about it this way: if you don't believe him, you won't be able to do your work. What is it that concerns you? That you won't get paid?" No, that wasn't it. I already knew Lord Hurlingthon was more than capable of handing me a grateful check for a job well done. "Or is it that you are scared of failing?"

I stared at what was left of my coffee, already cold by the prolonged conversation, and even colder by the dreadful question still reverberating in the silent room. Dr. Pierce noticed he had hit a nerve, a very sensitive one. I don't back down. I do what needs to be done and I don't walk out in the middle of it. I see it through. That obsession makes me careful, but here I was blindsided. I had walked into a trap, imprisoned by my own stubbornness. Sometimes my pride can be an oppressive chain.

"I think it's best if we stick to the box from now on." Dr. Pierce broke the muted quarrel I was having with myself. "You know how I feel. I'll explain everything to you. I'll answer your questions. And after that, you can draw your own conclusions."

Good plan. I placed the cardboard box next to him and he started from the very beginning: Hugh Hurlingthon's birth. Everything seemed normal. Mother dies after a complicated delivery; her death certificate was there. She was twenty-five years old and had narrow hips. It happens, especially two hundred years ago. Hugh had a wet nurse and for the rest of his youth, he was perfectly healthy, remaining in that condition for many, many years to come. His father died when Hugh was forty-two years old. Nothing weird about that, just old age.

The notches on his record were regarding the suicide attempts. We went over every single one of them. Of course, the ones with the pistols that had failed were not there. But the brutal attack inflicted upon him by a very diligent hitman with a hammer took us some time. He suffered severe head trauma -the doctor noticed seven skull fractures- and several broken bones all over the body. The bruises and concussions doubled in number to the fractures. Basically, he was a human version of a mashed potato. That's what you get for paying an over-achieving Thor to get you killed.

His head had swollen up three times its normal size. But eventually, every broken bone healed. Every single bruise and every bloody spot on his body disappeared. He regained his usual self. After a month, he was discharged by the doctor and resumed his normal life. _Normal_ my ass.

Next, it was Emily. I wanted to pay special attention to the daughter because Lord Hurlingthon said the child hadn't been able to fight back the disease. Maybe, after all, this was a medical oddity and all there was left to do was wait and see how it played out. Wait? But he had waited long enough, and that didn't explain why he wasn't able to commit suicide.

Dr. Pierce explained Emily's case to me, as he had done some research himself. Because it had happened so long ago, he investigated the ways the virus was treated back in the eighteenth century. Apparently, patients would be in bed rest for months. As the illness began as a mild case of fever, it was commonly believed to be a cold or some sort of flu. Later on, when the patient presented the usual reddish skin rash associated with scarlet fever, the treatment was started. Many times it was too late.

But Emily came down with a high fever and the rash all in one day. Ten days later, she was dead. It didn't make sense. Yes, she was a child, but a healthy one with access to the best doctors in the country. She was well-fed and well-loved, but it hadn't been enough. Sometimes loving your child is not enough to save him.

"Dr. Pierce, Lord Hurlingthon said the doctors told him that Emily couldn't fight back. That she was letting the illness inside. Is it possible that...? I don't know, in some way... the father was born with too many antibodies and somehow the opposite was translated to his daughter? Not enough antibodies?"

"Well, at the time of Emily's death there were no tests for antibodies. Doctors had no knowledge of them, so that is impossible to find out now. However, I have tested Lord Hurlingthon's blood many times, even at different moments during the same day. It's normal."

"I see. What about Greta?"

There was nothing on her. A perfect medical file. She should get an "A" on health. Greta died at sixty-two years of age, useless to me.

"You tried to kill Lord Hurlingthon with an overdose, right? What was it? Morphine?"

"Among other things, yes. But it never got past an intoxication case, not even a severe one."

"Have you tried electrocuting him?"

Dr. Pierce gave me a grave look and then released a long, deep breath. I think he was enraged by my careless suggestion, but at that point, who could seriously care about good manners? As far as I knew, we were dealing with a spawn of the Devil.

"Being fried to death does not seem like a good way to go, Mr. Saussure." Apparently, Dr. Pierce remembered we were gentlemen. My bad. "And I have seen his reactions to other procedures, it won't work. It will only distress him. It's just not worth it. The fire incident proves it."

One time, Hugh Hurlingthon had turned himself into a human torch. He had third-degree burns over 70% of his body. But the fire never got to the internal organs or burned the airways as so often happens with burn victims. After a week, all the burnt skin peeled off and fell away, and the muscles regenerated themselves. Seven days. Ludicrous.

"How high is his pain tolerance?"

"Average. If it is too great, he passes out. Everything is normal about him, regardless of how much you ask."

"How do you explain why he can't walk? Or lift his arms? Or see?"

"He is aging, no doubt about that. But at the pace the normal decrepitude of his body is taking place, it could easily take another hundred years for him to die. If it happens. Don't forget he came to me already as an invalid and still, he hasn't responded to any of the methods to end his life."

~*~

It was past 3.30pm when I left Dr. Pierce with my box. Like Sisyphus with his rock, I tried to push it up but the evil thing kept rolling down the hill. Damn box-like rock. We went so far back that we even revisited Lord Frederick and Lady Adora's medical records... what was left of them, at least. It made me think that their son had not told me about his parents' story and how they'd met. Next time I would ask.

Dr. Pierce walked me to my car and I had one last question for him. Not work-related strictly. Nonetheless, I still had to ask. The limit between professional and personal was getting blurry and I didn't like that, but I was running out of options.

"You said it took you a year and a half to start believing him. Was there a particular incident that caused that?"

He leaned against the side of my car and stuffed his hands inside his pockets. I was surprised he would want his immaculate suit to be in contact with my tattered car.

"Yes. After twenty months of fruitless investigation, I became desperate. And in a moment of rage I... slashed his wrists open and I stabbed him... in the heart. All the wounds closed up after a few minutes. He hardly bled at all. I'm not proud of myself, but after that ' _incident'_ as you call it, I decided this wasn't about myself and my incapability to understand, but about him. I'm just limiting my work to help him, Mr. Saussure. I'd be glad to see you doing the same."

I got into my car and drove away. I was interested to see if I could fulfill the doctor's wishes myself. Another day surrounded by death. Outstanding.

#  V

ONE MORE STOP IN THE VALLEY OF DEATH before that day would come to an end: Annette Kensington, a coroner I used to work with on some occasions. Annie hated my guts, and I couldn't blame her. I didn't like her much either, but she was the best I knew and the only one who, for a little money on the side, would help me. Maybe I could catch her on her way back home. She was probably leaving her office by then. Although she dealt with dead people, there was no telling when they would need help. That much I knew.

I walked into the police station parking lot. There she was, tall and red as usual, opening her car's door. I had parked my own vehicle around the corner. I didn't want to call anyone's attention, as not everyone inside that building loved me. I rushed up to her with my box of medical goodies.

"Hi, there," I greeted, trying to sound as amicable as possible. She turned to face me and it was not a pretty facial expression. It looked like she had just stepped on dog excrement. She was the foot and I was the other end of that equation.

"What do you want?" Annie blurted out while getting inside her car. She was escaping, fast.

"Yes, the weather is lovely. Gray and humid suits you, by the way."

"Saussure, I just had an eighteen-hour day. Talk or I'll run you over."

"Eighteen? Wow! What happened? Did you have triplets again?"

"Yes."

I felt the blood draining from my head.

About seven years before, we were working on a murder case with multiple victims. Three young men had been killed and bound together by the feet, forming a circle. Each one of them was facing out. Their hearts had been removed and placed inside the circle. No blood. Not even a drop. The bodies had been propped in a manner that made them stay on their knees. Oh, and their ears were turned in as if someone had sucked them from inside the skull.

Annie had performed the post-mortem examination. It lasted hours. It turned out the victims were triplets, and the long scarf used to bind them together was knitted with the boys' own hair. Many of the medical oddities from that case were impossible to explain, even for Annie. But eventually, we found the murderer, despite the missing pieces. Henry Paulson was a member of a satanic cult; he believed triplets were a source of power that had to be sacrificed to the Antichrist. Paulson had been sentenced to a life in prison a year later.

This could not be happening again.

"Copycat?"

"Don't know yet. What do you want? I need to sleep, Richard."

"Right, sorry. I'm just going to put this here." I opened the back door and placed the box inside. "This is filled with medical records about a man who claims he's over two hundred years old and can't die. See if it all adds up, or if the records have been forged."

"What?"

"Call you tomorrow!" I hastened away before she could even begin to say no. "Thank you!"

~*~

I was back in my office for a few hours of light reading before going home. I dove into the pile of newspaper clippings. Some of them were in folders. There was also a scrapbook very carefully put together and a lot of papers here and there just lying around. I read the big ones first. Anything worth reading is always big.

But here, _big_ meant _money_ , as in ' _Their pockets are big and full of money_ '. It was all about investments, buying new lands or foreign deals to sell some product. Most of them were so old they didn't even have pictures. The most recent ones did, but there was a lawyer representing the family. I wrote his name down. Maybe he knew something. Elliott Sanders. I looked him up in the phone book and there were two numbers: home and office. I called the office, but it was too late. No one picks up the phone after six. Not even me.

The scrapbook was more interesting. It was about social gatherings, fundraising events, engagement announcements, weddings, births, and deaths. They were a prominent family. If they blew their noses against the wind, it made headlines. Adora and Frederick's wedding. Hugh's birth and his marriage to Greta. Emily's birth and her unexpected death, and how the doctors were waiting for some kind of epidemic explosion of scarlet fever that never happened. Her strange case was the only one that year. Why did it have to be Emily? Lord Frederick's death was also documented there, saying he left the entire fortune to his only son, Hugh.

I got nothing from the rest of the news. This was a dead end. _Dead indeed._ What now? Family friends could be a way to find something else.

This bothered me.

When exactly did I make the decision to cross the line and believe that man's story? Was I going to trust him? This double direction the investigation was taking made my head spin. I needed a lead, fast. Something to help me find a path to follow. I was getting restless going in circles.

I picked up the phone book and searched for the _M_. I was going to talk to every single Maliccioni on this earth if that was necessary for me to solve the case. An Italian name like that didn't come up with a lot of listings. Only three. And they were all related, as I found out on my first call.

I introduced myself as Elliott Sanders and told them that, as the family attorney, I had found some discrepancies about the will and other legal papers that mentioned the Maliccioni family. I told them that I'd be very grateful if they could refer me to the eldest member alive to check some facts.

That's how I ended up talking to Andrew Maliccioni, Albert's great-great-grandson. Yes, he had some knowledge about the families being close friends at some point, mostly because they worked the same social circles, but nothing apart from that. He was not in contact with any member of the current family. They had sold the land that belonged to Anthony decades before and his family had nothing to do with the Hurlingthons' affairs. Of course they didn't. They were all dead. Well, most of them anyway. But he certainly acted as if he wasn't part of this world.

"I appreciate your time and effort. Thank you."

I hung up the phone in a state of quiet desperation. I never do loud desperation, I'm a former member of the police department. But I had no idea how I would manage to solve this case.

I picked up the phonebook again and looked for every single surname from the list of nannies and governesses Lord Hurlingthon have had. Over half of them were not even there. In that period, if women were working it was because they were single. And if they had descendants, it was probably because they got married, which meant they had stopped using their maiden name. I got more than ten names. All things considered, it was a fairly good number.

This time, I posed as a scholar, a professor hired by the county to recreate the family trees of the most prominent families in the area, and somehow their name had come up in relation to the Hurlingthons. Most of them had no idea what I was babbling about. A couple knew they had an ancestor that had worked for the family, but that was all. Two of them wouldn't even talk to me. The last one simply hung up as soon as I finished explaining my elaborate lie.

That was it. I needed a walk. Preferably, a walk to the nearest bar so I could clear my head by drowning some brain cells in cheap alcohol.

I had my hat and raincoat on when the phone rang.

"Saussure, you asshole!"

"Calm down, Annie. You kiss Carl with those filthy lips?"

"Why did you drag me into this?"

"I thought you were going to sleep."

"I was having dinner and remembered your stupid box. And that idiotic story you came up with..."

"It's not a lie, Annie. Someone hired me to find out why this man can't die and you're the best."

"I know you like to make things up, Saussure. What's this about?"

I hesitated for a moment. Did I really know what this was about? What was I trying to find out? Whether this man was telling the truth? Or why he couldn't die?

"Look, you don't have to believe me. Just check the records. See if it is possible for this man to be alive, if he could survive everything regist..."

"Are you kidding, Richard? Seven skull fractures almost a century ago? Obviously, he's dead and someone has stolen his identity."

' _Seven fractures'._ She had been reading the files. I had her hooked. Now, I needed to talk her into paying Lord Hurlingthon a visit.

"See, my problem is this, Annie: why would someone hire me to find out the reason behind the crime they are committing?"

Nothing on the other end of the line. In the big scheme of things, I was right. If that man wasn't the real Hugh Hurlingthon, so far he had been doing a great job. If he was indeed stealing the Hurlingthons' fortune, until then, he hadn't been noticed at all. This also meant that a decrepit man had convinced an entire household to play along. No, that didn't add up.

Annie finally came out of her silence.

"Have you talked to his physician? Dr. Pierce is a very reputable doctor. He could help you."

"Yes, I did. Today."

"And?"

"He's a doctor that talks about God."

Annie exploded. I had her for a moment, but letting her know that I had reached out to her just for my personal beliefs... Well, let's just say it got on her last nerve.

"You and your stupid religious crap! Some people believe and some don't! Leave it alone! I can't believe I actually spent time reading this shi––"

I let her blow off some steam before trying to stop her. She was angry, tired, overworked and underpaid. I got it. And let's be honest: I had asked for it. Annie has the language of a drunken sailor and the temperament of an angry truck driver. I swear, she made policemen blush. Her mouth is a latrine with a mind of its own. And when I told her I didn't trust a certain doctor because he believed in a god I consider as real as a magic carpet and as useful as a garden gnome, well...

"Annie... Annie... Annie!" She finally stopped. "I need someone to tell me if this man is insane, and I need someone to tell me if he really is invalid. I need a scientist."

Silence again. That was good.

"Fine. But I'll do it tomorrow, no strings attached. And you'll pay me twice the usual."

"No problem, take your time." Her fee wasn't coming out of my pocket, so I could promise her as much as she wanted. And I knew Annie. The scientist in her would not let her sleep. She would spend the night studying the files. "Whenever you're ready, call me... and I'll pick you up to go to his house."

"Wait, what?!"

"Bye!" I hung up fast. I always did that to Annie, so I do understand why she hated me. I'm quite annoying. But infuriating her was half the fun of having to work together.

I suddenly felt lighter. Stronger. And ready for a good battle. Dr. Annette Kensington had breathed new life into my veins. I knew she would not stop until we find the truth. Although... I was still in need of a beer.

#  VI

THE NEXT DAY, I DECIDED TO GO BACK TO THE MANSION. I wanted to look at the paintings as Lord Hurlingthon had suggested. It would give me an opportunity to snoop around the house and maybe find something else. Something they were not telling me was right there in front of my nose, and I couldn't pin it down.

Now that I had Annie on my side, I knew I'd get to the bottom of this. She is relentless in the pursuit of knowledge. But I was not going to tell Lord Hurlingthon about my plans of taking Annie to examine him. I didn't want him or Marlon having any time to get ready and set something up. At this point, that piece of human rock that Lord Hurlingthon had for a valet was also a suspect. Was it possible Marlon had planned all of it? Maybe he had gotten the old man confused intentionally? But... was he getting something out of that? If Marlon was in line to receive money from the family, wouldn't that kick in when Lord Hurlingthon died? What could Marlon possibly get from his master staying alive?

More questions than answers. I didn't like that.

I also wanted to have a little friendly chat with the servants. Maybe some of them had heard something or knew some stories. I was not sure I could make Marlon talk. The man did not like me. And yet, his family was the one who could hand over a substantial piece of information leading me to a clue. I was getting the feeling this was a puzzle and I had no idea what the big picture looked like. For now, I had to stay focused on the small details to be able to glue them back together.

I walked out of my car with the intention of ringing the doorbell, but I decided to take a walk around the house first to check it out. There was no vegetation in sight, just bare soil like the first time I had set foot there. It took me a while to get to the back of the house. The towers were... _broad_ , I guess is the right word. They had those narrow windows you see in books and movies. I counted four floors and then the stone walls on the sides had three windows up and twelve long.

At the back, I found another house. This one wasn't so big, and it had a swimming pool. The latter was half-filled with dirty water, and the only green stuff one could find on that land was growing in there. I went to the smaller building. The door was closed and so were all the windows. I pressed my face against a glass and peeked inside. It was clean but unused. There was a living room with a sofa, some armchairs, a desk, and a large bookcase behind it. Heavy curtains, expensive chandeliers, and some paintings hanging from the walls completed the decoration.

It was there I had the first look at Lady Adora. She was a breathtaking brunette with dark eyes and translucent skin. There was one painting of her in a long white gown, sitting on the same sofa stored in that house. A baby was at her feet and a distinguished-looking blond man with a thin mustache was standing behind the sofa, completing the composition. That's how Lord Frederick looked when he was young. The baby was obviously Lord Hugh; his features were basically the same. What had happened to this family for their son to end up in such a sad situation?

There were a few landscapes in the bedrooms. And in the last room I looked in, there was another painting of Lady Adora on a swing. There, she was pregnant and surrounded by a beautiful garden of white flowers. Gardenias, I believed them to be. She was radiant, as every woman should be when she is carrying her first child.

Farther ahead into the land, there was a house with an enormous tree coming out through the top. It was a construction entirely made out of glass and I realized it used to be a garden, but now the only living thing left was that moribund tree. From one of the dried branches hung the swing I had just seen in Lady Adora's picture.

I tried the door. This one was open. There was also a small artificial pond I had not seen from the outside. No water or life in it, of course. Not a trace left from the blooming gardenias. I tiptoed to the swing. I felt as if I was crossing a line, somehow invading her. The seat had been carved out of marble with bulky chains holding it. I touched it, and a shiver ran through me. Lady Adora had sat right there posing for a painter so many years ago, dreaming of a life full of love, beauty, and adventures. Dreaming of a house filled with children's laughter. She had no idea her life was about to be cut short arbitrarily, without being asked.

"Can I help you, sir?"

The question startled me and removed me from my dreamy and overly personal conjectures. The immature mouth that had unleashed the inquisition belonged to the young body of a petite maid with curly black hair, small eyes, and freckles all over her face. Her front teeth came out beaver-like, preventing her from ever closing her mouth completely. Even if she pressed her lips together, you could still see a few millimeters of her incisors.

"Sir?"

"My name is Richard Saussure. Lord Hurlingthon hir–"

"Oh, yes! You're the new detective."

"News travels fast in here," I thought to myself. I could use that. A loose tongue always means information.

"You're a long way from the main house, sir. Are you lost?"

"No, no. I was inspecting the place. Trying to get a feel for the people living here."

"Rich, huh?" she said with a silly giggle. She was sharp as a marble.

"Loaded," I responded, lifting my eyebrows and pretending to be as surprised as she was. Maybe she hadn't been working at the mansion for long. "Say... oh, sorry, I didn't get your name."

"Lucy."

The shaman girl. My day could not get any better.

"Say, Lucy, have you been working here for long?"

"Two years. My aunt is the cook. That's how I got the job. The master doesn't like strange people near him."

"You like it here? How does Marlon treat you?"

Lucy backed down a few steps. She wasn't sure she should answer me. Marlon wasn't nice to her. Good. The lower lip dropped a bit more, trying to come up with an answer.

"The master is a very decent man. A really decent man." As she repeated the last sentence, she looked at her feet. Lucy probably hadn't even seen Lord Hurlingthon once. I didn't think her aunt would let her. Obviously, she wasn't the brightest fish in the pond.

"Right, right. Of course, I understand. Well, the master talked about you."

"He did?!" Her small eyes lit up.

"Yes, Lord Hurlingthon told me you recommended a shaman to him. I would like to talk to this person if it is possible. I assume you have a way to contact him. He must be very respectable and intelligent if you brought him here to help the master."

"Sure he is, sir. Sure he is. He helped me when I was possessed by the spirit of the swamp, you know? I couldn't eat for three weeks, you know?"

_Why didn't you go to the doctor that believes in God?_ was all I wanted to ask her. I bit my tongue and nodded in silence.

"But he's not a shaman. He's a druid." Even better. Bring on the voodoo dolls, and we can all go to Stonehenge for a quick naked dance under the moon. "If you come to the kitchen, I can give you directions to get to the woods where he lives."

"By all means, then." I stretched out my arm over her head, marking the way to the door. She turned around and walked out. I tailed her until we left the garden.

As we were making our way to the kitchen, I thought it was best to use my time wisely. I sensed that if Marlon found out about my interrogations behind his back, or that I had been sticking my nose around without his vigilant eye over me, I would get the girl in trouble, closing down for good that stream of information.

It had occurred to me that if I could get into the guesthouse and look at the painting of Lord Hurlingthon as a baby, an important piece of information would be revealed. Painters usually sign their work and they date it, too. All I needed was a close peek at the painting to get a name and a year. This way, I could set all this _I'm over two hundred years old_ to rest. I could even find the artist alive, or a descendant.

"That garden is the one from the painting of Lady Adora, with the gardenias, right?"

"The one in the guesthouse? Yes, sir. She was so pretty, wasn't she? Too bad she died so young." I doubted Lucy knew how insane the situation really was.

"Yes, a very sad situation."

"You know? They say the day Lady Adora died, the entire garden died. All the gardenias. All the nature of this land. Nothing grows here, you know? I've tried and so did my aunt. Everything is wet and dry at the same time. That's why the druid wouldn't come into the property."

"Because nature doesn't grow in here?"

"They have a close relationship with Mother Earth, the druids, you know?"

No, I didn't. But if at that point a zombie walked up to me and handed out a piece of information, I wouldn't be surprised.

"I understand. I tried to see the pictures up close, but the door is locked. You wouldn't happen to have the key, would you?"

"No, sir," Lucy answered. "Only Marlon holds the keys to the guesthouse. Every Thursday he opens the place and I and two other maids clean the entire house. But he never leaves us alone, sir. I'm sure he thinks we're going to steal something, you know?"

That meant I needed to break into the house if I wanted that information.

I could've asked Lord Hurlingthon, but there was something about disturbing that poor old man. I know I didn't completely believe his story, but I didn't think he wasn't telling the truth either. He was confused, that was all. I had to _un-_ confuse him. And even by placing an official request for the key, it did not mean I would get it. Or even worse, Marlon would've stood there the entire time, preventing me from actually doing what I wanted to do.

We entered the kitchen. It was busy but quiet. The cook and a woman in her thirties were working over the stove. Another young girl like Lucy was laboriously chopping pork. They all stopped at once when they saw me. The young girl froze with the kitchen blade up in the air. Obviously, they were not used to having visitors. Of course not. Everyone the master knew was dead.

"It's the new detective," Lucy said, giving herself airs of importance. "Wait here, please. I'll go get a piece of paper."

Another woman, middle-aged, tall and robust, came in from an adjacent room. She was wet with soapy water and her own perspiration dripping from her dirty forehead.

"Lucy! Lucy! Where is the water?!!"

"Oh, I forgot!"

"Goddamn, child!! Can't you do something right?!"

"The new detective the master hired needed my help. I got distracted. Sorry, Miss. Harriet. I'll get it in a minute."

It was then Harriet noticed me. She dried her hands with a white apron that had seen better days and then proceeded to stroke her sweat with the back of her hand. I decided to step in to give my pal Lucy a hand.

"It's entirely my fault, Miss. Harriet. I won't keep Lucy any longer."

"No, it's fine, sir. Don't mind me, sir," Harriet replied, showing me a grin in desperate need of teeth.

It was unbelievable how the backside of the mansion was so different from the front, from the people to the manners. Worlds apart.

Lucy finally returned with a drawing of the road leading to the druid's home. She was explaining her doodles to me when Marlon walked into the kitchen. Everyone straightened up as if the teacher had stepped in.

"Mr. Saussure, I saw your car outside. What are you doing back here?"

"My job, Marlon. Please announce me to Lord Hurlingthon. I need to speak to him."

Marlon looked startled. He expected an explanation I was not about to give. The valet glowered at the women in the kitchen. Then, after unleashing some silent anger through the eyes, he led the way to the dining room.

"Please follow me, Mr. Saussure."

I thanked the ladies for their help and did as I was told. I could actually see sparks of rage coming out through the top of Marlon's head.

"Say, Marlon, are you going to let me ride in that fancy cage of yours?"

#  VII

"MR. SAUSSURE, PLEASE COME IN."

I didn't think I would ever get used to his decrepit presence. And that voice... filled with the moldy hope of someday dying. Heartbreaking.

I removed my hat and entered the bedroom. The morbid ambiance brought by those attempting to cut a deal with death was still there, as it had been three days before. There was an eternal mist that surrounded him, never completely leaving his personal space, never lifting from his eyes. I must confess I cringed at the thought of taking that mist with me by mistake.

"Lord Hurlingthon." I bowed slightly. "I'm here to officially accept your offer and to request permission to look at the paintings you mentioned in our previous meeting."

"You work fast, Mr. Saussure. Are you done checking my story?"

"Well, sir... uh, Lord Hurlingthon, you'll understand I have to set the story in context so I can follow the trail of actions that might have led you to this... situation."

"It is all right, I understand. Nothing I haven't endured before. You have my permission. Marlon, please guide Mr. Saussure through the usual path. The studio, the drawing room..."

"Yes, Lord Hurlingthon. I understand," Marlon answered in his stuck-up manner. Where the hell had he picked up such a nasty personality? Even Hugh Hurlingthon was nicer than him.

"Thank you, Lord Hurlingthon."

"Will I see you later, Mr. Saussure?"

"No, sir. I have to get immediately to my office. There are facts to be checked."

"You're welcome to have lunch with me."

"I'm honored, milord, but time is of the essence."

I bowed once more, this time realizing he probably couldn't see me, and exited the room. I would've never eaten with that ghost of a man even if my life depended on it. I chuckled at the irony, which made Marlon look down at me from his high horse. He was so high I could actually see into his nostrils.

"Well, Mr. Marlon. I'm all yours," I said with a phony grin, almost enjoying how revolting the thought of spending time with me was to this cardboard figure.

"Good God," he muttered under his breath, but not low enough for me to miss the remark.

This was a chess game. Both of us were coldly calculating our movements. Every millimeter was carefully planned by these two players who pretended to be gentlemen. But there was nothing gentlemanly about this wordless battle.

"This way, please."

I sauntered through the halls, making my pace as slow and confident as possible. Marlon was at the edge of anger in his phlegmatic manner, which meant rolling his eyes and never looking directly at me. Not even a glimpse, just to show me he did not have to acknowledge my presence. His pride was as stiff as his joints, old bastard.

The drawing room was first. Enormous paintings of Hugh, Greta and Emily ruled the space. Greta was an olive-skinned woman, more on the round side of things, but beautiful. Her wide copper eyes gave her an exotic look. She was nothing compared with Lady Adora's classic beauty, of course.

Emily inherited her father's translucent skin and her mother's eyes. Her baby hair would have curled up in brownish ringlets, always looking short. She was a good mixture of her parents. In all the paintings, Emily was wearing a pale blue dress. It was a different dress each time but, evidently, blue was her favorite color.

The images didn't have a signature in sight. Not even at the back. Probably the frame had covered all the information, and the only way to get the painter's name would be ripping the canvas away from the frame. It wasn't a viable option with Marlon watching every finger I moved.

Then, the studio. In there, I found the paintings from Hugh's youth and childhood. He was a good-looking fellow. Tall, wide shoulders and a strong jaw. His eyes used to be blue, like his father's. The shadow of the man forever sitting in the next room was now sadder than before. Hugh Hurlingthon used to have a life. This life had died, but his heart wouldn't stop beating. I was actually starting to understand him. The sense of loneliness coming from the still takes of his past was overwhelming.

Numerous paintings of Lady Adora in her garden were also there. Standing, sitting, smelling the gardenias, you name it. Not even one from the time she was pregnant. I guess she posed only once while expecting. The question was... why was it in a house no one used? Another man was next to her in one or two portraits, the same man who later appeared next to Hugh as a child and as a young man.

We visited one more room, mostly containing paintings of groups of people, probably aunts and cousins. No more paintings of the gardenias, not without Adora anyway... Wait a minute...

"Marlon, I need the keys to the guesthouse."

"I'm sorry, sir. Those keys are lost. No one can enter there."

"The house is immaculate. How did it stay that way?"

"I guess the windows and all the other entries work perfectly, sir."

I ran downstairs without waiting for the valet and exited the house. Out of breath, I entered my car. How could I have missed that? And twice? I was so worried about catching this man in a lie that I had overlooked the facts right in front of my nose showing me the way.

I rushed to my office. I needed to check it. But it wasn't there, I knew it. And something like that should've been mentioned. I stumbled on every pile of paper I had organized, just to get to the scrapbook. I opened it and looked for that news clipping to read it once more.

Then again.

Then again.

It wasn't there. Someone had lied to Hugh Hurlingthon. But not who I thought.

The phone rang and I reached it, still holding the scrapbook. I would not let go of that piece of evidence even if my hands were cut off.

"Hello?"

"Saussure."

"Kensington."

"He should be dead."

"Tell me something I don't know."

I started to browse through the scrapbook. Maybe I could find something else that would help me, something out of place. I let Annie babble away about how strange it was that he had survived all the attacks, and I concentrated on the book covers. The inside on the back cover looked less worn-out than the front cover. It was also thicker. This cover had an extra layer of paper.

I opened every single drawer in my desk, trying to find that letter opener I knew someone had given me years before as a present, when I decided to start a private practice. Finally, inside the fifth desk drawer, under a pile of papers, envelopes, and old stamps, a shiny blade peered back at me.

"Hold on, Annie."

I put the receiver down. I grabbed the paper knife and used it on an outer corner of the back cover. I placed the tip of the blade between the hard cover and the black paper covering it, only to find what I already knew was there. A double flap. Someone had glued on top of the original back cover a rectangular sheet of paper in the same color.

I picked up the receiver again and held it between my head and my shoulder, leaving my hands free to handle the letter opener and the book. Annie hadn't heard me, so she kept on talking about Lord Hurlingthon.

"... Overall, I haven't found anything that strikes me as strange. I mean, if we left the age and the recoveries from the attacks aside, the records seem perfectly legal. No patch-ups. No retyping. I couldn't find any of the normal signs I usually see in forged records."

I carefully detached the back paper from the book. And there it was. A yellowish newspaper clipping folded in half, torn in some parts of the folding line. The ink was slowly fading away, leaving some blank spots here and there. But thanks to the extra packaging, it had been preserved better than other articles also extracted from journals.

"The language is appropriate according to the time and medical advances of each period..."

"Mmm..." I tried to stay in the conversation with Annie, but I was reading the article at the same time.

"And so are the procedures utilized to heal him or alleviate his pain..."

"Right."

"Only one thing, though..."

"What's that?"

"The mother died giving birth to Hugh Hurlingthon. But in the files it only says that. There are no specifics, except for the narrow hips. No details on her death. There's too little information, especially compared to how detailed the rest is. I know it was two centuries ago, but still..."

"Do you know why it is like that, Annie?"

"Why?"

I was holding in my hands the answer and the abnormality I had been searching for the past days, which would lead me to something juicier: the newspaper clipping about Lady Adora's death.

"Because she didn't die giving birth to her son."

That was why in the news on Hugh Hurlingthon's birth it didn't say anything about his mother's death. Because it did not happen that way.

The article hidden inside the back cover was dated a year after the baby was born. She had fallen off the swing and broken her neck, leaving a one-year-old baby and a young, brokenhearted widower behind. And of course, this tragic event made headlines. The despicable thirst for morbid facts and details was already alive and kicking two hundred years ago.

That is also why there was a painting of Lady Adora with a baby. Her baby and her husband. Maybe this tragic and unexpected way of departing was also the reason most of her paintings were locked away where no one could see them. But how can someone fall off that swing? I saw it. It wasn't too high. Yes, you would get bruised if you fell off that rectangular piece of marble, but a broken neck?

"How do you know? Are you guessing again, Saussure? Because, after that 'I need a scientist' speech you gave me..."

I had forgotten I was having a conversation with Annie.

"I'm reading about it right now. She fell off a swing in her garden and broke her neck."

"After having the baby? Was she the biological mother?"

"Yes. But I don't know why someone would want to hide this fact."

"Pain? Grief?"

Not good enough. Even after remembering the old man's words about his father never recovering from his wife's death, it was not as strong as a theory. And how would this connect to his bizarre condition? I told Annie that when we visit the mansion, so she could do a medical examination on Lord Hurlingthon, I needed her to take a look at the crime scene as well. Of course, she said no. With Annie, a negative answer is almost as natural and primitive as a reflex.

"You should take a family doctor. I don't feel comfortable around bodies that breathe. I deal with corpses."

"This one is dead, trust me."

After a brief pause and a little more begging, she agreed to go.

"So, this Lord Hurlingthon person doesn't know about this?"

"Not to my knowledge. I don't believe so."

"Are you going to let him know?"

"No... Not yet. I'm not sure where this might lead. Or if it actually carries some real weight in the investigation."

"Saussure, is that compassion I hear in your voice? Are you starting to believe him?"

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I didn't know what was more frightening: that I was detaching from my objectivity to get lost inside a maze of otherworldly nightmares, or the actual possibility that I had been dealing with a being of fantastic characteristics.

"Because, you know, Saussure, if you believed his story, it could actually help."

I just wanted to tell Annie to shut up. But I needed her, so I had to be on my best behavior.

"Really? Why?"

"Same reason you want me in that crime scene that must be faded away for good now: to get the feel of it. Someone who believes this sort of thing can indeed happen will understand it better because he would be looking at the facts from the inside."

Annie was right. Listening to her had actually paid off.

"Kensington, you're a genius. I've got to go."

"What? Where?"

"I gotta go see about a shaman."

#  VIII

I WAS FAMILIAR WITH THE FOREST LUCY HAD POINTED OUT TO ME. And by that I mean I knew where it was located... because of the triplets' killer. It was the same woods area, but it was indeed quite large. And from what I could gather out of the maid's explanation, it was situated almost at the opposite end of the murder site. Other than that macabre piece of information, I was blind. I had no idea how to get anywhere inside the woods.

When I hung up on Annie, I checked my pocket for the map the maid had drawn for me. My stomach screamed at me as I inspected the greasy sheet with childish doodles. I looked at my watch: it was past two and I was in desperate need of lunch. I decided to make a quick stop at Alistair's diner for a fast fix from the hands of his marvelous cook.

I got into my car and drove a few blocks to the source of all my midday meals and evening beers, especially since I had become a widower like Frederick Hurlingthon. I never liked it when an investigation crept up and touched me with its stinky paws. In this case, the odor was moldy, so close to the reeking presence of a corpse that it was unnerving. And I believe this time... they weren't paws. They were claws. And they were starting to pierce through my skin.

I walked into the muddy looking diner. I know that, to the newcomer, the place could seem in desperate need of a good scrub with hydrochloric acid. But that was to the naked eye. I swear I never saw a cockroach in there... not a live one, anyway. The problem was the decoration. Everything was either dark-brown or reddish-brown or greenish-brown. Basically, one stepped into a pile of muck for lunch and believe it or not, that unholy look had never affected the stream of people coming in and out of the joint.

Alistair had old customers, food-and-alcohol-based relationships he had established over the decades. Word of mouth to attract young fellows with empty stomachs and dry bladders was all Grumpy Al ever needed.

Alistair had gained his nickname a few years before when I had discovered the place. I liked it right away. It was the kind of place you can get in and just get lost. No one noticed you, and if they did, they wouldn't care for you being there. As it turned out, it took Al a great deal of hard work and numerous broken fists to achieve such mood quality. Back when I belonged to the force, we always went out for lunch in groups of three or four. When you're a policeman in the homicide division, you spend most of your time dealing with the lower side of humankind, the side that turns us into murderers, rapists, torturers, thieves and haters. Any chance you get to enjoy laughter with another human being, you take it.

When four loud, rough and very noticeable cops walked into Al's place, it did not take long before he was kicking us off of his property. Any cop will tell you he isn't used to being told what to do when it's not coming from someone with a bigger badge than his. Al could not care less for our rules. The whole deal quickly turned into a fist fight that we promptly ended by arresting Alistair for harassing law enforcement members. On the ride back to the station, one of the guys referred to him as ' _Grumpy Al'_. As soon as we walked in to give Grumpy Al a couple of useless hours inside a cell, the mayor called the department and demanded Alistair's immediate release. We had to let him go. The only explanation I got was a sharp scolding from my boss that I'll remember until the day I die.

The first thing I thought was that I needed to mend my ways with such an influential man. I went back to the joint to apologize. And all I got from Al was a cheese sandwich that made my day. This was his way of accepting my apologies. Not much of a talker, but as years went by, I discovered one hell of a friend... most of the time. It took me some years and a great deal of pain to understand Alistair's connection to the government, but that's a story for another time.

Gaining Grumpy Al's trust meant you always had your seat reserved under his roof. And every stray dog needs a place to crash. So why not where he wouldn't be kicked around?

I took my spot at the bar, and in the blink of an eye I had a cheese sandwich and a coffee cup in front of my nose.

"Richard." Grumpy Al's greeting came seasoned with a head movement. He limped with his left leg, so any motion to that side came easily to him. In time, I realized what I had thought to be a courteous social manner on his part was nothing but Newton's laws working on him.

"Al."

I stuck my nose inside the cup, trying to absorb as much heat as possible. I could feel it in my bones that I would need it later. My cheesy meal -royalty fit, in my opinion- filled my stomach with its lactose content, and I felt ready to deal with the wood's witch. I left money on the counter and as I walked out, I articulated my usual monosyllabic farewell.

"Al."

What I received in return wasn't the usual "Richard". Grumpy Al decided to break out of the accustomed palindromic encounters and let some feeling leak into our gastronomic relationship.

"Be safe, Richard."

I turned and stared at him. I could not believe my ears.

"What's that?"

"I said: _be safe_. You're not the first, but I pray for you to be the last."

If a piano had landed on my head while I was still inside the diner, I would not have been more surprised. How did Alistair know what I was doing? Did he know Lord Hurlingthon? Did he know about Lord Hurlingthon's... _condition_? I was so baffled by his remark I couldn't find a way for my tongue to communicate with my brain. Grumpy Al went inside the kitchen before I could rearrange the scrambled words in my mind. And that's how I lost my chance to find some strong lead, to do some real police work. What he told me meant he knew about the other detec... Wow, hold the horses! Wait a minute: Grumpy Al prayed? Oh, man, that was going to get me in trouble...

I staggered to my car. It took me a few minutes of severe wheel-staring before I could start the car and drive away to my initial destination. It was about a forty-minute drive to the woods. I had to get in and out before night came down on me.

The map indicated a place where I would have to leave the car and start walking. Awesome. First dealing with a warlock. Then, Grumpy Al prayed. And last but not least, physical exercise? Could that day get any better? Maybe some rain? Or snow? Snow would've been nice. I had a couple of extra toes and frostbite sounded exciting.

I have to say, just to give nature a break, that contemplating all the trees and little mountains that had started to surround me was soothing after shaking hands with death. Yes, it was fall, and _alive_ wasn't the word that came to mind when looking at the naked trees or at the hard land as it was being stripped of her green summer dress and forced to cover herself up with a brown turtleneck sweater.

But... there's something about death in nature. Somehow, it seems right. There's nothing forced or violent. It just comes and takes what has fulfilled its function. Then it retreats, leaving room for the new to bloom away. No resentment. No tears. No hard feelings or desires of revenge. Just the sheer joy of knowing that things are taking their place in the long chain of events, as it is expected. No cutting life short before it has time to experiment. No nipping in the bud before it unravels unless there is absolute knowledge there is no place for it on earth.

The peacefulness one might want out of a human's death can only be obtained in nature. Temperance soaks through the course of life, and nature understands. We humans, in our frantic rants for control, have found a way to take naturalness away from death. What a pity we cannot just be.

Lucy had pointed out the entrance through the north side of the woods, but from what I made out of her drawing, there was a path through the west side of the land that could've taken me faster to the _juju_ man. I circled the forest and found the west entrance. A trail started there, unfolding itself in front of my eyes and inter-knitting its lengthy presence with the trees.

I got out of my car and walked into nature's fortress. The path was clearly defined, even in the turquoise ambiance of the moistly guts of the woods. Because after a row of leafless trees taking a cozy nap, every tree was as green and bright as if I had been taking a walk on a summer day.

I had been tottering in that road for a good half an hour and still had not found the crossroads where the path to the shaman house started. Maybe I had missed it? I was too taken by the intensity of the green as I went deeper into the forest. Perhaps I needed go back and try the entrance the maid had recommended. Getting lost in there was the last thing I wanted to experience. I didn't even want to know what kind of animals roamed in there at night.

By then, I had already removed my raincoat and jacket and I had rolled up my sleeves. I was sweating like a pig close to a kitchen knife.

I walked a little farther, but it did not seem to make any difference. Everything was a long road. No forks. No turns. No new paths. I was not even sure the woods were actually so long. Was I walking in circles? At least I should have been on the other side. Or any side, for that matter. I decided to turn back, it was the only option left. I could not think of anything else but to start over. Wasted time, just what I needed.

"Are you lost?"

A deep masculine voice pinned me down. I hadn't heard anyone coming, yet this voice embraced me from the back. I quickly turned and slipped in a mud puddle, but I caught myself before reaching the ground.

The man studied me in a total relaxed state. He had long braided hair and dark eyes. His skin was pale, I guessed from living inside the woods, and he was abnormally tall. A thick deep green cape covered something that appeared to be a tunic, and he used for a cane a tree branch with a peculiar twirl at the top end.

"Uh... well, yes. I'm looking for the shaman. A girl named Lucy told me he had... treated Lord Hurlingthon."

He bowed and started to walk in front of me. I stood in my mud puddle, not quite sure what to do. Was that him? Did the fact that he had walked away mean he had no idea what I was talking about? Just before I decided to shout _Hey, warlock, I need your help!_ he turned on his heels and motioned with his hand for me to follow. I hardly had any option but do as I was told. Wet, lost and filled with questions was not a good way to end the day.

After a short walk from the place we had met, a new path appeared to our right. I took the map out of my pocket and saw that this road wasn't on it. A couple of turns left and right, and the blinding green announced to me that we had reached a special place. I had no idea the woods could look like this. I had never imagined it was possible for a tree to glow... I always thought it was impossible for a man not to die. Enough said.

In the middle of this magical spot, there was a wooden house with no door and it had been completely covered by climbing plants. Some branches even got in and out through the space between the piles of logs forming the walls. I turned to ask my escort if I should knock the nonexistent door or just walk in, but by then, like the door, he was also nonexistent. Great. How was I ever going to get out of the woods?

I still had one more trick up my sleeve.

"HELLOOOOOOOOO??????!!!!!!!" I shouted as loud as I could manage.

"Hello," a tiny voice answered from above my head. I looked up and saw a young girl tiptoeing on a high tree branch. "Please, keep your voice down. There is no need to shout in the woods."

"Sorry!" I shouted back as a reflex, she was so high. But I adjusted to the rules. You won't ever get collaboration from other people if you don't show you are willing to give something in return. "Sorry, I'm looking for the shaman. Do you know where he is?"

"Druid."

Right, Lucy had told me that. Not a shaman, a druid.

"Yes, sorry. A druid. Do you know where I can find him? Is he inside the hou...? No! Wait!"

The girl jumped from the top of the pine tree to the ground. I thought she was going to turn herself into a smudge of bones and flesh, but she landed lightly on her feet as I ran to _catch her_.

"You can call me _Irupé_."

"Because your real name is...."

"Something you can't pronounce."

"Right, _Irupé_." Like that was any easier; what was her real name? Rumpelstiltskin?

Actually, compared to my fellow _the invisible man of the cane_ , she was short and gnome-like: a button for a nose and big, round green eyes. Her copper skin wasn't as bright as her long red hair. She also wore it in a loose braid, but the difference with hers was that several vine branches were intertwined with her own hair. The leaves were the same fluorescent green as the rest of the woods, which made the redness of her hair stand out even more. And bare feet, just like Little John back there.

Delicate movements, smooth and fluid, made her look even more magical. Maybe her real name was Tinker Bell. A heavy goldish-red hooded robe covered her completely.

"Do you know where he is?"

"'He' is me."

"No, see... Don't pull my leg now. I was told he is a man. It's a man that released a girl named Lucy from the spirit of the swamp. And then he tried to help Lord Hurlingthon, but I've been told he wouldn't go into the house."

"'The spirit of the swamp', yes, I remember her. Well, sometimes, Mr...?"

"Saussure."

"No first name?"

"Not for you."

"Sometimes, Mr. Saussure, you have to give people what they want, not what they need. So I send Wayra to help them. If they see a tall, strong man reassuring them that they do belong in this life, they believe him. If they see me, well... they're a bit more skeptical. Wayra dealt with Lucy, but when I heard about Hugh Hurlingthon, I wanted to see him for myself. So I approached the property. Wayra came with me, as I don't usually leave my house, and we travel by foot during the night. From the moment I saw the land, I knew I could not help that poor man, no matter how much I wanted to."

"Why? What did you see?"

"Because that land is dead."

"Yes, Lucy told me nothing grows there, but–"

"No, you are not listening carefully." She glided across the woods to a tree with a hole in the middle and sat inside. "That piece of earth... that place on this planet is dead. When I touched it, I confirmed it. That soil has been drained. If I walk into Lord Hurlingthon's property, I will die. If he comes in here, he will murder my home. There is no possibility that he and I can be in the same place without paying the consequences. The next day, I sent Wayra to explain this to the girl."

"I'm sorry, I don't follow. Why can't you meet him?"

"We are on opposite sides of the spectrum. I deal with life." She touched a wet leaf that had caressed her left foot during our conversation. "He's in some kind of entanglement with death that not even I can undo."

"Because you don't have the sufficient power?" Maybe if I teased her a little she would talk.

"Mr. Saussure, with all due respect, I don't expect you to understand the full extent of my mission in this life. I know you won't because you entered my home from the back door."

"What?"

"The paths. Do you get dressed every morning by putting your shoes on first?"

North entrance. West entrance. Got it.

"No offense, Mr. Saussure, but you're barking at the wrong tree. No pun intended," she said with a mischievous smile.

"I see. And in your opinion, where is the tree that might have an answer for me?"

She crawled out of the hole to help Wayra, who was coming back with a pile of dry wood to light a fire. How did he find anything dry in that green swimming pool? Actually, it was getting colder if I thought about it. I unrolled my sleeves and put my jacket and coat back on, but it wasn't enough as my trousers were still damp.

"Well, I'm no detective, but if I want to find someone, I'd visit the places he or she goes."

"Are you telling me to make an appointment with Death?"

She looked at me with her big eyes and said nothing, as if the one making a delusional statement was me. Where did Death hang out? Hospitals, cemeteries, morgues, car crashes, wars...

"Mr. Saussure, the only thing I could help you with is your own grief. But I sense you're not ready to let go of it yet."

I glowered at her back while she was building the pyre and considered giving her a shove, but it was better to go away than to waste any more energy on this. I thanked her for her time and asked Wayra if he could escort me back to my car.

"You're staying the night, Mr. Saussure. With us."

I excused myself, arguing I had work in the morning, and it was not professional of me to delay Lord Hurlingthon's business any longer.

"There is no way out of the forest in the night for foreigners. Nature's rules. You'll have to wait until morning."

#  IX

I HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO SLEEP IN THE FOREST. If I had gotten lost in the middle of the day, I wouldn't make it out of there alive during the night, not without the help of my friends, the _Tree-Hugger Squad_. I didn't even want to imagine the wild animals that inhabited those woods: wolves, bears, basilisks, manticores... You name it, I bet it was in there.

Wayra lent me one of his monstrous tunics so I was able to get out of my wet clothes and have dinner with them. I have to say it was one of the weirdest experiences I have ever had. It made me miss my cheese sandwich. Although, in that case, the parameters I regularly used to measure _weird_ were, obviously, slightly altered.

When it was time to sleep, we walked into the hut and I was shown to a bed of grass and leaves far more comfortable than it sounds. Wayra and Irupé each had one, too. One thing I noticed when we were getting ready to call it a day was the forest turning off the glow. No more fluorescent green to light up our night. "There is no way out of the forest in the night for foreigners."

The next morning, I was up as soon as the sun shone some light over us. My clothing was neatly hanging on a branch close by. And next to my polished shoes, a warm beverage was waiting for my mouth to make breakfast out of it. Best hotel I had ever stayed in. Irupé and Wayra were nowhere to be seen, so I quickly changed and left the little house while drinking my breakfast on the way. It wasn't coffee. It wasn't tea. _Just swallow it and get the hell out of the spooky woods._

"Good morning," my elfish host greeted me. She was swinging from a vine branch, like everything else there. "Wayra is waiting for you, whenever you're ready."

I thanked her for the hospitality and approached her. Something from our past conversation had lingered with me throughout my sleep.

"So, to sum up our meeting, you think I should talk to Death?"

"Mr. Saussure, have you asked yourself why all life is drained from everything around Hugh Hurlingthon, but not from Hugh himself?"

No, I hadn't, and it was a good question.

"This means you believe him?"

"If you're still wondering that, it's because you are putting your shoes on first."

A view from the inside. I had to give it to Annie. It had turned out to be a pretty good idea. And speaking of Annie...

"I was wondering if, perhaps, you could help me with another case I'm working on. It happened a couple of days ago. Three boys were murdered in these woods, and since you told me no foreigner can leave the forest at night..."

I caught her soft glance before she directed it far away to get lost among the trees. Irupé felt the burden of those incidents. Therefore, she knew they had happened.

"I can't undo that. If I could stop it, I would. But once they're in... there's no going back." A smooth draft of fresh air circled us and moved some leaves, caressing the top of her head.

"Are you saying the woods killed them?"

"It's not so simple."

Wayra came behind me and placed his massive hand over my shoulder. It was time for me to go. I thanked Irupé once more and followed the mute giant through the forest, leaving the ever-flowing fluorescent nature behind us, to reach the waistband of the sleeping trees.

I had stepped back into the regular -and now slightly boring- nature. I turned to thank Wayra for his bodyguard services, but he was gone. Someone needed put a rattle on that guy's neck.

As I drove back to civilization, I thought I would make it a round trip and pay Grumpy Al a visit. I needed some black coffee to wash down all that green stuff I had drunk. And maybe, now that I was prepared for it, I'd ask Alistair about the origin of his knowledge of my elderly client.

~*~

The scene inside the diner repeated itself except for the cryptic ending. I tried to establish some sort of conversation with Grumpy Al, but the man did not like to call attention upon himself and he clammed up.

"Al, how could you be so nice to me yesterday and today you are as wordless as ever?"

A severe silence tailed my question. I was about to give up when he gave in. A little.

"Because you're alive."

"You thought I was going to die in the woods? You make me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

"I've never seen you next to a tree."

"Plant a tree inside this hellhole and then we'll talk." I finished my coffee and focused on my cheese sandwich. "Seriously, Al, give me something. How do you know about my client?" No response. "Please? Do you know what's wrong with him?" Grumpy Al turned his back on me. "Do you know something I don't?" He disappeared into the kitchen.

As I walked to the door, I shouted one more line.

"If I come tonight, do I get a good-night kiss, just in case I die in my sleep?" I heard his fast footsteps approaching me. I had crossed the line, so I made a quick exit.

Home to get a good shower and a set of clean clothing.

Ideally, the plan would've been to call Elliott Sanders -the lawyer- and make an appointment. But since my visit to the Sherwood Forest had extended itself, I would have to show up at this man's door and use the _important client_ card. After all, that lawyer represented all of Lord Hurlingthon's assets to the world, I should get some special treatment.

After a brief visit to my office, I drove to the fancy building where the advocate worked. I had to get the newspaper clipping about Lady Adora's death. It could come in handy when interviewing Sanders, and I needed to read it again without Annie drilling me on the phone to make sure I had all the facts in place. I sat down and studied the writing carefully. Swing, broken neck, a one-year-old baby. Yes, it was all there. I had removed some other articles from a folder and used it to place the most valuable piece of information I had up to that moment.

It wasn't a long drive to Sanders's office. I had no idea if this man knew about his client's condition, so I came up with a story. If he did know, it would be evident. No way to hide you know a man who can't die.

_Sanders and Associates_ was written on the front door. He was the big man. I entered the office with my ragged folder in plain sight and introduced myself to the receptionist. She had round edges and curly hair.

In almost the exact way it had happened with the doctor who talked about God, Lord Hurlingthon's name was magical. I only waited for a few minutes before I got to see the inside of Elliott Sanders's private office. I quickly scanned the premises to locate the bathroom -to a close right- and the kitchen -a farther away left, down the hall-.

Sanders was, indeed, the big man, also with round edges like his assistant, but he was much taller and wider than anyone in the room. The proportions of his body were completely inadequate for the tiny world Mr. Sanders inhabited. As a consequence of this, the visual effect made everything around him look smaller than in reality. Elliott Sanders should have been named Gulliver, and I should've introduced myself as a member of the Lilliputian Party. His prominent stomach stretched the vest under his jacket to its maximum. I was afraid one of the buttons would pop out like a cork and kill the lights. A pocket watch dangled from a chain on the left side of his body. His brown hair was smarmed down. He had a pair of small, round glasses with a thin gold frame. All of it was arranged to give Elliott Sanders an impeccable appearance, even if everything within his personal space seemed ready to burst out of the imposed stretchiness.

The lawyer walked out of an office with his hand ready to shake mine. Massive hand. Massive handshake. Sanders led me to his office and we sat down to have a friendly chat. Every single piece of furniture between those four walls was too small to contain that man's dimensions, even if they had been custom-made -which they were-. I felt like a set piece rather than a grown man inside that room. The desk. The armchairs. A bookcase. The fireplace. The drapes. Even the coffee table and the sofa in front of it... All of them were above average in terms of size, which made me feel like my body mass had suddenly diminished as soon as I'd stepped in. Nevertheless, it wasn't enough to make Elliott Sanders's proportions look normal.

"How may I help you?" Gulliver inquired after closing the door and before taking a seat.

"Well, you see, Mr. Sanders, your longtime client Lord Hurlingthon, has requested my services to find the whereabouts of some distant relatives. I assume it is no secret to you how old Lord Hurlingthon is."

"I don't exactly know Lord Hurlingthon's age, but I do know he is an elderly person. Is he ill? I only deal with his personal assistant, uh..." He contemplated his hands for a moment, trying to read in them a name he couldn't remember. Finally, he got to his feet and reached for Lord Hurlingthon's files: a black, hardcover folder containing several documents and a manila envelope. The attorney read the first page of the documents. "Marlon Lermontov. That's his name."

Of course, who else? Charming gundog that Marlon.

"Right, Mr. Lermontov. Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting him. Lord Hurlingthon isn't ill at the moment. It's just old age, you understand."

"Of course, of course." He regained his position behind the desk.

"It has occurred to me that, perhaps, our fragile client's memory is probably not in its best shape. If you could consult his will to tell me who is set to inherit the Hurlingthon's fortune, since Lord Hugh doesn't have heirs, I'd be most grateful. Maybe he forgot to mention somebody to me."

"I understand. Let me see..."

Mr. Sanders removed the manila envelope from the folder and opened its metal clasp. A stack of sheets stapled together and a smaller rectangular envelope came out. The lawyer sorted through the papers, searching for my answer. That was why Quiet Charlie wasn't able to tell me anything about the will. Lord Hurlingthon had tried to keep his matters as private as possible. He had only used a banking institution for the money because in this day and age, he had no choice.

I noticed that Sanders didn't pay attention to the sealed yellowy envelope. It appeared to be ancient. I presumed the glue to be completely dry. Anyone could've easily opened it. Yet, it had remained unopened through time. I had to read it. Since the friendly giant was absorbed by his task, I stretched my arms in front of me and slid them over the shiny surface of the desk, in an effort to show more interest. With quiet intention, I touched the old envelope just enough to turn it over. It wasn't glued as I had imagined. It was sealed with red wax, and the signet imprinted on it was an _H_.

Now, I needed to read it.

"Maybe there's some information in this one," I suggested to the attorney. He lifted his eyes from the will.

"No, no. That letter is to be given to Lord Hugh Hurlingthon's heirs upon his death. It was his father's express wish. It is most certainly not a legal document."

"I understand." I managed a formal grin across my face, trying to disguise my greed. "And who this person might be?"

"Aha!" Elliott Sanders blurted out, as he repeatedly pressed against the paper one of the ten Weisswurst sausages he had for fingers. "Mr. Marlon Lermontov again. He's the sole heir to the fortune and unless you find somebody else, the recipient of the letter."

A gundog, indeed.

"So, no relatives from the paternal side?"

"No."

"Nothing on the mother's either?"

"I'm afraid not. If they exist, they aren't named in here. And I should add that at the time the final draft of this will was designed, they were not taken into consideration. Which I'm sure it will give you an insight about who is the fittest candidate to stay next to Lord Hurlingthon in his final days."

"For sure, for sure. And has Mr. Lermontov appointed anyone from his own family, in case something should happen to him?"

"Ah... Yes, let me..." He turned a couple of pages, and at the bottom of one of them, he found a name. "His son, Alexis."

I was out of questions and it was about time to get back into action. I thanked Sanders for his time, and then I started to search through my pockets for a business card to leave behind, in case he remembered anything. I placed the worn-out folder on the desk. The man began to reinforce some order upon all the scattered documents over the table. The first thing he did was to place the will and the old letter inside the manila envelope, then close it. As soon as he did it, I started coughing loudly and desperately, choking on my own nonexistent sore throat. I did it with such emphasis the poor man began to shake in his boots, afraid that I might die right there.

I gestured for some water and he immediately yelled for Blanche -the loop lady-, who managed to arrive by the time Sanders was already trying to fetch the water himself. They crashed against each other at the door and argued about how she was never of any use in case of an emergency. Finally, they managed to untangle from one another and directed their efforts to reach the kitchen. But they never stopped quarreling or getting in each other's way in the process.

As soon as they were out of my sight, I kept the loud coughs while I opened the metal clasp from the manila envelope and reached for the letter. I closed it and then I stored the piece of evidence in my inside pocket on the left side of my jacket. At last, I placed the manila envelope back in its initial place. I coughed less, trying to make them believe I was getting a hold of myself, but they were so blindsided by their own fear they didn't even remember me.

When Sanders and Blanche finally managed to get me the water, my throat actually hurt. I drank from the glass that was handed to me, as Sanders dismissed Blanche with a condemnatory hand movement and she answered with a glowering look. I quickly apologized for the outburst and took one of my business cards from my wallet, where I always keep them. After I handed it to the lawyer, I grabbed my folder and left the building filled with recommendations for cough pills, mint ointments, and doctor's appointments.

"Because sometimes, son, a little cough is all we need to kick the bucket," Sanders stressed at the end of our meeting when my feet were trying to flee out of his office.

#  X

I WAS DRIVING BACK TO MY OFFICE TO OPEN PANDORA'S ENVELOPE when I saw Annie's car parked outside Grumpy Al's place. I decided to kill two birds with one stone and pulled over, parking right behind Annie. I took the folder with me so she could check it out. Once inside, I found her hiding away in one of the booths, waiting for her lunch.

"Kensington."

"Saussure, I called you a million times. What have you been doing?"

"Stealing evidence. The usual. You?" I placed the folder against the window and took a seat in front of Annie.

"Dismembering bodies."

"Hopefully dead ones?"

"Most of the time." Her meal arrived and I ordered the same for myself.

"Anything interesting in them?"

"An overused kidney with stones the size of marshmallows. Your turn."

I handed her the folder containing the article and she started to read it. Meanwhile, I reached into my raincoat pocket to take the envelope out. What I found instead were the three letters I had stored away days ago before leaving for Truthful Willy's home. I left them on the table and searched for the envelope I had stolen.

"Maybe they murdered her and that's why the family... What's that?"

She reached for the recently dug up letters as I finally found the one from the lawyer's office hiding inside my jacket. Each of us opened the letter that was of our personal interest.

I broke the red seal carefully and the four sides of the envelope unfolded in front of me. This letter was ancient. Every part of it was handmade. The open wrapping resting on my lunch table, staring at me with its four sharp edges, meant that the content I longed to read was within my reach.

A doubt of an ethical nature assaulted me. If this letter was strictly directed to whoever survived Hugh Hurlingthon, why should I violate this expressed desire? If it was from the hand of Lord Frederick himself to anyone but his own son, then maybe it was knowledge best left unknown. There were too many dark corners in this family's history, despite Lord Hugh's openness. And as I had been learning for almost a week, most of this friendly confidence extended out to me at Hugh Hurlingthon's own command was due to the fact that all the vaults had been carefully locked before he could even acknowledge it. He was blinded by his father's unconditional care and constant worry, up to the point of Lord Frederick addressing a letter to a complete stranger. Little did this man know his poor son was condemned. Little did I know I could be the foreign recipient of a letter sent through time.

Somehow, this paper bomb had placed me in the strange position of standing at the edge of shattering a life to pieces. This wasn't the first time I had flirted with the rugged cliff of unrevealed truth. But it was certainly the first time this courtship could end with the kiss of death. And wasn't exactly _that_ what Lord Hurlingthon was looking for? Maybe by feasting on the letter's content, I could put together the pieces of a broken death. Perhaps there was nothing of value trapped inside a sheet of paper folded twice and never once unfolded. I was still unsure about how much this letter mattered for the job I was hired to do.

In reality, now that I had stolen it, there was no turning back. I couldn't glue it back together and return it to Elliott Sanders. I could not give it to Marlon. He was a snitch and would tell Lord Hurlingthon about my indiscretion.

"I've got a love letter from 'Ady' to 'My Dearest'. You?" Annie broke the spell of my philosophical rant.

"I don't know yet."

"You haven't read it yet? Don't be such a wimp."

"Thanks, Kensington. You're as smooth as sandpaper."

"And you are as deadly as a snot ball."

"Bite me."

"No thanks, salmonella doesn't taste good. Do you want me to do it?"

She stretched her arm above the table and over the food to reach for Lord Frederick's letter, but I caught her by the wrist and stopped the motion.

"No... It's a letter from Hugh's father... to be opened after the death of his son. The lawyer that handles the family's affairs had it and I stole it from him."

Annie retrieved her arm and watched me from across the table. I remained immobile, contemplating the past, the present and the future, all wrapped up almost two centuries ago.

"Look, Richard, I know you're questioning your duty to Lord Hurlingthon. And if it is in his best interest for you to read this letter. But there's little else you can do now. It's either finding out what that man was hiding from his son or marching right now to Lord Hurlingthon's door and telling him his mother didn't die during childbirth. You don't have many options left."

She was partially right. I still had to visit Death's humble abode, according to the shaman girl. And if worst came to worst, I could always keep a secret.

I approached the thin layer of paper for the first time and removed it from its distressed case. I carefully unfolded it, feeling its physical lightness mixed with the conceptual heaviness that was drenching through my fingers.

The first thing I looked at was the signature at the bottom. Yes, it was from Frederick Hurlingthon himself. The date was appropriate to the time the records said he died. A well-trimmed calligraphy, executed with a now pale ink, delivered a message I needed to know. The initial police-like hunch I had the first time I saw the letter in the attorney's office had been right. The investigation had now taken a 180º turn, facing me once more with the decision of informing Lord Hurlingthon right away about the discovery or following its trail to see where it led.

"Well? Is it a confession?" Annie was at the edge of her seat, about to snatch the letter from my hands to devour it with her eyes.

"Yes, it's a confession."

"I knew it. Did he kill her?"

"No, he didn't."

I read the short letter repeatedly, reassuring the knowledge I had just released from its prison of two centuries.

"What does he confess, then?"

"The crime of having a big heart." Annie gawked at me with wide expectant eyes. "Hugh is not his biological son. Lord Frederick wanted to keep this a secret out of fear of his own relatives, who might have stripped Hugh of his fortune and tossed him out."

"There's hardly any danger now. They must all be dead."

"' _Make no mistake about this. He might not be my own flesh and blood but Hugh is, for all intent and purposes, my son. That was my decision years ago, and I will see it through.'"_

He certainly did.

A heart-wrenching mood squashed us from above and we could barely look at each other, little less stop contemplating the message from the grave. Words were not enough to express the sense of injustice invading us. Hugh Hurlingthon had been leading a never-ending life of lies. He was no _lord_. All the concepts and notions he had about his family had been completely distorted. It might have seemed as if the mist cast over his origins was created by his father for his own good but, nevertheless, this over-lived man needed to know the truth.

It was then I saw my purpose coming full circle. This was what I was hired to do. To light up a fire in the middle of the fog.

Still in silence, Annie returned to her meal. Mine had come and it was getting cold, but my stomach was twisted like a pretzel after all the reading activity. Something that bothered me was Lord Frederick's need to communicate this to someone other than his son. If he didn't want the secret out, why write a letter in the first place? Why did he want the truth to pass over his son and reach the next of kin?

I decided to take one of the letters from the past that I had accidentally brought with me. There were two left. Like Annie's, this one was also a love letter from ' _Ady'_ to ' _My Dearest'_. They were romantic letters from Lady Adora to her husband, praising his kind heart and worshiping him for changing her dull, oppressing life forever. She was no _lady_ either. From what I could manage to piece together, Adora had entered this marriage with an out-of-wedlock child.

No... wait a minute. Hugh hadn't been born yet. The gardenias' painting in the guesthouse. Adora was already living at the mansion when she was pregnant. Did Lord Frederick marry her while she was expecting? According to the marriage certificate that was impossible. Adora cheated on Frederick and got pregnant. That's how it had happened.

Annie was focusing on her plate without eating. She held a fork with the right hand and turned it nonstop. I had seen her like that before. It was how Annie looked when she came up with a theory. Deer in headlights body position. Head perched like a bull ready to charge. Claws clasping whatever was at hand and fumes coming out of her ears. An entirely new mythological creature.

"What is it, Kensington?"

She came out of her sudden catalepsy attack and used her human tweezers to grab the forgotten folder about Lady Adora's death. She removed the newspaper clipping from its case and inspected it. Then, she turned the sheet over and read the back of the article. Like any newspaper, it was written on both sides. It contained information not related to the case.

"Where is the rest?"

"What are you talking about?" I had read the article over and over again. "That's all there is. It ends on that page." I took it from her hands and read the final sentences. "There's a closing paragraph. They send their condolences to the family. It ends here."

"I don't mean that. Look at the top right corner."

A staple was attached to that corner. And when I touched it with my thumb from the front and my index finger from the back, I understood Annie's interest on the reverse side of the clipping. I imitated her and flipped the paper to examine it. There was another small triangular piece of paper between the complete article and the folded metal legs of the staple. Some other sheet, also from a newspaper and possibly from the same time according to the matching coloring, had been torn.

Another news article had been saved along with this one. Centuries later, when staple guns became of everyday use, someone had stapled them together. And maybe they were both hidden in the back cover of the scrapbook. Years later, quite possibly, someone else -or the same person- tore one clipping out and left the other safely stored in the secret compartment. But why not toss both? Why leave evidence behind?

"You'll have to sort through all the files they gave you. See if any of it fits."

No, I didn't think I had it. It wasn't in my office. That information was gone. I had a better choice that could also give me some room for a little more prodding.

"Do you know where Death hangs out?"

"Besides my cutting table?"

"The obituaries section. I'll go to the library and check the newspaper archives. I'll see what else I can find on Adora and the rest of the family."

Obviously, this case was about what I didn't have. That missing paper clipping wasn't too distant in time from the one already in my possession. Anything I could find about the Hurlingthons from that period that I hadn't already read could be a possibility, right? And it had to be big news. Someone had tried to destroy the evidence.

"And the obituaries? Why do you need to read them?"

I didn't want to admit to Annie that I was taking the advice of a four-foot-tall druid.

"You know, to check the date... To find out if the family made a big announcement about it or not. What loving words her husband had used to–uhm... You know, to get a feel of it. You know..."

Annie nodded, although she was not completely convinced. I scarfed down my now frozen lunch, and she ordered coffee when the waitress came to retrieve the dirty dishes. We agreed that the following morning I would pick her up and go to the Hurlingthon manor. And as she gave the old man a medical examination, I would break into the guesthouse. But Annie made a smart remark. I had no idea how to pick a lock. My entire plan consisted of smashing a window or something. However, I had seen the reaction of the help: no one was used to receiving visitors. If Marlon, who was already aware of my desire to search the house, found anything broken, he would know it was me.

I needed the only person who could open a lock without leaving a trace. Nasty Joe. He was known for picking locks, his nose, and other unholy body parts. I had used him before. He was a spare, greasy stick. Quite a disgusting fellow. And Annie hated his guts. Every time he was around, he had tried to make a move on her. Or to... you know... _pick_ at something. And Annie has never been a Sleeping Beauty. She could throw a punch better than me. Nobody in the force wanted to mess with her. I could understand her. She was the only woman in her field. Not that she had been a princess when Kara lived, but now she was the only one left.

We were both alone.

Our coffee arrived and it was the best part of this meeting: dark, warm, and delicious. Nothing could ruin my romance with caffeine, not even Annie moving her cup aside to reach for the last pending letter. It was probably another love message, like the other two.

From a brownish envelope, Annie removed a piece of paper thicker than the other two. Tossing the wrapping to the side, she spread out the paper sheet to start reading. A smaller paper, also carefully folded, fell from the inside of the letter to the table. Annie took it and extended it. As she remained a couple of seconds focusing on the smaller sheet, I could see her eyeballs going fast from left to right.

"Uh–Richard?"

"Yeah?"

"When you go to the library, you may want to check the murder cases from that period."

"Annie, we already established it's an unlikely possibility that Frederick killed his wife."

Annie turned the paper over and allowed me to read the message.

' _I'm sorry I killed you. It was not my intention. I failed to foresee the full extent of my actions. Please, treat him like your own._

Ady'

#  XI

A SUICIDE NOTE ADDRESSED TO A DEAD PERSON. Fantastic.

I left the diner more confused than ever with the case. What kind of sick person writes an apology to her murder victim? Only a mentally disturbed one. But she had asked the deceased to take care of ' _him like your own'_ , which meant she had expected a dead person to be able to keep her wish. So far, the only person to my knowledge who had done that was Lord Frederick, but Adora hadn't murdered him. Frederick lived until his adopted son became a full grown man. This didn't make sense. And I still hadn't linked all this information to the main purpose of my search: to find out why Lord Hurlingthon couldn't die. I had to keep that note aside until I was able to find the answer to such a riddle. Where was Oedipus when one needed him?

Spending an afternoon diving into piles of moldy newspaper records wasn't my idea of a dynamic research but it had to be done. The missing article was essential to get a clearer picture of this puzzle. Life lesson: When you know someone wants to hide something, that's the exact thing you need to find out. The tricky thing so far had been not knowing what fell into that category. Everything seemed so open and organized. So well put together... which is more often than not, a flaming signal that someone has wrapped a body up with the dining room carpet and hid it inside the tumble dryer.

I decided to start with the obituaries section, checking for Adora and Frederick's announcements while keeping an eye on any tall, faceless figure, with a black hooded cape holding a scythe. Irupé had instructed me to mingle with her, so this was me being meticulous. Not closing my mind to the insane notion of finding our final destiny walking among us to deliver the _coup de grâce_ to whom she might find worthy of it. However, if I took into consideration the women in charge of running that section of the library... Let's just say it might not be so difficult to find Death rolling up and down those aisles. _Retirement_ was not part of any dictionaries there.

As expected, Lady Adora's obituary had the date of the article I held in my possession, not Hugh's date of birth. A reassuring confirmation, but nothing else there. Then, I checked for her husband in the same section. And there he was, in consonance with the records delivered to me by the family. So that part was right. Lady Adora had not killed him before she died. Lord Frederick had passed away many years after his wife. I considered the possibility that she might have been mentally ill and that was the reason why she had written the note. Which also helped me understand why someone would fall off that swing. It was a long stretch, but I was willing to give it a try.

No deadly visits during the obituary activities. Maybe I was not teasing her enough.

Next, I focused on the news section. I checked for the article about Lady Adora's accident and found it in the exact shape I already had it. Therefore, my next move would be to ask for the records going ten years after and ten years before her death.

I got out of the building to get a cup of coffee with a large portion of fresh air, an endangered species inside the overly informed walls of that building. I needed a break from the past, from the perspective a reading afternoon like that gives you.

What qualifies as important and what doesn't? And who decides that? I had read numerous articles about episodes that no longer mattered. But at the time they had occurred, they were in every mouth that had literate eyes. It is supposedly said that the word on the street becomes the news in the journal, but I have my doubts. Does a regular man get a piece for leading a responsible life? Is the everyday woman mentioned with a two-page spread for finding a way to raise her children and prevent them from developing into criminals? No. It's the murderer who is mentioned in capital letters and discussed on every corner. And pay attention: the article is never about the victim. Instead, it goes on and on about the perpetrator. The victim is nothing but an object, a vessel for damaging actions. Yet, the glory of appearing in the news goes to the one who dared to break the law. He is the one rewarded with the attention of an entire nation for believing he had the right to take someone's life.

The world is irrevocably rotten from its hot center to the coolest mountaintop. Putrid.

Once I had controlled my inflammatory desire to burn the entire library down, I went back inside and took my place behind the voluminous piles of history waiting to be unveiled. Taking Lady Adora's death as the axis, I could either go to the time before or after she had died. But the trick was to make an educated guess and choose the option less likely to involve large amounts of reading. Since death is a state that prevents you from making headlines, I decided to revisit the past of the past. Life tends to be more eventful when you're alive.

I sifted through the chosen pile. A whole year of nothing related to the family passed before my eyes. Then, I came across Hugh's birth. It was the same article as the one I had already read. There was only one newspaper in town back then. Lucky me.

More months flew by me. And when I had reached the end of year number two, I came across the most perplexing piece yet. It was an article signed by the director of the newspaper himself. In it, he was apologizing to the Hurlingthon family and the rest of the readers for the unforgivable mistake of publishing an announcement in the obituaries about Lord Frederick's death. He had learned from the family that it was a gruesome piece of erroneous information. He let the entire community know that Lord Frederick was in perfect health and he condemned anyone who had crafted such an evil prank to the family and to the journal staff by feeding them an untruthful fact.

I went back to the obituaries with the date mentioned in the public apology. There it was. Big. Loud. It dominated the page, announcing Frederick's sudden death. It stated their grief for the early departure of a dear member of that close community. I had to give it to Tinker Bell, everything kept leading me back to Death's household. The most striking difference with the rest of the announcements in that section was that this one had been crafted under the journal's orders. It wasn't on behalf of the Hurlingthon family. In fact, there was no statement on their part, besides the apologies from the newspaper that they had obviously requested when they found out about the misunderstanding.

Maybe it wasn't a misunderstanding at all.

Maybe Lady Adora was a mentally unbalanced woman. Something about her husband had pushed her buttons and she ended up attacking him. Now, it was possible she believed she had murdered him but, in reality, she just injured him -severely or not, I couldn't know-. The point is, he recovered. Then, a valet, a maid, the gardener... whoever worked at the mansion at the time, let the cat out of the bag and the journalists caught it.

That scenario also fitted with the note. Adora was convinced she had killed Frederick. But when she was forced to confront the truth about him being alive, her mental condition got worse. After a period of almost two years and a baby, Adora could no longer live with the burden of being the murderer of her husband and living with his ghost, so she committed suicide. In that short note, she was saying goodbye.

This also explained the lack of a proper obituary from the Hurlingthons, the act of hiding the truth from Hugh, and the family's request for a public apology. If they admitted that something had happened to Lord Frederick, Adora's condition could have been the talk of the town. So they did what rich people do best. Play it cool. But who had saved this information? Frederick? Adora? What was the use? Burn it. Throw it out. Cross your fingers and hope your kid never finds out his mother had abandoned him, his father was not his real father and that, in reality, he was by himself in this world. All that careful planning and hiding and still, their child had remained isolated from life.

I stayed the rest of the afternoon reading the files I had requested, but I couldn't find anything I hadn't read before. Somehow, the full circle that those facts formed had turned into a dead end. Yes, I had discovered the darkest secrets of those people, but I was still looking for an explanation that would allow me to understand Hugh's condition. I was beginning to doubt the hunch I had followed to get there. There was nothing else to go on, and yet, the question remained. Should I tell the man paying for my coffee about the distorted relationship his parents held? Even if I never found another way to help him? I had found truth, but so far, not the kind that helped. I needed to find a way to link it all to Hugh's condition.

When I left the library, a thin, sticky rain was falling on the pavement. I didn't want to go back to Grumpy Al's after everything that had happened at lunch. All the information seemed to linger there, compressed in the dark ambiance Grumpy Al provided. And the grayness of the world around me didn't help. The streets were colder than the day before. I had to go home and burn some steak for supper. That was definitely the worst day for me to find out about the dysfunctional family I had been hired to dismember.

I had one last chore to get done. Then, I could open a beer and let the alcohol numb the memory cells in my brain. I picked up the phone. Some final arrangements needed to be made.

"Hello?"

"Joe, it's Saussure."

"Hey, Ricky, what's up?"

"Don't call me that. I have five bills here with your name on it, saying I'll pick you up tomorrow at eight for a little job. You say nothing. You know nothing. You see nothing."

"See what?"

"Exactly. And don't oversleep. You don't want me waking you up again. You didn't like it last time."

"I remember."

"Good."

Luckily for me, the rest of the day didn't last long.

~*~

Nasty Joe drove his car behind us. Annie was with me. I had to keep them apart as much as I could. Besides, I didn't want Joe snooping around while I searched the guesthouse. He would park outside the property at a cautious distance, and I would lead him inside. Joe would do his job, and then I'd drive him back to his vehicle.

In the car, I updated Annie on the breakthroughs I had made the previous afternoon.

"So, she was actually a murderer," Annie replied after a long silence that followed the exposition of facts and my theory.

"In her mind, at least."

"And you're positive that _that_ was the clipping missing?"

"There was nothing else there, Annie. I checked. The only piece of information worth hiding. It fits."

"Alright."

That was revolting. The sound of Annette Kensington approving me was like getting hit on the face with a baseball bat.

"Don't–don't _'_ _Alright'_ me. What is it?"

"I just don't feel it. I don't know."

"Well, my gut tells me I'm right."

" _Well_ , my gut and your gut aren't the same, Richard."

"Thank God, because it would mean we're conjoined twins. A rather unpleasant image."

"I'll say."

A few miles before reaching the limit between Lord Hurlingthon's land and his neighbor, I pulled over and made Nasty Joe join us. He leaped into the back seat and gave Annie his best crooked smile. Of course, that implied showing some holes Annie had left the last time they shared the same perimeter. He had tried to make a move on her, so she shoved her fist into his mouth as fast and as forceful as she could. The end result of that addition was two, as in Nasty Joe spat out two teeth.

"Annette Kensington, may I say you look dashing this morning?"

Nasty Joe placed his bony hand on her left shoulder and Annie brushed him off immediately.

"Touch me again and I'll snap those worms you have for fingers. Or do you prefer another broken nose?"

"No, thank you _señorita_... Can I at least smell your shiny hair?"

"I have a bag full of scalpels here. Give it a try and we'll see."

After that, Nasty Joe accommodated himself in the car as far away from Annie as he could manage, assuring us a silent and bloodless ride to work. The lack of noisy distractions allowed me to pay attention to something that reminded me of Irupé. The land next door to the Hurlingthon manor was a field covered in vegetation, dying because the season was changing, of course. But the moment Lord Hurlingthon's land started, it was bare soil. No plants following its inner circle of life. Yes, I had noticed the lack of green the first time. But now, one of the many things the druid had told me reappeared in my mind: ' _Have you asked yourself why all life is drained from everything around Hugh Hurlingthon, but not from Hugh himself?'_

As it happened, Annie had noticed it too.

"That's strange."

"Yes, I know," I replied.

"Uh–Richard... about yesterday... I completely forgot. I don't know if I acted insensitively or not. But if I did, it wasn't my intention..."

"It's fine, Annie. She was your friend, too. You are allowed to miss her as well."

"Yeah... I'm sorry you had to work yesterday."

"It's best if I do. Life goes on... and on... and on... for some people, anyway."

Why did she break the silence? I liked it better that way. It's easy to control my mental chattiness when I'm saying to myself things I don't want to hear, but I can't control other people's mouths. Shut up, Annie. Let me cover my grief with some mercy. Just... shut up.

And off we were, for a fun day of fieldwork.

#  XII

I DROVE UP TO THE MAIN HOUSE but I parked away from the windows, so Marlon wouldn't see me this time.

"Where are your tools?" I asked after I saw Nasty Joe leaving the car with nothing but his unpolished presence. The excessively tight khaki pants he wore were too short for him. A gray shirt that should've been white and an orange tie that was, again, too short and too wide, didn't help to remove the attention from those inquisitive fingers of his. Some people swore that, at times, Nasty Joe was so into it, you could actually hear him scratch his own brain. And to be completely honest, the brain was the best part of his body-picking business.

Nasty Joe opened his leather jacket and showed me its inside. It was lined with all kinds of tools, from screwdrivers and pins to tweezers and hooks of different sizes and handles. And those were the pieces I was able to identify.

"I travel light," he responded, closing his jacket and opening his dreadful mouth to let a scary grin out.

The three of us walked around the main house and reached the guest residence at the back. I explained to Nasty Joe what I wanted him to do. He removed his jacket and placed it on the ground next to the door. Then, he proceeded to squat down to work. Annie and I stood in front of him, trying to block the view from anyone coming from the main house.

"I'll need two hours, Annie."

"That's too much. I don't think I can keep it up for so long. It's just a routine check."

"The man is two hundred and thirteen years old, there's nothing routine-like about a person like that."

"So, he's a mummy, uh?" Nasty Joe asked.

"Mind your own business, Joe," I snapped. "Annie, please, extend it as much as you can. I might have to remove some paintings from their frames. It could take me a while. Talk to him, pretend you want to make an assessment of his mental health."

"I'll see what I can do. No promises."

" _Voilá,"_ Nasty Joe said behind our backs, and the squeaky sound of a door opening was heard. The treasure chest's lock had been broken and I could sift through it as I pleased. Nasty Joe taped the lock, so it wouldn't close until I wanted it to. Then, he set himself to rearrange his tools.

After that, I led them to the glass garden. I wanted Annie to inspect the place before she went to see Lord Hurlingthon. Annie walked into the abandoned flower garden and approached the swing.

"This is it?"

"Yes, that's our smoking gun."

Annie took a stroll around the swing. She examined the marble seat. Right after that, she pulled the rusty chains to prove their strength and got to her knees to examine the ground. I had no idea she was such a good bloodhound.

"So, Robert, is there a bunny down this hole?" I asked my sniffing partner.

After taking a closer look at the distance from the floor to the seat, she got to her feet and dusted the dirt off from her knees.

"No."

"Oh, come on, Annie. It fits."

"Your brilliant theory is that she committed suicide by letting herself fall from a swing that holds a distance of fifteen inches from the ground? What else you've got? Death by excessive laughter?"

I contemplated my idea like a sandcastle being swallowed by the sea.

"What if she stood on the top of the seat and fell backward? That could break your neck, right?"

"If you land stiff as a table, sure. But I doubt that's even possible. At best, you'll get severe bruising and broken bones. Maybe a concussion. There are far more effective ways to kill yourself. Death by swing is absurd. A broken neck from that is one chance in–"

"One chance is all I need." I walked up to Nasty Joe who was occupied peeping at the mansion, probably trying to find a way to break in. "Annie, just... look around. Try to understand what happened here. I have to take Joe to his car and I'll be right back."

I drove Nasty Joe out of the Hurlingthon manor and paid his fee. Then, I proceeded to inflict upon him the usual threat I employed when making deals with sewer rats which basically consisted of assuring the rat in question that, if he talked, I would personally break his legs. And in Joe's case the warning package came with a free treat: Nasty Joe not only would be needing clutches, but I'd also have an extensive conversation with his mother. Nasty Joe was more scared of his own mommy than the police. She took him to church every Sunday. Unbelievable.

After following protocol, I jumped back into my car and raced to meet Annie. The clock started ticking the moment Nasty Joe had opened the door. I had to get in, find my clues and get out. By that point, I was convinced that, even if Hugh Hurlingthon's story wasn't real, I still had a lot of work to do trying to figure out the deal with his parents. If his age wasn't as advanced as he claimed, maybe the truth would bring him some peace and allow him to die. And if he was telling the truth, then the road to death was through his relatives. I still needed the back of those paintings. I needed a date that would allow me to confront him with the manufactured story, or that would empower my search.

Once back in the mansion, we went to the front door and my buddy Marlon let us in. As usual, he flew upstairs in his cage while Annie and I took the stairs. On the way up, I gave the coroner one last recommendation. "Please, keep Marlon occupied. He's the most annoying fruit fly."

~*~

"Lord Hurlingthon, my name is Dr. Kensington. With your permission, I'll be performing a routine examination to make sure everything on the medical record provided by your current physician is accurate," Annie explained after Lord Hurlingthon had received us in his bedchambers. She was far more composed than me upon the first sight of my boss. I guess his appearance was not so distant from the bodies Annie dealt with.

"You get a lot of demented people requesting your services, Mr. Saussure?" Lord Hurlingthon asked me in his decomposing voice after agreeing to the procedure.

"Well... I'm afraid so, s-Lord Hurlingthon." However, in the category of talking corpses, he had been my first. "I'm sorry for this inconvenience. But as you can understand, this will only make the case stronger."

"I understand. You have lasted longer than any of the others. I appreciate your composure."

His gracious politeness made my heart warmer, despite the coldness his body exuded. How was I ever going to tell that poor man that the father he had longed to please was not his father? Where was I going to find the courage to let him know he did share the first year of his life with his mother?

"I'll need someone from your household to remain here with us, Lord Hurlingthon, as an eyewitness to the examination. Mr. Saussure informed me that Mr. Marlon is a man of your complete trust. If you could ask him to stay..."

Marlon was instructed to officiate as a witness and as any good gundog, he stayed by his master's feet. Annie explained to the men that she would fill out a form with all the results from the tests. Then, she and Marlon would be signing the medical record. This ridiculous formalism was Annie's way of helping me.

"Lord Hurlingthon, if you don't mind, I would like to revisit the pictures I saw a couple of days ago." Hugh agreed and Marlon reacted immediately.

"I'm afraid that's impossible, Lord Hurlingthon. I have to stay here with you. Mr. Saussure won't have anyone to escort him."

"That's fine, Marlon. I won't get lost. Two hallways to the left, then three to the right. Correct?" I saw Annie reaching for her briefcase to get the medical worksheet and I hastened to aid her. "Let me help you with that, Dr. Kensington."

I snatched the papers myself, right after stealing a scalpel from the black leather case where she stored them. I had seen it before, but I had no idea why she wanted her cutting devices outside the autopsy table. That was Annie, I guess. Always ready to cut the world open.

As I left the bedroom with Marlon's eyes burning the back of my neck, I heard Annie saying to Lord Hurlingthon: "If at any time you get tired, say so and I'll stop immediately." To which she received the piteous answer, "It's alright child. I wish I could be that breakable. It would make everything much easier."

I rushed downstairs and out of the main house.

I entered the guesthouse and rested my body against the closed door behind me. While I tried to normalize my breath, the Hurlingthons stared at me from their frame, holding themselves with aristocratic composure. They all had kind eyes filled with love, which had been obviously added by the artist. A wicked bond existed between that man and that woman. A dark cloud, pregnant with dangerous ideas, was forming inside Adora's head. And judging by the baby's age, it had been raining for a while. I tiptoed to the middle of the room and looked around, feeling the burden of being an outsider. The decoration was different from the last time I had looked into the house. Now, everything was covered with white linens. Was Marlon on to something? Maybe Lucy had ratted me out.

It was truly a ghost house. I was waiting for Adora's spirit to appear at any moment. Actually, that would've come in handy. I'd have asked her a thing or two.

The family picture was immense. It was simply impossible for me to take it down by myself. I decided to place the sofa in front of the frame and then lay the cushions between the wall and the furniture. After doing it, I took a chair and placed it next to the frame. With the scalpel I had borrowed from Annie, my intention was to cut the wire on the back of the painting and let the cushions soften the landing. Once done, there would be no turning back. Pretty soon Marlon would figure it out and he'd be breathing down my neck. I'd need a scarf since everything coming from that man was gelid.

But my master plan didn't work, as apparently the wire was too thick and the scalpel couldn't cut it. I needed tweezers or something of the sort.

I removed the white sheet from the desk and started to open the drawers, trying to find anything that could have been left there. Every single one of them was empty. When I opened the sixth drawer, on the lower right, I could not believe how stupid I had been. I should have asked Nasty Joe to help me. Now, that was lost money. The only option left was going back to the main house to see if Annie had anything else that might be of use. Or in my car. Maybe I could find a couple of tools in the trunk.

I tried to close the last desk drawer but it got stuck, so I knelt down to push it from the front. That's when I saw it. A little piece of green satin ribbon, coming out two inches from the back left corner. I removed the drawer and placed it over the desktop. A knock on the surface and the hollow sound confirmed my suspicion: it was a false bottom. I pulled the ribbon up and it lifted a thin wooden panel, allowing me to introduce my fingers underneath to retrieve it completely.

Again, the wax seal with the imprinted _H_. And this time there were two of them like red eyes staring back at me, waiting to be opened. I was starting to believe the _H_ stood for _Haunted_.

I took the envelopes. They weren't as heavy as the one I had stolen the day before. There was no point in choosing, so I randomly took the top one and broke the seal. It was Adora's death certificate with the date the newspaper cited. This was the real certificate and, as part of the process of hiding it from his son, quite possibly Lord Frederick had stored it away. Maybe he didn't burn it because, after all, it was a legal document. And for some sickening reason, Frederick was determined to store everything for posterity as if he had known his son would need it. I had become Lord Hurlingthon's next of kin.

I had no time to wonder if it was a fake document or not. I'd take it to Truthful Willy later. Any luck, and the next envelope would be a letter explaining what had happened for Adora to attack her husband. Or a news article, as this family seemed so fond of the printed media. Fingers crossed and hope he dies.

The second _H_ was cracked open, and the four points anticipated me that the content wasn't something from a journal. It was not an article piece. No letter either. It was Lord Frederick Hurlingthon's death certificate. It was dated the same day, month and year stated in the original obituary published by the newspaper. Frederick had died that day. A doctor had certified it with his signature at the bottom of a rectangular piece of paper.

Adora hadn't tried to kill Frederick. She had succeeded. And someone had taken Lord Frederick's identity. There were no photos on the papers in those days, so no one could have known. The help was hushed or fired, who knows. Still, the woman's mental balance was fragile and she ended up believing her husband was haunting her. The letter made more sense now that the man signing it wasn't Hugh's father. But was he Hugh's biological father?

I took the death certificates and stored them away in my pocket. I had to rearrange everything. I stuck the false bottom back in and then pushed the drawer in its place. I covered the desk with the sheet and placed the chair in front of it, where it belonged. I moved the cushions and the sofa back to where they came from. Everything neatly covered by the impeccable white linens. And the scalpel, I should not forget about the scalpel.

Before opening the door to leave, I cast a look around trying to find anything out of place.

The Hurlingthons still stared at me from their frame. That was the reason those paintings were stored away in that forgotten and locked house. The fake Frederick didn't want the real one watching his every step. After all, I had been right. It was a ghost house.

I peeped through the curtains and saw no one outside. I removed the tape from the lock and closed the door behind me, feeling the envelopes resting against my chest. I had to get Annie and do what Irupé had instructed me to do long before my detour into the guest house. But I had been so eager to mock her that I had put my shoes on first.

I had to go to Death's headquarters.

#  XIII

I KNOCKED AND LET MYSELF IN. Annie was sitting next to Lord Hurlingthon, checking his reflexes. Marlon had remained stoic in his corner since my departure, as if time didn't pass by for him. How did he manage to keep up with the rhythm of the house? He was eighty-three.

I cleared my throat and called everyone's attention.

"Excuse me, Dr. Kensington? Don't forget we have that meeting to attend."

"Is it time?"

"Yes. Yes, it is," I answered with a big smile.

Marlon pierced through me with his tired eyes, trying to figure out what was going on. If he could, I bet he would've run up to me and sniffed me out, from the soles of my shoes to the hair on the top of my head. Anything to get a trail to follow and find out where I had been. Quite a nose, I have to say.

Annie continued the pantomime a little longer before proceeding to put an end to it by making Marlon sign the form. I took advantage of the spare time and informed Lord Hurlingthon that I was making slow but steady progress based on a lead I had gotten from one of the newspaper clippings. And I would be presenting a full report to him on Monday. He was pleased and I have to say, it made me feel better. Marlon's face had remained carved in stone throughout this brief encounter. Dr. Kensington packed her belongings and we said our goodbyes.

"Mr. Saussure," Lord Hurlingthon called me. "I noticed that we haven't discussed your fee yet. I take it as a sample of your gallantry, but I am not doling out charity and your time isn't free. In the event of unexpected success, I have left a check at your disposal with Marlon. I believe you will find the sum to be an appropriate expression of the delicate investigation you're conducting."

My meal ticket was to be delivered by the hound of the Baskervilles. Great.

"I appreciate your concern, Lord Hurlingthon. Uh–one more thing sir..."

"Yes?"

"I went through all the information you provided me with, but I was unable to find the place where your parents are buried." Annie couldn't restrain herself and threw a bewildered look at me. "I was wondering if you could let me know, Lord Hurlingthon."

Marlon broke out of his stately posture to approach his master. He started to rearrange the clothes messed up or removed by Annie's examination.

"Certainly, Mr. Saussure. They're at the Sacred Heart Cemetery. In the family graveyard."

"Thank you, sir. Until Monday. We'll see ourselves out so Marlon can help you with your clothing."

Annie and I practically flew to the ground floor and left the mansion. Inside the car and outside the property, we were silent as never before. Close to Annie's office, she finally broke out of the muted mood.

"Don't you want to know if he's insane? Isn't that why you dragged me there?"

Yes, that. Also, I needed bait. Sorry, Annie, I understand now why you never liked me. I swear I do.

"He's not crazy."

"You don't believe in God, but you believe that this man is two hundred and thirteen years old?" Annie looked out the window. Then, she stuck her hand inside her handbag and retrieved a pair of gloves which she started to put on. "Did you get a look at the paintings at least?"

Instead of answering any of the questions, I removed the letters from my pocket and tossed them over her lap. She immediately recognized the seal and removed the certificates from their respective envelopes, without saying a word. And she didn't say a word for several minutes afterward.

"Is this the date you found in the news–?"

"Yes."

"I told you someone had stolen his identity."

"Oh, and... here."

I remembered the scalpel, so I returned it to its owner.

"You don't expect me to exhume the bodies, right?" she asked, taking the blade and storing it in the leather case.

I explained to her why I had borrowed it and how I intended to check the burial records at the cemetery. Also, having a front-row seat to examine Marlon's facial expressions in the rare event of saying something that might alter them was a big plus for bringing up the cemetery and the article stuff.

Annie remained lost in thought, probably contemplating all the different roads the case could take. I certainly was. Even if my next step was clear, my brain had turned into scrambled eggs after all the unexpected discoveries.

"You never discussed money with this super-man. That was stupid."

Yeah, fine. Maybe she and I were not on the same page.

"Look, if the money from the check isn't good enough, I'll take the golden vases by the fireplace. They look expensive."

I might sound like I was improvising to get Annie off my back, but I had actually thought about it. If anything, with all the money decorating the entire manor -hanging from the ceilings, covering walls and floors- getting paid would be the easy part of the case.

I dropped Annie off and I decided to drop myself in Grumpy Al's place. I needed my mid-morning-almost-lunch coffee. It was a cold day, but a few rays of sunlight would occasionally hit that side of the world. Nonetheless, the moment you stepped inside Grumpy Al's diner, the muddiness swallowed you and a quiet atmosphere of anonymity settled over you.

"Al."

My coffee and cheese sandwich greeted me with the usual "Richard". I was grateful for the smelly liquid caffeine in front of me. The taste of haunted souls still lingered on my tongue. Maybe that was the scent Marlon had picked up after my return from the ghost house.

Basically, with the date the death certificate provided, I could estimate Adora's pregnancy as far as two months when Frederick's life was ended.

But now it was Adora's note that didn't fit in. Who did she try to murder? Did she succeed? Did she try to kill the real Frederick or the impostor? All conjectures were useless at that point. I didn't understand the timeline of events. Who died when Hugh was in his mother's womb? Who died when Hugh was an adult? And why did his mother commit suicide? All the questions remained unanswered, or with a million possibilities as to the real response. There was too much death around him and not enough in him, like Irupé had told me.

Another option was that Lord Frederick had faked his own death, and when the plan failed, he pretended it was a mistake. Still, it was too far out there and it didn't cover most of the matters in need of an explanation. After all the breakthroughs, I had to go back to the little bits and pieces and have them edited for the coming Monday. Maybe I should have let it all out at my meeting with Lord Hurlingthon. Any luck and he would have a heart attack during our reunion. Marlon needed to be there, as well. He was holding something back -aside from my paycheck- and he wouldn't say. Big ears and small mouth is a bad combination for someone who was supposed to be a witness.

I paid for my nutritive comfort and asked Grumpy Al for his phonebook. I looked for the Sacred Heart Cemetery and wrote the address down. I had to go east. A good two, maybe three-hour drive. Grumpy Al remained on the other side of the counter staring at me, pretending to be cleaning coffee mugs, registering every single action I took.

"If there's anything you want to say, now is the time, Al. I mean it. Speak now or forever hold your peace."

He put the cup down, hung the damp dishcloth from his right shoulder and reduced the physical breach between us. The social positions of _supplier/customer_ had disappeared.

"I can't speak now and break someone else's peace. Do you understand?"

"No, Al. I don't. You can help him through me. Why won't you?"

"Because that would be messing with the essential order of things. They already did that. More than anyone should have. It's time to let the pendulum return to its natural balance."

I leaned forward and over the counter.

"Are you saying he's unnatural?"

"That poor man is a victim, Richard. He is suffering the punishment for a crime he did not commit. Somehow, the turn of the screw has transformed him into the consequence of an atrocity and the receiver of the sentence at the same time."

I returned to my initial place. Alistair knew. He really knew what was going on with my case. But pushing him wouldn't work. I had tried it before when I visited the enchanted woods of the druid. The same forest that had swallowed six lives in sets of three. He knew about that, too. That's why he broke out the monosyllabic rhythm of our interactions to warn me. The previous conception I had had about Grumpy Al was incomplete. I thought he knew everything about other people's lives. But as it turned out, he also knew about their deaths. Maybe instead of asking straight out what it was, I needed to resort to broader questions.

"Is it something I can deal with?"

"Not as a policeman."

"That's all I am."

"You're also a human being."

"Is it..." I leaned forward again, "the Devil?"

Grumpy Al shook his head and gave me a half-smile.

"You're too naïve, Richard. The Devil doesn't exist. Besides, I thought you didn't believe in God."

How did he know that?

"Exactly, prayer means nothing to me. Quite frankly, I'd rather recite Gower if I'm in the mood for repeating old words I don't understand."

"What keeps you alive is what will help you."

"My brain."

"Your heart."

This conversation was falling off the moving train that would take me to Lord Hurlingthon's death.

"Am I on the right track, at least?"

Grumpy Al straightened himself as much as he could, and with a wistful gaze, he recited a poem I knew all too well. It was from Kara's favorite writer. My wife could quote her work at any moment, no need to check her extensive poem collection. And as the years went by, I had learn a thing or two about this peculiar lady writer.

This particular set of verses explained how death is nothing but a complex and never-ending conversation between our souls and the soil that will become our final cradles. I took the poem as an affirmative answer -as much as I could, anyway- and headed for the door.

"That's not Gower, Al. That's Dickinson," I replied as I glanced at Grumpy Al one last time.

"So?"

"Dickinson's for girls."

The sound of the door closing behind me announced that the rabbit chase was back on. I had to be light on my feet again. And, at that moment, it meant pressing my bottom against the driver's seat for a couple of hours until reaching consecrated ground.

Even with Grumpy Al showing me his _mystic lover_ side, if he believed Hugh Hurlingthon was an unnatural being, it meant something. Although I couldn't be certain that whatever Grumpy Al knew wasn't based on the conversations he had heard over from customers. I had been a member of the force for fifteen years. I should've heard something, smelled it in the air. The man was a talking corpse living just outside the central part of town. How could a phenomenon like that not leak through to the people walking the streets? Grumpy Al had more connections than I was aware of. Was that the reason he always kept his presence off the radars?

This case had turned my life upside down in five simple days. The town had completely redefined itself in front of my eyes and it was bewildering. I could not fathom my place in that new community: a man that wouldn't die; a doctor who believed it to be possible; a glowing forest with a bouncing gnome and a mute giant; and a murderer who managed to reproduce his crime seven years later without leaving prison. And please, let's not forget that the woods helped him by locking the exit door.

I could've gotten this case a week later.

Annie was right. I should have given myself a few days off to mourn Kara and the family we should have become. A trip to the cemetery wasn't the best plan to deal with the five-year anniversary of an open wound. It was only a way to cast a thin overcoat of clay over it, leaving it nothing but dirty.

The gilded gates explained why the Hurlingthons had chosen a place so far away to bury their loved ones. If money could buy you a place in heaven, that is where you would purchase your first-class ticket. Trimmed lawn. Gravel paths. Marble gravestones. Flowers on every tomb. On the other hand, if heaven doesn't exist, that seemed to be a nice place to stay.

I approached the offices to figure out how I could take a look at the burial records. Being a private cemetery, it was possible they had some issues with disclosing information to non-family members, which was also another good reason for choosing it in the event of having to bury an embarrassing cadaver. The state cemeteries were in those early years, so full of soldiers, it was impossible to keep track of every person visiting them. The wind carried the sweet smell of the flowers. Few people were visiting graves, but Friday evening didn't exactly scream _cemetery!_ so that was understandable.

As I had anticipated, they wouldn't let me go through their records without the family's permission. I wrote down the manor's phone number and handed it to a lady with square, thick glasses, and red lipstick.

"This might take a while," was her answer when she realized I wasn't leaving.

"Why? Do you have a bunch of bodies piled up in the back that you have to bury?"

She pouted with heavy disapproval pursing her lips.

"I would appreciate some respect for the deceased, sir."

"Sure, as soon as you show some respect for the living. Trust me, it will be better if you just let me take a quick look. I get paid by the hour, so... The longer you make me wait, the deeper my pockets get. Take. Your. Time."

One more red pout and I was in.

I asked for the book of the year on Frederick Hurlingthon's death certificate and sifted through it, looking for the exact date.

_June third, June third, Jun... Bingo_.

Four people had been buried on that date. Two were women. So that only left two who could be Frederick Hurlingthon. Of the two men, according to their birth and death dates, one was only fourteen years old. This left just one man linked to the death of Lord Frederick Hurlingthon. His name: Piotr Chichikov. I wrote down the number of the parcel. Maybe visiting his tombstone might do some good. From his name alone, I could tell he was a foreigner... or so they wanted everyone to believe.

I thanked Red Lips for her kind attention and left looking for the grave. I found it in the farthest corner to the right, the one less close to the roads.

There it was. Lonely. Flowerless. And utterly gray.

The tombstone said he was Russian. And to my surprise, he was buried right next to the Hurlingthon graveyard. What a nerve.

The family graveyard wasn't a mausoleum as I had expected, but an open piece of land with a statue of angels rising to the sky among all the graves. All the cherubs in heaven could not fix or take away whatever they had done wrong. This space had a low black fence that separated it from the rest of the cemetery. Piotr Chichikov was with them, but always staring from the outside.

As I stood in front of whoever that dead person really was, a live one, a man to be more accurate, came out of the Hurlingthon's space. He was at the tomb behind the angels' statue and that's why I hadn't seen him before. When he reached the fence, he acknowledged my presence for the first time. The man, of no more than forty years of age, with a black coat and matching hat, bowed at me before continuing his march out of the parcel. As soon as he was out, I hastened inside the land and read the gravestone hidden behind the angels.

Adora's.

That's when I finally recognized him. Without his thin blond mustache, it had taken me a minute. I ran after him, jumping over the fence and calling him out as he had rushed out when he noticed there were witnesses.

"Frederick!" He hadn't aged a day, nor was he dead. He could help his son. "Lord Frederick Hurlingthon! Lord Hurlingthon!"

Nothing. The man didn't even flinch. I resumed my chase. It was him. I had seen him in the large painting at the guesthouse. He looked exactly like baby Hugh.

A police hunch attacked my guts again. I hadn't seen Lord Frederick.

"Mr. Piotr Chichikov! Mr. Chichikov! I need to talk to you about your son!"

He came to a sudden halt. I was seeing the big picture now.

#  XIV

"I KNOW HUGH HURLINGTHON IS YOUR SON."

He stared down at me as if he had been waiting for this confrontation for centuries. And I was a mess. My hat had flown away when I ran to get Chichikov and perspiration was noticeable on my forehead. Although, not all the sweat came from the physical exercise. I was nervous. That man should have been inside the tomb behind me. I didn't even let him start an answer.

"Are you the same Piotr Chichikov whose name is on that gravestone?"

He removed his hat and gave me a deeply blue stare.

"Why don't we sit?"

He invited me to the nearest bench, motioning his body in that direction. But I was mistrustful and didn't want to let him go, so I snatched his right arm by the elbow and repeated my question.

"Yes, that's me."

"Are you in any way related to Lord Hugh Hurlingthon?"

"Yes. Please, I won't leave. Let's have a seat."

He carefully released his arm from my fingers and placed it around me. We marched to the closest bench. It had been a short walk, but the strain was heavier than any tombstone in that cemetery. Chichikov wasn't angry or violent. His manners were very delicate, yet carried out with concern visible on his knitted brow. The sun was setting and the temperature had dropped. It was colder than when I'd arrived.

"You're obviously involved somehow in this... my... this story. May I ask how that came to be?"

I was so excited by the recognition of a face that my professional manners were completely numb. I had forgotten to introduce myself, to play the field a little and determine if I should present the case as a police matter.

"My name is Richard Saussure and I'm a private detective. Lord Hugh Hurlingthon hired me to find–"

"Hugh is still alive?" He interrupted me.

A grave expression made his face even longer as if the weight of his deepest fears had stretched it.

"I'm afraid so, Mr. Chichikov. He's two hundred–"

"And thirteen years old. Oh, God!"

He clasped his head with his hands and started to rock himself in brief swinging movements, enough to try to make the world around him disappear.

"And he can't die, sir." I swallowed a bitter taste crawling up my throat. "He has hired me to find out why he can't die."

The rocking to and fro came to a sudden halt. The pendulum was returning to its natural balance. His hands moved from the temples to the mouth. ' _God'_ tried to escape his mouth once more time, but the intertwined phalanges created an unbreakable net and he died trapped in it. Still, Chichikov's eyes screamed little howls of blue pain.

In what seemed like a perpetual expression of horror, Piotr stood up and then sat down. He rose again and waddled to the other side of the gravel path. Then, he turned on his axis and looked through me at a story still incomplete to my eyes. He staggered a little. I sensed he was about to fall, so I ran to catch him and managed to arrive just in time.

I held Chichikov from the waist and we stumbled back to our seat. I didn't even know how to begin a conversation I had planned but never imagined it would become real.

"You don't seem to be... I mean, you're obviously in great distress. But you have no doubt that Hugh's situation is possible."

"I know it to be possible. I just never believed the consequences would affect him too. My poor son must lead a horrible life. Is he here, with you?" Mr. Chichikov cast a look trying to find him. But I didn't think Piotr could have identified Hugh even if he would've been standing right next to me.

"Mr. Chichikov, unlike you, your son has aged. Lord Hugh can't walk. His sight is gone. And he... he can't lift his arms." Tears were running down his forever elongated face. "I'm sorry, but I need to know what happened. Please, explain it to me so I can find a way to help him. Your son wants to die, Mr. Chichikov. I believe you're the only person who knows how it would be possible for him to accomplish such a... task."

He was gone again, lost in the land of past times. No sound came out of him, except for the occasional sob. I assumed not every day a stranger requests your help to end your son's life. I respected his paternal grief as much as I could. Nevertheless, Hugh deserved the justice he had sought.

"Mr. Chichikov, is he... is Hugh like you?"

"No."

"And... _what_ are you?"

Piotr removed his felt hat and ran his fingers through his hair. He sat up and unbuttoned his coat. Then, he caressed the brim of his hat, tracing it as if he was looking for the starting point. Luckily for both of us, his story wasn't round, but it had certainly continued longer than it should have. An extensive sigh came out of him. He was slowly giving up on the fight against the memories of his indelible past.

"I led a life of little purpose, Mr. Saussure. I was scum. The lowest of the low of human beings. In my lifetime, my biggest pleasure came out of inflicting pain on others. Innocent others. When I died, the victim of the reckless behavior that came with my brutal lifestyle, Death decided that I'd have to pay my dues here, on Earth. And according to my results, I would have the chance to rest my soul in peace."

"Is Piotr Chichikov your original identity?"

"No. You're assigned a new name and personal history. And you are forced to relocate, so you won't get recognized."

"Are you dead right now?"

He gave a negative answer. His eyes, fixed on the gravel path, wouldn't make contact with mine. Piotr leaned forward, resting his elbows on the knees.

"Are you alive?"

Another negative. My mind was swamped with images from the conversations held with Irupé.

"I'm in _suspension_. That's what our state is called."

I inquired about the ' _our'_. There were more like him out there, people dragging their pain around because they couldn't rest. For the first time in our prolonged encounter, he directed his eyes at me and answered my question with another question.

"Mr. Saussure, do you know what a Grim Reaper is?"

"Yes, you're Death itself!" I replied, overwhelmed with fear and tripping over my own feet to get out of that bench.

"No, no. That's a misconception. Please, sit down. There's nothing to worry about. It is not your time yet. Not mine to take, anyway."

I didn't sit, but I stood by the side of the bench, gripping its back so tight that my knuckles were turning white. If I had let go, I would've fainted out of terror. I had followed Irupé's instructions without wanting to. He noticed I wasn't keen on resuming my position next to him, so he carried on with the explanation.

"A Grim Reaper isn't Death. Although, a live person wouldn't recognize Death if they saw her. She is impossible to describe. But she is also impossible to ignore. An amorphous ethereal mass of pain, grief, happiness, hate, love, relief, anxiety, peace, longing... and the list goes on and on. You see, she absorbs all the emotions and feelings a person is having while he or she dies. And that is exactly why she needs helpers: beings that look like everyday people and can merge into the living crowd of humanity without attracting attention. Some humans are marked to be Grim Reapers to reform their lives. Some are irreparable. I was lucky. I was given a chance to mend my ways."

"And how... I mean... the–uh–the process–Death comes and... What is it..." I couldn't form an intelligent question. "You come... and she... the person–uh... Who–? I mean..."

Piotr gave me a tired smile and understood my question wrapped up in fright.

"How does the process to take someone's soul comes to fruition?" He leaned back. "Well, Death visits the person whose time is up the day before, most likely in their sleep, and leaves a scent on them. It's like jasmine and rust. A salty trail for the Grim Reaper to follow. I've been told it's not the same smell for all of us. There are different fragrances and I can only perceive one. Of course, people who are still alive can't sense them. When I find the fragrance, I trace it back to its owner and I have to blow over them." He pursed his lips and almost imperceptibly, let warm air out. "The scent is a way of sealing the soul. When I blow it away, the scent carries the soul out of the body and the remains of the person are ready to receive his or her destiny. He has a heart attack. Or a car runs over her. Or he gets shot... Well, you know what I mean."

I was in shock. It was impossible for me to grasp completely the immensity of the secrets that were being revealed to me. The close encounters I had experienced with Life, and now also with Death, were far more than anything the Police Academy had prepared me for. Life means childbirth and joy. Death means blood and sorrow. That was how far my street knowledge went. It was so obvious I was way over my head and that all of Grumpy Al's concerns and warnings had been absolutely justified.

"And why are you here?"

"I traced a scent, but I lost it just before entering the cemetery. And I decided to pay a visit to Adora."

The murky sky got even heavier. Dense black masses of rain were waiting to pour down on us. The wind was blowing cold. A storm was coming.

"And your son? What about Hugh?"

Piotr bit his lower lip and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Two hundred and fifteen years ago, I traced a scent back to the Hurlingthon manor. They were reclusive and never left the house. The only people coming in and out were the maids and the valets. I had asked around and found out they were looking for a Russian teacher for the mistress of the house. Apparently, Adora wanted to learn the language. The problem is until I'm finished with one trail I can't find another one. So I introduced myself as a tutor. And destiny was on my side. After all, I work for Death. Frederick hired me, but the moment we met I knew it wasn't him. He didn't smell. No, it was his sweet wife the one who reeked of rusty jasmines. Lucky me."

I had inadvertently slid down the back of the bench and sat, waiting for the rest of this man's death to be told. My hat was rolling around us, propelled by the enraged wind that was twirling the trees' branches.

"I loved her from the moment I laid eyes on her. I know it sounds repulsive. She was so delicate and refined and... I was dead. I am death. But she was marked with my scent. Death had sealed her with my fragrance. She was mine. Anyway... I couldn't follow through, and I didn't remove her soul. The accident where she was supposed to die never happened... only a few bruises..."

The swing. Adora's original fate was to fall off her swing and die. And the Grim Reaper loved her so that he prevented it from happening.

"I just wanted to be close to her. I know you're thinking I'm a disgusting stalker, but she loved me too. Her marriage to Frederick was arranged. They appreciated each other, but they weren't in love. They never shared a bed except on their wedding night, and that had been three years before I came along."

The letters from ' _Addy'_ to ' _My Dearest'_ were not to her husband. ' _My Dearest'_ was a specter who worked for Death. She really did love him. I had read all about it.

"In spite of my being in suspension, ours was a very earthly passion. But I never thought it could be possible for me to breed a child."

Hugh Hurlingthon was the son of Death and Love, a volatile combination that had ended in a desperate man looking for his final breath, only to find out that his breaths were unlimited. Had he been born dead?

"When Adora realized she was pregnant, the time for me to take a soul before Death would notice was running out. I had to do it. I told her who I really was, and that if I blew over her, they would die. Both of them. And that's when we came up with the plan."

The infamous plan was that a soul is a soul. Male or female is of no importance as gender is an anatomical difference that only carries weight within human society. They decided to exchange Adora for Frederick. And thus, Piotr took his place as Lord Frederick Hurlingthon. The Grim Reaper explained to me that when they blow over a person whose soul hasn't been sealed, their breath removes the spirit suddenly. The body simply drops, completely empty. That was exactly what this man had done. And Frederick Hurlingthon ended up buried under the name of Piotr Chichikov, right where that tombstone was that day. They didn't even bury him in the family graveyard to avoid raising any suspicion. Frederick's parents were dead, and he had no siblings or close relatives. Adora was all he had.

"All the help was laid off, except the Lermontov family, who were sworn to secrecy."

Apparently, the hound dog blood ran in their veins. It hadn't been just Marlon. I would have to see about that later.

"How did the news get to the newspaper?" Piotr faced me, surprised by my knowledge of this. "Was it you who asked for a public apology?"

"Yes, it was me. One of the servants we fired told a reporter about Frederick's death. But after that incident was fixed, we carried out a perfectly happy life. Ady enjoyed her pregnancy and Hugh was born a happy, healthy child. But one day, almost a year after Hugh's birth, Frederick reappeared. He came back accompanied by a female figure. I knew it was her. Death had taken human form to deal with us and set everything straight. She wanted to take our child for everything we had done and let Frederick deal with his wife. But Adora offered herself for the baby... And that's how Hugh's life was saved."

"And she fell off the swing."

"Figuratively speaking, yes. I was cast away and my sentence was prolonged. Frederick... did he treat Hugh–?"

"As if he was his own," was my answer.

Lord Frederick had been murdered and still, he fabricated an entire web of lies so Hugh would never find out the truth. He had even changed the date on Adora's gravestone and managed to get a false death certificate. I had been wrong: he did take his secret to his tomb. He loved Hugh, deeply.

Of course, Lord Frederick didn't count on the fact that this boy had death running through his veins. I asked Chichikov if Hugh was dead, if that was the reason why he couldn't die.

"No. He's not filled with death. He's filled with too much life. Hugh was created with all the love I didn't give to others when I was alive."

The tree branches were twisting and shaking. The wind would not give them a break. My hat finally crashed against my feet and I picked it up.

"My boy can't die because he's too alive. You see, Mr. Saussure, I didn't lead a respectable life. And I didn't manage myself so well when I died, either."

Heavy black clouds were unraveling upon us. Clashing against each other, fat drops were reaching us. I had to act quickly.

"You have to come with me."

He hesitated and eventually refused. He didn't want to disturb Death even more.

"Don't you want to see your son? To help him?" The pressure was getting to him. He closed his eyes, trying to avoid crying, but the sky was doing all the crying for him. "Isn't this death about mending erroneous actions? Your son's excessive life is wrong."

Piotr wasn't moving from his seat and, regardless of how much I desired it, I couldn't drag him to the mansion. Something else had to be said on my part, something that would steer the wheel in my direction. Grumpy Al had said I needed to use what made me human. My heart. Of all the information I had gathered over those days, that fact had made my heart twist and recoil in pain?

"You had a granddaughter. She died at a young age because your son couldn't infuse enough life into her body. Hugh might be undeniably alive, but he can't create life. He can't die. Yet, he's killing everyone around him. Your son is a murderer because of you."

#  XV

THE AGGRESSIVE WEATHER SLAPPED US FROM RIGHT TO LEFT, forcing us to seek refuge inside my car. The moment the doors closed, we were vacuum-packed with high pressure on our bodies. We remained still. Not even my tongue moved in the attempt of trying to convince him. But the acknowledgment of having turned his son into an unwilling killer was an oppressive burden on him.

The only sound that had snuck inside the car with us was his breathing. Sometimes it was more agitated. Sometimes he could control it to the point of killing it. I needed that murderous side of him. The grieving lover and father full of sorrow were of no use to me.

After the initial shock, I could barely feel any sympathy for this being. It had been an unfortunate situation, no question about it. But the effects of their actions had been monstrous and they still crawled the earth. The biggest consequence could not control his own existence and had a hound dog pushing his wheelchair and licking his hand to make him feel better. I didn't know how, but Marlon knew.

They had tampered with nature and now nature was tampering with us, rocking the car with its invisible hand, turning me into the cradle partner of Death. Adora and Piotr had tried to build a life for themselves and in the process, six lives were destroyed. Let me rephrase that: five lives and one death. One came back from the underworld. The other gave birth to the spawn of Death's helper only to leave him alone. A third couldn't die. And the last one couldn't stop dying. Brilliant plan.

And Greta, with her suffocated maternal feelings narrowing her life.

And Emily.

In the meantime, they had found the courage to have portraits made of their unnatural family. Why on earth Frederick hadn't burned those paintings was beyond me. No, no pity for the man crying next to me. The sobbing got louder until it turned into a tantrum in full scream mode. I let him kick the door and punch the dashboard. Then, Chichikov proceeded to slap himself.

When all the rage was exhausted out of him, he produced a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his red face. After regaining composure as much as possible, he put his hat back on and stared out the window. Chichikov could have darted right there, but he didn't. I assumed we were ready for departure.

Like acceptance, the road to redemption is also a silent one. Throughout the ride, my mind had been unable to grasp this story fully. Hugh's parents had been murderers, the type of criminals I could not put away. How was justice ever to be served? Had it already been delivered by Death? As if bringing Frederick back from the grave and banishing those who were not supposed to be here hadn't been enough, Death punished Hugh as well. Father and son, two ends of the same rope I had to knot together.

When the highway started to touch the side of Lord Hurlingthon's property, I saw Chichikov getting tense. The strain on his body was so intense he seemed close to breaking. His hand clasped the edge of the seat, and he didn't let go of it until I parked in front of the main house. For a while, neither of us dared to break the seal of our vacuum-packed container. And it was not my decision when penance should start. I could not force that man to meet the son made out of his own flesh and the victim of his own wrongdoing.

With his refined nose, Marlon had picked up our scent and opened the front door. He could have been an excellent Grim Reaper. He stood by the car, not a sound or a complaint coming out of him. The dark night was upon us, and the life of the day was coming to an obvious end. Piotr didn't acknowledge Marlon's stiff presence, he was too busy swimming the deep waters of his never-ending guilt. The waves of these waters were hitting him hard, making it difficult for him to breathe. But once again, he lost the fight. Slowly opening his fist and releasing the seat, he drowned in atonement.

The car door was cracked open and the world entered. Piotr leaned against the vehicle. He was nothing but a corrupt body with empty eyes. He inspected Marlon from the ground up and back.

"Are you a Lermontov?"

Marlon greeted him with a glacial look and an affirmative answer.

"But it isn't you."

I was on the other side of the car. We had left the storm in the cemetery and at the mansion, an icy calm was embracing us. It was the kind of weather that kills all the sounds of the night. No stars, only a feeble moon.

"What is it, Chichikov?"

I circled the car and joined the fruitless meeting of two dead bodies. A cry of horror ran free from Marlon's mouth and crashed into the solid night around us. He had recognized Piotr.

"I'm sorry, but Lord Hurlingthon is asleep. You cannot come in, sir."

Marlon knew. I should've squeezed his chicken-neck when I had had the chance. I repeated my question to Piotr.

"A while back, when we were reaching this land, I picked up the scent again. It's stronger now... I hoped it would be from him."

That's why he had clutched the seat with rigid desperation. That improvised triangle of death's dealers at the entrance of the main house had to be broken. I couldn't care less for Marlon's stiff presence, but I needed to know.

"How did you find out, Marlon?"

He rested his droopy eyes on my face and failed to come up with a lie. Spirals of terror were forming around his pupils, although his facial expression was completely unaware of the emotions filling his eyes. Even at that moment, he was still wearing a mask.

"You know this is Piotr Chichikov." I forced myself on his stony existence by taking a few steps forward, placing myself between the two sides of the past. "You know this is your master's father. You know Lord Hurlingthon is no _Lord_ at all!"

"Shut your mouth, you filthy commoner!" His guttural shout was surprising for a man his age. It sounded as if it had been repressed for years. "You are not allowed to speak his name, you middle-class, greasy intent of a man!! And this-this..." he was going all out now. I had started to believe his rage would kill him "... this unnatural, greedy, selfish monstrosity cannot enter this house! Over my dead body, you hear me?! I made a promise and I will keep it!"

Marlon had leaned so close to me to deliver this threat that I could smell his deadly breath. I pushed him back, trying to settle the mood. One murder a night, please. I can't deal with more than one murder a night.

Piotr stared at him over my shoulder without fully engaging in the situation. He had heard the words, but there was no comeback on his part. I apologized to Marlon and instructed Piotr to follow me into the house. He acted like a puppet, with no voice of his own. Marlon tailed us fruitlessly, attempting to stop our solid march. When he realized he would not be able to do it on his own, his cries for Lucy, Harriet, and every single person in the property almost woke up the house itself. I heard them shuffling their feet and running, turning lights on and bumping into furniture. All the women were trying to find him and see what was going on.

I came to a stop in the middle of the staircase and turned back to Marlon. His desperation was heartbreaking. I could not bear the thought of him believing I had violated his rights, his secrets, and his life. I approached him and asked him to calm down. He shrugged me off and laboriously sat down on the first steps of the stairs.

"This isn't right. This isn't right," he kept repeating, as the women were finding their way into the room. They changed their expression from alarm to amazement when, in their search, they discovered this elderly man sobbing the future death of his beloved master. The extinction of a promise that had been made centuries ago.

"Every member of my family has vowed to keep the Hurlingthons' secret. It's a tradition. It's our... it's my duty. Each time a Lermontov was old enough to start helping the family, before you could even carry a tray or deliver a message, the story was told and you were sworn to secrecy. You are making me betray myself!! You despicable, greedy worm!"

"I pity you, Marlon. But I cannot satisfy your selfish desire. Lord Hurlingthon must know the truth because he craves it. Because he has been looking for it for centuries. If you love him so, how could you keep quiet all these years? Why didn't you help me? Why did you prevent me from entering the guesthouse?"

Two of the maids, Harriet and one of the young girls, helped him to his feet. Marlon caught me, as tight as he could, by the sleeve of my raincoat and looked at me dead in the eye.

"Did you not hear a word I just said, you imbecile?! ' _Tradition'?! Manners?! Duty?!_ Does that mean anything to you? I have no idea what's inside that house, nor do I care! But I was told that, for the safety of my family, it was meant to be locked permanently. Lord Hurlingthon was not allowed inside, why should you? You're a pathetic impression of a detective!"

The women realized he was getting out of hand and tried to restrain him. Quite frankly, if it had been anyone else, I would have knocked him unconscious before we even entered the house. But it wasn't right. I understood he wasn't insulting me. He was lashing out at the criminals in love who had imposed such a horrific situation upon a person close to his heart. And his next and final remark reassured my assumption.

"I would never help you destroy my family."

I was taking his family away from him. From that day on, and solely on my account, Marlon would be an eighty-three-year-old orphan. I was removing from his grasp everything that mattered or had any value to him. And the worst part was that it was the right thing to do. Balance had to return to nature. Hugh was overwhelmed with pain and I could relieve him. I had signed on for this. I would see it through. No room for incomplete jobs here. That situation was coming to a full circle, regardless of the pain it could inflict.

I apologized to Marlon once more and went upstairs.

Piotr Chichikov had followed his son's slipstream and was now staring at his bedroom door, not moving an inch. He was about to see his son after two hundred and twelve years. The hesitation and fear made him shiver. Meeting a son you believed dead must be the most frightening experience one can encounter. But I still believed this man was a murderer and had managed to throw away two different opportunities to make amends. This time, I would make sure he seized it.

"Is it here?" I whispered as if it actually mattered.

Piotr nodded and rested his forehead against the door. I asked him if he was planning to go inside and whether he wanted me to introduce him. Hugh was unable to handle himself. If a complete stranger woke him up in the middle of the night, it would unsettle him. There was no need to add more pain to the situation.

"Does my son really need to know the truth? Does he need to know what his mother and I did? Can I just walk in and do it while he sleeps?"

I wasn't expecting him to ask for my opinion. I wavered through a number of possible answers. After all, despite how repulsive I had found his actions to be, he was serving his time.

And there were other things to be considered. Lord Hurlingthon had hired me to discover why he couldn't die. There had been also an unspoken request on his part for me to find out a way for him to stop existing. But the explicit agreement about telling him the reasons behind his condition had not taken into account the possibility of destroying the entire conception he had held about his family. Mostly, this happened because I had refused to believe such atrocities were possible. And also, my imagination was atrophied with the reality I was forced to digest every day.

That question, the constant doubt about the exact location of the limit of truth, where it began and where it ended, had haunted me throughout the entire case. Truth is always such a shady rock. Should I put pressure on it and make a diamond out of it? Should I let it be because it is the way it was created?

"I think... I believe not saying anything is wrong. That is simply not the way to honor the love you and Adora shared. And... and if you wish to put this to rest, it is of great importance that you speak up. You told me Hugh was the result of all the love you had for each other. And yes, it's a love gone sour. But you can't dismiss this opportunity because you're scared. When you talk to Hugh, you will be speaking for Adora and for yourself. Surely you cannot deny her that possibility."

He took a few steps back. Now, his head was hanging in the emptiness of the solitary corridor.

"As for Hugh... I don't think your son needs to know the truth. I think he needs to hear _a truth_."

Chichikov motioned his hand, asking me to enter the room and introduce him to his strange son. I knocked on the door and let myself in. As calmly as I could manage, I woke Lord Hurlingthon up. I told him who I was, and that I had made an incredible breakthrough which couldn't wait until Monday. He asked about Marlon and I replied he was on his way up. But before, he needed to meet someone. This _someone_ would help him die. I also explained to him that whenever he felt ready, his lifelong search would come to an end.

"Not yet. I need Marlon with me," he replied with his breakable voice, thinner than ever.

When I stepped into the hallway once again, I found them waiting for me. Marlon, a hound dog until the end. And Piotr, the father who would deliver the infamous end.

Once inside the bedroom, the valet took his place next to his master and they exchanged a few words. Piotr and I stood at the foot of the bed.

"You need to go to Alexis, my friend."

"He broke the family tradition, sir. I can't."

"This tradition dies with me today. There's no point in any more pain. I won't drag you to the grave with me. Don't stay alone, you hear me?"

Marlon nodded, and even if Lord Hurlingthon couldn't see him, he knew his friend would obey. One last ' _thank you'_ was exchanged, and the ceremony was bound to start. No use stopping the tide.

"Hugh, my name is Piotr Chichikov and I am your fa..." A dreadful look came from Marlon. He was pleading. "I'm your father's friend... Yes, I was a very close friend of your father. And of your mother, too. I knew them very well and–I'm sorry you had to go through this... I really am. They loved you very much. It burns deeply in me you could not share time with them, but... If it is of any consolation, they always planned to raise you together. Death–Death didn't allow it. But nonetheless, it had been their original purpose. They had no idea how your life would turn out to be. If they had–I..."

Piotr was breaking up, so I stepped in. I let Lord Hurlingthon know that I had found out that his father was extremely proud of him, and he had accomplished his goal of getting his acceptance. Once Chichikov regained his composure, his son addressed him for the first time in centuries.

"Do you know what's wrong with me?"

"Your father and I... We knew each other because we both had made deals with Death to–to obtain improvements in our lives. In your father's case, this agreement caused him to have a child that can't die."

"Has this happened to you, too?"

Piotr's eyes were flooded with salty answers he couldn't deliver.

"Yes, I too have a son in your condition. And I'm going to help him."

"But shouldn't you be dead, like my father?"

"My deal with Death led me to work for her. And that's the reason why I'm here."

I asked Lord Hurlingthon if he was ready. His affirmative answer was followed by an explanation from his father, telling him he only had to close his eyes and he would start to feel calm. Piotr lay next to his son and placed his hand on Hugh's cheek.

"Just let the relief wash over you, my boy," he whispered.

Piotr pursed his lips together and blew tenderly over his son's head. Then, he kissed him on the forehead. Before my bare eyes, in less than it took me to blink away a tear, they had turned to ashes. Two piles of gray dust on the bed were all that was left of them.

And, who could have guessed that the crumbs of that family were the most fertile place in that entire land? Gardenias sprung out of them. They grew and grew until they took over the bed, the branches stretching and twisting themselves around the four-poster bed. The rancid smell of overused bodies was let out by the blooming vines that broke the windows and entered to flood us with their loving presence. The limbs, loaded with white flowers, were also letting themselves in through the door, tearing the carpet and lifting the wooden floor.

The stampede of gardenias coming from the ashes forced us to leave the room to avoid being swallowed by this wild nature. I had to aid Marlon. His newly imposed freedom was still wrapped up in shock. He could barely shuffle his feet, let alone lift them. As we rushed through the hallways, we could see the flowing river of gardenias creeping up the walls, rapidly taking over the ceilings and rooms. Roots and branches. Leaves and flowers. They all sprung out in an uncoordinated symphony and every note had to be dodged if you didn't want to fall prisoner to its music. It wasn't a violent reaction, but an overwhelming process that would not slow down for anyone.

The gardenias would rule the house now.

We took the elevator and met the four women at the front of the mansion. The thrilling sound of breaking life had been awaited by those walls. Everything was covered in white, from the staircase to the barren moor it once was. The front of the construction was upholstered in riveting gardenias.

I ran to the back of the mansion. The potent ramifications of this double death had opened the guesthouse and let all its ghosts out. A limb had crawled up the wall behind the large family painting and broke through the canvas, only to embellish it with its blossoms.

The glass garden was now nothing but a bold iron structure. The glass walls had been shattered to pieces. Everything was a white sea of flourishing wilderness. The dry lake was now refilled with blooms, and the dead tree had blossomed into countless pure white clusters. The gardenias had reached the swing to tear its chains out, leaving the marble seat laying on the floor, only to be devoured by the same flowers.

This was Adora. She was finally embracing her family and nurturing them into a beacon in the deep night.

When I returned to the front of the house, someone had ventured inside to bring Marlon a chair. He called me aside while he reached into his right pocket. The old man extended an envelope to me. It was sealed with the red wax and the _H_ imprinted on it. But this time it was a plain, brand new envelope.

"Thank you," was all he said.

No looking at me. No screaming. No crying. Just his regular marble mask.

It was my paycheck.

As I said my goodbyes with a silent head movement, barely noticeable in the middle of a night now filled with stars, I heard Lucy one last time.

"Mr. Marlon, maybe it's time for a new tradition."

Her never-touching lips had proved her smarter than the rest of us with our tightly closed mouths.

# Epilog

ON MONDAY, I MET WITH ANNIE at Grumpy Al's to update her and deliver a well-deserved paycheck. We were sitting at the counter and waiting for our coffees.

"Why did you return on Sunday?"

"I had to give the files back, Annie. They were important for Marlon. And... I have found Alexis's contact information in Germany. I had to let him know."

Annie placed her fingertips on my wrist.

"Yeah, that's a pulse. I think it's safe to say you're growing a heart. Be careful, they have the strong tendency of beating."

"How would you know? I thought you only dealt with other invertebrates like yourself."

I removed my hand from the counter before she could break it, which only left her with a verbal response as a weapon.

"Invertebrates have hearts, you idiot. It's their spine they're missing. And in any case that puts them closer to you."

I decided to break it off and take another direction before Grumpy Al would throw us out. I really wanted my coffee and cheese sandwich.

"Anyway... How was your weekend?"

"I had triplets again."

~***~
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Unseen Shadows—Detective Saussure Mysteries II

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#  Acknowledgments

IT IS THE DREAM of any novice author to have the encouragement of a scholar the caliber of Professor Emeritus Martha Paley Francescato. To have the support of someone who has shaken hands and maintained close friendships with the greatest Latin-American writers was beyond my wildest dreams.

It is due to your generosity and hard work, Martha, that this book exists. Any others that might follow are also the offspring of your big literary heart.

A special _thank you_ is also in order for Melisa Scanso Bocaccio: _gracias_ for giving me scarlet fever.

Lastly, I'd like to extend this ' _thank you'_ to my family and friends, for hearing me out in my endless rants about writing and publishing. Your ears were, and still are, very much needed. Please, keep them open.

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#  About the author

TRINIDAD GIACHINO IS AN INDIE WRITER from Buenos Aires, Argentina. After many failed attempts, Trinidad has managed to combine her stage training background and her studies in literature and linguistics from Buenos Aires University (UBA) into one single purpose: to craft deeply human characters with a dark side that we can all relate to.

A yoga enthusiast and a cat lover, Trinidad Giachino shares her days with felines, canines, and the occasional human, while creating -or embodying- stories. She is also constantly trying to trick her palate by exchanging high coffee dosages for the always less amicable cup of tea.

_Detective Saussure Mysteries_ is a supernatural mystery & horror book series for adults set in the 1950s. It blends the traditional genre of private detectives with paranormal mysteries. And a hint of humor. Because you can't appreciate the darkness unless there is some light in it as well...

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#  Connect with the author

To connect with Trinidad, you can use the following channels:

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Facebook Page:  Trinidad Giachino

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