Welcome to Deep Cove

Daniel Kline’s warehouses were located inland from the dock district. They were close enough to transport cargo from the ships, but far enough from the downtown area to remain inconspicuous. A separate roadway had been cleared through the surrounding fields and forest, skirting the main town. Commodities of a not so legal nature could be shipped to and from the compound via this route. Kline had numerous hired goons to patrol his highway and warehouses, and security was high within the fenced-in district. The acreage and the men to patrol it cost the gangster significantly, but he considered it an acceptable sum for privacy.

Lightning split the sky over the storehouses, illuminating the yard and the parked carriages out front. The double doors of the largest hanger were closed, but a soft light spilled from the window in the main office. Outside, two hooded men approached each other in the downpour and stopped to share words before continuing their patrol.

Inside the office, a grey haired clerk was penning the monthly sums. He’d been at it for hours now and his face showed signs of fatigue. Sal Rogers was in his late fifties and the weather affected him greatly. Often he had thought of moving inland from Deep Cove, but he always told himself he’d retire the following year. He had stockpiled enough money from working Mr. Kline’s books to keep him rich for years’ to come, but somehow he always found himself back in the warehouse, filling out another months’ ledgers.

Last winter had been especially hard on the old man, and he’d come down with a lung infection that had almost killed him. In the end, Mr. Kline had sent a carriage for the stick-thin accountant and relocated the old man to his manse. Kline’s very own doctor had attended Sal and under the man’s careful ministrations, the skinny bookkeeper was nursed back to health. ‘I’m Grateful to Mr. Kline. I can’t up and retire without giving him good notice,’ He reasoned. ‘I just wish the weather would cooperate.’ Outside, the spring storm ravaged the stockyard. The drumming of the incessant downpour increased in tempo on the warehouse’s tin roof, as if mocking the old man’s silent plea for warm weather.

Kline had indeed been good to him throughout his sickness. Nothing had touched the old accountant more than when Mr. Kline had presented him with a gift of a giant viewing globe so the man could stay in touch with his family out east.

“Vic insisted you have one so you can talk with your son whenever you like,” Kline had told his old friend. “I don’t have the slightest idea of how these things work, but I’m sure the two of you will figure it out in no time. The salesman even told me you can do your accounting on here. Technology these days is amazing isn’t it?”

Sal had not been allowed to refuse the gift, even though he knew it to be worth a small fortune. When his son and family appeared on the globe for the first time, he had wept openly to see his two small grandsons. He chatted often with his son, but never truly realised the potential of the large viewing device. Now it hung near his desk in the warehouse and was mostly used by Vic to play his game.

Leaning back, Sal cracked his upper back and rubbed at his eyes. Gazing at the lone lantern on the desk, he reached for his quill and dipped it into the inkpot again. Pulling one of two heavy black ledgers toward him, he moved to the last line of the page, wrote a name in the left hand column, traced across the page to the far right column, and then wrote a sum. Tallying the right hand column, he circled the amount at the bottom and signed off on the sheet. Pushing the book to the side, he pulled the second tome toward him.

The open page looked similar to the one he had just completed. All of the names were identical, but the amounts in the right hand column were a third less. Adding the same name he had added to the first book, he wrote in a sum that was a third less than previously written in the other ledger, totalled the operations amount, and signed off again. Waiting for the entries to dry, he closed both books, laid his quill down, and tied off the ledgers. Pushing his chair back from the table, he stood and steadied himself when he nearly toppled over. ‘Damn infection robbed me of my strength. I should go to Ronnie’s in the east. I’d like to play with my grandchildren before I die.’ He grabbed up the second ledger and his cane and limped across the dusty floorboards to a large safe in the wall. Turning the tumblers, he opened the heavy door and laid the book inside.

For a second only, the sound of the splashing rain was amplified and Sal turned toward the far door. “Who is it?” he called out. “I’m not done yet. You know the rules; wait outside ’till I’ve completed the tallies.” No one responded. Sal searched the shadowy corners of the distant entryway, but the light from his lantern did not penetrate the far off darkness. After a moment of silence, he turned back to the safe and removed a bag of coins and a second empty leather sack. Counting out an amount of gold equal to the sum listed in the first ledger, he transferred the funds to the empty pouch.

One of the floorboards creaked behind him and he spun, his cane whistling through the air. The walking stick was thrust aside and something hit him hard in the face. He felt himself falling, the pouch of coins dropping from his hand and spilling across the floor. Sal tried to focus on the figure above him, but a trickle of blood half blinded him. With the lantern behind his attacker, only the outline of a man could be seen. “B.S?” he asked uncertainly.

The assailant kicked Sal’s cane away and leaned down indifferently. Sal pulled back when he realised the man held a knife levelled at him, but with the wall behind him, he had nowhere to go.

“You are Daniel Kline’s accountant?” asked his attacker in a thick accent.

“Please, let me go,” begged Sal. “I only keep the books for Mr. Kline. I don’t partake in any of his ventures.” The newcomer grabbed Sal by the front of his jacket and lifted him to his feet. “You can’t come in here,” sobbed Sal. “There are a dozen guards outside. They’ll be coming for me soon and they’ll kill you when they see you here.” The other man shook his head, his hood dislodging droplets of rainwater as he raised his knife again. “NO!” screamed Sal, fighting for his life and throwing punches when he realised the man was going to stab him – but no one heard his screams, and no one came.

* * * *

Garrett’s run wound down as he rounded the corner before his and Merle’s apartments. The street remained damp from last night’s storm and puddles had gathered in the many ruts and holes of the roadway. Garrett removed his sweat soaked shirt and used it to wipe his chest and upper back. Pacing back and forth, he assessed the roof after last night’s rain, while allowing his body to cool down. ‘Might be pushing it to ask for new shingles so soon after missing the rent,’ he thought. Swinging the door open, he walked through the office, passing Merle who was sipping his morning coffee and browsing the paper at his desk.

“Don’t know why you bother with that running crap,” said Merle, without looking up. “You’re still in okay shape for an old guy,”

“Thirty-one is not old,” snapped Garrett. “Besides, we can’t all live off pizza and beer and not gain an ounce.”

“I can,” grumbled Merle, swilling his coffee.

“My, we’re in a fine mood this morning,” acknowledged Garrett. “A little hung-over, are we?”

“Hey, I wouldn’t have indulged if you were there to stop me. It’s not my fault everyone wanted to buy the new champ a beer.”

“You didn’t have to accept,” returned Garrett, wiping under his arms with his shirt. Walking to the entrance of the inner apartments, he set a small brick before the door to hold it open so he could continue the conversation.

“You could have let me keep some of the purse,” whined Merle, watching the man through the doorway. “I worked hard for that. They posted odds of thirty-eight to one.”

Inside the living quarters, the rooms were two stories high with an open ceiling. A balcony ran around the upper floor, enclosing the loft section where Merle’s bed was located. On the ground floor, Garrett’s double bed was nestled on an upraised platform and pushed against the left hand wall. In the back corner of the room, a workbench was covered in rags and pieces of P.C.

“Twenty gons will hardly pay for P.C’s repairs, let alone any back penalties that Kline is likely to charge us. You’re just lucky P.C’s aura marble wasn’t damaged. The school of magic nearly bankrupted us to have it repaired last time.”

“Do we have to fix him?” complained Merle.

“Too late,” shot back Garrett, removing his breeches and underwear. Walking to the stove beside the back counter, he dipped a rag into a cauldron of water and began scrubbing at his skin. “I dropped his torso and legs off at the blacksmith’s on my way out this morning.” Garrett smiled to himself at Merle’s audible groan.

“Hey,” said Merle, “I thought you said you took care of the shipment for Kline and that we were probably caught up on rent. What do you mean by back penalties?”

“You know Kline,” said Garrett, holding up a chunk of mirror to his face and shaving off a patch of stubble, “if he can stick us with late fees, he will.”

“We need to get out from under him,” returned Merle. “Paying rent for this dump is crazy. It’s no wonder we can never get ahead.”

“Agreed,” said Garrett, holding his head to the side and carefully shaving his neck. “I’ll have a talk with Mr. Kline today and see exactly where we stand with our payments.” Garrett rinsed his razor in the lukewarm water and angled the mirror so he could see Merle through the doorway. “You returned Mrs. Wichuster’s cat like I asked?”

“Uh, ya,” agreed Merle, shuffling his newspaper.

“And the pennies, you deposited them?”

“Ah, well…I may have spent them on a tankard when we got to the bar last night.”

“Uh huh,” said Garrett knowingly. “Now you know why we need to save that prize money.”

“Whatever,” sulked Merle. “Don’t think I don’t know a good chunk of our savings go to the girls at the Bootlegger’s Bounty.”

A lengthy silence was followed by the slamming of the main door as it shot inwards. Rushing into the office, Vic looked about blankly.

“Don’t you ever knock?” mumbled Merle.

“Mr. Willies?” yelled Vic desperately. “Gary?”

Garrett appeared in the doorway, a towel around his waist, shaving soap covering a third of his face. “Calm down, Vic, I’m here. And it’s Garrett, not Gary”

“Oh Garredd,” cried Vic, his voice a high pitched whine and fear evident in his usually vacant eyes. “You bedder come quick. Maury says id’s awful.”

“What’s awful?” returned Garrett, more sharply then he had intended. Somehow, Vic’s behaviour was unsettling him.

“Oh,” droned Vic, his eyebrows rising as if he’d forgotten that Garrett didn’t know what he was talking about. “Maury says you need da come quick. Id’s a blood badth!”

* * * *

Garrett knelt beside the body of one of the warehouse guards. The man’s throat had been cut, his body laid tight against the wire fence and covered in loose brush.

“Just like the other’s,” pointed out Merle with a grimace. “Probably never saw it coming in the dark and the rain.” Looking away from the grizzly sight, his little wings hummed with the stress of the find.

“I think you’re right,” agreed Garrett. “Looks like the work of assassins not an all out assault. These men were ambushed.” Turning to Maury, he looked at the straight-backed ogre for his reaction. Maury’s eyes were hard, and like everyone else who had congregated on the site this morning, he was uneasy to say the least. “There are still three men missing?” inquired Garrett.

“Yes,” rumbled Maury, clearing his throat. “Maybe they got away?” His look was one of hope. Two other helpers – both of them human – stood behind the ogre, sharing an uncertain glance.

“Maybe,” said Garrett without conviction. He assessed the ends of the brush that had been cut and laid over the dead man. Stepping backward, he located the severed ends of the bushes still in the ground. Carefully he pulled them back and searched the ground for markings. Finding a muddy print, he lined his foot up beside it noting the assassin’s print was wider and longer than his own. “The men on patrol,” continued Garrett, “they would walk around the warehouse, patrol the yard here, as well as a little ways down the road?”

“Yes,” agreed Maury.

“How far down the road would they patrol from the main yard?”

“If you follow the trail for another four hundred yards or so, you’ll come to a shack. The men take their breaks there and use it for cooking and making tea.” Maury sounded upset as he recalled better times. “We checked the guardhouse this morning. I’ve sent Vic there now to look for the others, but it’s just to keep him from seeing this.”

Garrett nodded his understanding “I think we should involve the law in our investigation,” he said, not for the first time this morning. Moving to the body, he gently pushed the man onto his side and looked for other injuries. Lifting the dead man’s hands, he assessed them both closely. There were no defensive wounds.

“No cops,” snapped Maury. “I told you Mr. Kline won’t have it. Besides, we have an understanding with the Chief. We pay him to turn an eye, and that includes overlooking any incidents that occur on our property.”

Finished with the dead man, Garrett stood and sighed. “Alright,” he agreed. “Merle, I want you to use those wings of yours for something other than brushing away the flies.”

“Eye in the sky,” said Merle knowingly.

“Yes,” agreed Garrett. “Stay inside the fence, but circle down another hundred yards past the guard’s shack. Take two of Maury’s men with you and direct them from the air. If you find anything, instruct the men not to touch whatever it is.”

“Got it,” said the little dragon. Adjusting his new sunglasses, he lifted himself from the ground and went to fetch two helpers from Maury’s pool of agitated workers milling in the hanger.

Nodding to the men behind the ogre, Garrett motioned for them to gather the corpse as he and Maury headed toward the office. “None of the stored goods are missing?” he asked the ogre.

“No,” said Maury, falling in behind him.

“And there was no sign of vandalism?”

“I had the men search all of the buildings inside and out, and there is no indication of such.”

“None of the commodities were damaged or opened?”

“There’s a lot of cargo to be checked, but nothing as of yet.”

Garrett appeared thoughtful as he approached the office construct. The building had double hanger doors for loading and unloading goods and a smaller door for personnel. Beside the smaller entranceway, Frank and Hector leaned against the building; both minotaurs looked annoyed. “I can’t take the smell of blood much longer,” admitted Hector with a loud snort in Garrett’s direction. Shaking his massive head and horns, he pawed the ground agitatedly.

“No one’s been inside since he was found?” asked Garrett.

“No,” snapped Frank. “Can’t he do something else useful? His complaining is getting on my nerves.” He jerked his horns toward Hector.

“Alright,” agreed Garrett, “but I need you to make sure no one else disturbs the scene. “Hector, why don’t you go over there with Merle and see if you can find anything else to report on.”

“Me and him don’t get along,” he snorted in Merle’s direction. “And I ain’t taking orders from no dragon.” He waited for Garrett’s response, but when the man didn’t reply, Hector cleared his throat. “Fine, anything’s better than standing here doing nothing.”

Walking past the minotaurs, Garrett accepted a lantern from Maury and made his way into the gloomy office. “Open the hanger doors, will you? We need all the light we can get. Make sure the others stay back, Frank.” The minotaur grunted his assent and came in behind the ogre to release the catch on the doors.

“Oh,” whispered Maury in despair. His hand shot up to cover his mouth as he took in the horrible sight before them. “My God, who would do this to Sal? He was one of the nicest guy’s you could meet.”

“Sal might not have had many enemies,” returned Garrett meaningfully, “but I’ll wager Mr. Kline does.” Maury’s look hardened, but he said nothing as they approached the back desk. Frank finally worked the doors open, and pale light filtered into the room, illuminating the bloody mess behind the writing table and the strung up remains of Sal Rogers. The accountant had been crucified to one of the warehouse support beams. Rope was attached to both of the man’s wrists and secured to a rafter above. Sal’s legs straddled either side of the beam, and a large iron nail was driven through each of his ankles, holding him tight to the support.

Approaching the body, Garrett avoided the pool of blood before the corpse. Holding up his lantern, he studied the man’s remains. Beside him, Maury ran two steps toward the hanger doors, but couldn’t hold the contents of his stomach any longer.

“Maybe you should wait outside,” said Garrett.

“No,” said Maury, wiping his mouth, “Sal was a good man, and I’m staying for him.” He straightened up, a determined look on his face, but came no closer. From the doorway, Frank groaned in displeasure and made his way back into the light of the yard. “Why would they do that to him?” asked Maury. His voice was strained.

“I don’t know,” admitted Garrett. “I think it’s a message for Mr. Kline.” Garrett circled the body, noting the blood drenched shirt. Looking at the floor, Garrett knelt beside the desk and ran his fingers over the spot where one of the legs of the table had sat until recently. Standing, he looked at the tabletop and a pot of ink that had been spilled. In the center of the runoff, the toe of a shoeprint could be seen where Sal’s killer had used the desk to access the upper beam to tie off the ropes.

Maury stared in shock, but he nodded when Garrett pointed out the spots on the floor where the table had sat. “Why would they torture Sal?”

“Information,” said Garrett, “but what did Sal know that these men did not?”

“The combination to the safe,” said Maury instantly.

Garrett turned and looked at the open safe on the wall. The glint of gold caught his eye and he made his way to the floor where Sal had dropped his bag of coins. Several gons lay within plain sight. Reaching into the safe, he nudged one of a dozen leather sacks and was rewarded with the tinkling of coins. “It’s full of money,” he confided. “What exactly did Sal do for Mr. Kline?”

“The books,” said Maury. “Old Sal was the best accountant in Deep Cove. Knew all the tax breaks for Mr. Kline. He kept track of the operations Mr. Kline was running, how much each job cost, and how much the men were owed for their part in each of the business transactions. Today is pay day for the men, so Sal would have been here completing the books for the last period.”

Garrett reached into the safe and removed the dark ledger sitting atop the coins. “These are the accounts?” he asked.

“One set,” acknowledged Maury.

“Fixing the books, were we?” returned Garrett knowingly.

“A little,” admitted Maury. Seeing Garrett’s look of consternation, he continued quickly. “It’s only for tax purposes. The men are paid fairly. Mr. Kline has a tendency to think that businessmen like himself are overtaxed.”

“So he and Sal took it upon themselves to remedy the situation.” Garrett set the lantern down and untied the leather straps of the ledger. Slowly he leafed through the pages. “Maybe the King’s Revenue Agency caught wind of Kline’s deceitful ways.”

“Frank’s right,” snapped Maury. “You’re too funny for your own good.”

“Sorry,” said Garrett, looking up as the light from the hanger doors was blocked.

Mr. Kline stood in the entrance, a fine fur coat covering his ample frame. Beside him, B.S. stood guardedly. Without speaking, Kline continued into the office, his steely gaze locked onto the body. “I want to know who did this,” he said at last and his voice was as hard as the look in his eye. Approaching the body, he nodded toward it. “Cut him down,” he ordered.

“We can’t bury him with the other men.” said Maury hurriedly.

“No,” agreed Kline, a sad look on his face. “Sal always spoke of his son and the land they have out east. We’ll send him home for a proper burial.” Maury nodded and stepped over to the body of the accountant. He stood staring at the man for several minutes. Garrett went over to help, knowing there was no easy way to proceed. “The nails will be difficult to remove,” he said. “Why don’t you wait outside and I’ll see what I can do to get him down.”

“I’ll help,” said Maury, stubbornly. “I know Sal is in a better place. “He won’t feel it.”

Kline waited outside while Garrett, Maury and B.S. worked to remove the man from the post. Once they had freed him, Maury laid his friend on a clean section of floor.

Garrett stepped back respectfully and scooped up the ledger from where he had set it on the desk. Looking to Kline, he was about to ask him if he knew of anyone who wanted to hurt Sal, when he noticed B.S’s scratched cheek. Walking over to the young man, he assessed the shallow cut on the boy’s face and the bruises on the back of his knuckles. B.S. returned Garrett’s stare with a hint of indignation. “Hit the town last night did we?” asked Garrett.

“B.S. had some dealings to collect on,” returned Kline in a tone that said ‘Mind your own business.’

Garrett nodded and opened the book once more. Then he stopped and glanced at Maury. “You said there were two sets of books.”

“Yes,” agreed Maury, and Kline’s face hardened as if the ogre had divulged too much.

“If Sal was completing the entries last night,” continued Garrett, “where is the second book?” Maury seemed at a loss and shrugged. Garrett swore as he arrived at the last page of the ledger and the most recent entry.

“What?” snapped Kline and even B.S. looked alarmed.

“It’s just that whoever took the second ledger has all of the intimate details of your dealings.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Kline breathing a sigh of relief. “Those accounts are listed as legitimate business dealings for tax purposes. All anyone can extract from that book is that I make my money shipping food goods, playing the stock market, and at legitimate business.”

“That may be so,” agreed Garrett, staring at the last entry of the journal, “but whoever took the book now has a complete list of everyone working for you.” Reading to himself, Garrett swallowed as his eyes traced the bottom line of the last page. ‘Garrett Willigins’ he read. ‘2 Gons, (Dock Duty).’