13 Mink Street

Tiz stood behind Karon, silent while watching his grandson.

While the others had collapsed to the floor in terror of the grisly scene before them, only the grandfather and grandson remained upright, set apart by the calm that they displayed.

“Have you figured anything out?” Tiz asked quietly.

Karon glanced back at his grandfather and shook his head.

“Nothing at all?”

Again, Karon shook his head. “Only disappointment.”

“Disappointment?”

“Yes.”

Earlier, he had tried to provoke the killer on the phone, and even then, a trace of anticipation had lingered in his heart. Now, the words “anticipation” and “disappointment” seemed clumsy, barely enough to express the feeling. When Karon had first hung up and then raced here with his grandfather, he had been truly worried about Mrs. Hughes. That worry tangled with the anger and sorrow left in the wake of Old Darcy’s death.

Yet people were contradictory; anxiety and concern coexisted with a cold detachment, the ability to observe the “work” before him almost clinical. Before Tiz, Karon felt no need to hide that.

“And that disappointment, where does it come from?”

“It’s dull. Formulaic. Nothing new.”

“Does this count for something?” Tiz turned back to Old Darcy, assembled from pieces before them.

“That’s all it is,” Karon said, shrugging. “At the Crown Ballroom, all of the effect came from the setting; it lent the killer’s work an air of grandeur it didn’t merit. What we’re seeing here is the real level of skill.”

“Are you really here to admire it?” Tiz asked.

“No, though there’s still something of interest,” Karon said, his gaze sweeping the crematorium. “I remember, on the call, the killer seemed uncertain about what to do at the end.”

“And?”

“From the perspective of the case, after the call ended, the killer must have forced himself to fit the final piece in.”

“So you’re searching for that?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll help.”

“Thank you, Grandpa.” Karon moved over to Mrs. Hughes first, and offered her his hand.

She looked pale. He remembered thinking that the first time they had met. Up close, she was even paler. There are shades of white that appear lifeless, thin, or tedious. Others possess depth and movement, something both sensuous and strangely arresting. Mrs. Hughes had the latter.

Uncle Mason and Aunt Mary had warned Karon to be careful around her. They had known Mrs. Hughes for years, and understood exactly what she was about.

“Old Darcy...” Mrs. Hughes bowed her head and wept, her tears falling soundless as petals.

“Madam, you should call the police now.”

“Oh... yes, of course.” Through her mourning, Mrs. Hughes’ will showed. She wiped her tears away and stepped out to make the call.

Karon didn’t take the time to help the three still lying on the floor, and instead began searching the cremation room while Tiz moved among the shadows.

The cremation room was large, but given that it had been made to hold three furnaces, the space felt neither cramped nor open.

Karon looked first to the closest furnace, the one still warm. He peered inside, but found nothing amiss. He moved to the next furnace. “Hmm?”

A shadow passed over his face. He pulled the nearby lever, opening the door so that he could slide the rack out. Face down on the rack lay a body dressed in a Hughes Crematorium uniform.

“Ah!” Mrs. Hughes cried out behind him, making him start. Hysteria touched her voice. “There’s... there’s another one here!”

“No, it’s the same one.” Karon crouched to grab a pair of tongs and shift the hand of the corpse on the rack. Using the tongs, he pulled the hand free of the sleeve. Then, he reached into the collar and drew out the head.

Only half of it emerged. All that was present was just the back of the head. The front was entirely gone.

The hand was the same; only half remained. There were no bones inside, just skin. It was disturbingly similar to a deboned, pickled chicken foot.

Karon turned to the counter where the urns stood. With the tongs, he flipped over a foot inside one. The foot had initially been standing on its side, but when it was turned over, a straight cut clean through it was exposed. Only half of the foot was there.

He rose on his tiptoes so that he could nudge the head inside the top urn, Old Darcy’s head. It rolled, exposing the same thing: only the front was present. The back half was missing, as if the skull had been sliced apart like a melon.

The body on the furnace rack was half of Old Darcy, while the pieces assembled on the counter were also just half.

The killer had split Old Darcy cleanly into two halves.

“There’s something here.” Tiz wheeled over a trolley. The cart was meant for ashes, but was instead laden with a hammer, nails, spools of thread, rope, and an assortment of jars and tins.

“What’s in the bottles...” Karon nudged them with his tongs, seeing no labels.

“Glue. Very strong glue,” Tiz said.

“Glue...” Karon stepped back, drifting toward the telephone.

Tiz stepped closer and stopped beside Karon. “There’s half a body on the furnace rack, and another half here by the urns. What, exactly, was the killer trying to do?”

Karon pursed his lips. “Old Darcy is burning Old Darcy.”

“That’s what it means?”

“The killer likes irony. One half of Old Darcy lies facedown on the rack while the other half stands beside him, gloved and holding a mallet, as if ready to shove him into the furnace. Or perhaps one half has already been burned, and the other is about to smash his own bones to pack them into the urns. From the right angle, what’s split in two can be seen as two figures, each complete on its own.”

“Like wax figures,” Tiz concluded. In wax museums, figures would be posed mid-action; a farmer ploughing a field, or a soldier charging forward.

“Yes, Grandpa, that’s a very apt comparison. I believe that’s exactly the effect the killer wanted.”

“But if that was the intention, why stop here? Was it your phone call? Did he lose his nerve?”

“I suspect he found he wasn’t skilled enough. Cutting, sewing, anchoring a body in place; such work needs a tailor’s hand. Failing that, he settled for this rough imitation.”

It was small wonder the killer’s temper had frayed so quickly during the call. Bested by his own limitations, his work had already been ruined.

“But Grandpa, here’s what I don’t understand. At Crown Ballroom, he mocked the Berai Church by posing the body with the Song of Souls. By that logic, there should be another religious reference here. Undermining authority, ridiculing faith, showing himself to be the lone clear-sighted one among the deluded; that’s the kind of drama an artist craving vision uses to feel alive inside.”

“And that’s exactly what this is,” Tiz replied. “The dogma of the God of Abyss tells how their deity split himself in two: one half doomed to the underworld, the other transformed into radiant dust and ascended into the heavens. Hell and heaven divided him, yet the two halves forced a passage between realms, forming a place belonging to neither while connected to both. They call it the Abyss. His followers call him the Lord of the Abyss.”

“Lord of the Abyss?” Karon glanced over. “I’ve never heard of him.”

“That church began far from here, and their practices are too extreme. Most governments have banned them completely. There’s no Church of Abyss anywhere in Swillen, at least not officially, not even in Roja City.”

***

The police arrived, led by Inspector Duke. When the report had arrived, something in the old detective’s gut warned him it was the killer’s next piece.

All afternoon, the thought of new “artwork” had pounded in his skull, never far from the memory of the Immers boy’s maddening composure. If his duties—and the influence of the Immers name, especially the old man—weren’t what they were in Roja City, Inspector Duke would have found an excuse to bring the boy in for a little “special attention.”

So, when he entered the crematorium and saw Karon already there waiting, Duke clenched his fists in disbelief and barked, “Dammit, are you in business with death now? Why do you always get here first?”

“Good evening, Inspector Duke,” Tiz greeted.

“Yes, good evening.” Duke accepted Tiz’s handshake. “Hello, Father Tiz.”

The police began their work. Since Karon had spoken directly with the killer, they needed a thorough statement from him, and Inspector Duke stayed close the whole time.

“That’s everything I know,” Karon finished.

“So, he moved from the Berai Church to the Church of Abyss now?” Duke took a draw from his pipe, rubbing his forehead. “My main concern is whether he’ll keep killing.”

“He will,” Karon said quietly. “And soon.”

“Soon?”

“This piece failed. He’s the sort who imagines himself gifted, but his talent is mediocre at best. People like that never stop to reflect. They just rush again and again to prove themselves.” Karon had left out their more biting exchange. “By the way, Inspector, any word on the first victim’s identity?”

Inspector Duke shook his head. “We have a few leads, but we’re waiting for assistance from another city. Seems the victim wasn’t a local. There’s also another thing; you said before that the killer must be close to his victim, as it’s how he was able to immerse himself.”

“Yes. That’s why I suggest starting with Old Darcy’s social circle.”

Inspector Duke leaned closer, his eyes narrowing. “So, once we know who the first victim was, if we overlap the two social circles and find intersections, we’ll have our suspect pool?”

“In theory.”

“You really think the killer is that careless?” Doubt edged Inspector Duke’s voice.

Karon shrugged. “He’s exactly that careless.”

***

“Thank you, Mrs. Hughes.” Karon thanked the woman as she drove him and Tiz back to Mink Street.

“I’m sorry for the trouble,” she said.

“It’s no trouble at all,” Tiz replied.

She drew a long, steady breath. “Old Darcy worked for me for so many years. I never thought this could happen to him. Father Tiz, I’ll leave the funeral arrangements in your hands, and I’ll cover all of the expenses.”

“All right.”

She tried to smile. “This’ll be hardest on Mary, but I will make this one request: at the funeral, I hope Old Darcy can look whole, even if it’s just his appearance.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.

“There’s something else I hope you’ll consider.”

“Yes?”

“I want to sell the crematorium. I’ve been tired for years. If not for my old staff, especially Old Darcy, I wouldn’t have managed even this long. Now, with him gone, I can’t keep it going alone. If you’re willing to buy Hughes Crematorium, I’ll accept any offer.” This showed the measure of the trust she placed in Tiz’s character.

Besides, even if Old Darcy had died inside, what was a crematorium? A place where bodies burned every day was unlikely to worry about becoming haunted.

“I’ll discuss it with Mason.”

“All right. Thank you, both of you.” She bowed to Tiz first, only to then open her arms and pull Karon into a hug. Instantly, he felt a sense of fullness, as though he had fallen into a mass of cream, rich and comforting, yet not the least bit cloying. It was like an old farmer lying atop his own grain in the barn as a powerful satisfaction quietly settled into his bones.

Mrs. Hughes returned to her car and drove away while Karon followed Tiz inside, to the first-floor parlor. Aunt Winnie sat on the couch, a ledger open across her knees. “Father, you’re back.”

“Yes.”

“What about Uncle Mason? Isn’t he home yet?” Karon glanced toward the street. The hearse was still gone.

“Mason and the others came back during the night, bringing two ‘guests’ and a family member.”

For the Immers family, “guests” always referred to corpses, while “family members” meant the deceased’s relatives.

So, Uncle Mason brought back both jobs. One was the man from the booth whose head had been sliced in half. The other must be the man who died from his injuries. “So, where is Uncle now?”

“He’s out shopping with the guest’s wife.” Aunt Winnie tapped her temple, indicating the widow of the late Mr. Half-a-Head.

Karon remembered what Aunt Mary had mentioned earlier; that afternoon, the woman kept insisting her husband was away on business in Veyn and that he couldn’t possibly have died in the Crown Ballroom. Clearly, she had since accepted the truth.

Not only accepted it. The shock must have gone deep. In the afternoon, her husband had still been alive, yet during the night, she was in the Immers family hearse to go shopping with Uncle Mason.

It sounded almost mad, yet Karon understood. Still, he couldn’t help asking, “How did Aunt Mary agree to that?”

Letting Mason take a newly widowed woman out shopping at night seemed more than a little unusual.

“Because Mrs. Seymour ordered Package B!” Aunt Mary’s voice rang up the stairs just before she herself emerged from the basement, her eyes bright.

Karon had reviewed the Immers menu of services. Package A was reserved for the truly wealthy. They only saw one such order a year, if they were lucky: the Golden Casket or the elegant ‘Lightwind’ model. Package B, despite being only high-end when compared to the more regular fare, was the family’s main business, as it brought in most of the profit.

“If it’s Package B, Karon, forget shopping. I’d lend her your uncle for two nights if she asked.”

Karon shot Aunt Mary a look and glanced to the side. She followed his gaze and finally noticed Tiz sitting on the sofa. Embarrassed, she quickly covered her mouth, but the old man merely shook his head. “Old Darcy is dead.”

“Old Darcy? Oh! The old cremator at Hughes. Poor Old Darcy. May god rest his soul.” Crossing herself, she tried to make up for her earlier carelessness.

Tiz went upstairs without another word.

Karon mentioned, “Mrs. Hughes wants us to handle Old Darcy’s funeral.”

Mary did not look pleased at the prospect of another job, and even rolled her eyes. “I hate doing funerals for people we know. There’s no profit, and we even lose money sometimes.”

That, Karon thought. Is the mark of a true friend. Seeing that Tiz had not mentioned Mrs. Hughes’s intention to sell the crematorium, Karon similarly kept silent about the fact that Old Darcy had already been cut into many pieces.

“Oh, Karon. While you and Father were out, a gentleman came by for you. When he learned you weren’t home, he left this letter and said that you’re welcome for coffee whenever you have time.” Karon took the envelope. The name on it was Piaget, the psychologist who’d recently delivered his wife to the crematorium. The letter was simple: the man’s regret for missing Karon, an invitation to visit his home, a phone number, and an address: 45 Rhine Street.

While Mink Street sat in the city’s second ring, Rhine Street pressed close to the center, near city hall.

“All right, Aunt Mary. I’ll go shower first.”

“Yes, get some rest.”

A car pulled up outside. Uncle Mason was back, and Mrs. Seymour with him. The woman looked to be about thirty, and was plainly dressed. Mason followed her, his arms full of bags of shoes, clothing, and purses.

Mary asked, “Mason, why didn’t you take Mrs. Seymour home first?”

She couldn’t see the sense in dragging a guest to their home so late in the day, not when the family’s work—funeral arrangements and body preparations—always took days. Time was seldom tight, except for unusual cases like with Mr. Mossan’s children. Most funerals allowed for enough time for everything, including sending out notices, guest travel, and embalming.

Mrs. Seymour was the one to reply, “Mason told me your family offers counseling. I need that now.”

Mason, deliberately staying behind the woman, gestured towards Karon with his brows while mouthing something to Mary. She instantly understood. “Yes, we do. We’ll arrange it right away.”

***

Counseling required a closed, comfortable room. Karon had no office of his own, and Mary wouldn’t dare ask Tiz to leave his study at such an hour. There was also absolutely no way that she would allow Mrs. Seymour to be led down to the basement. In the end, she gave up her and Mason’s bedroom for the session.

“Please.”

“All right.” Mrs. Seymour entered the room. She glanced around while taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Karon drew over a chair to face her. He knew that the real storm brewing was not just her grief, but the betrayal hidden behind it.

“Mrs. Seymour, can you tell me about you and your husband?” As he slipped into his working voice, a brief wave of disorientation came over Karon. For a single breath, he felt as though he’d returned back to who he had been in another life.

The moment left, and when he looked back up, Mrs. Seymour had already removed her coat and was unbuttoning her blouse. “Mrs. Seymour, what are you—”

“You’re very handsome, you know.”

“Thank you, but—”

“Do it with me. Now. Right now. I want it.”

“Mrs. Seymour, I’m here to counsel you.”

“I know. I’ll pay you afterward.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ll pay double.” Already in her underwear, Mrs. Seymour moved over to him, tugging at his jacket. “Right now, on this bed. I’ll give you anything you want, any way you want it. I can even teach you, if you haven’t before.”

Karon did not resist. He opened his arms, letting her pull his jacket off. His voice remained measured, “Any way at all?”

“Of course. Any way you want.”

“Then let’s go to the basement. I want to do it in front of Mr. Seymour.”

Mrs. Seymour instantly froze, as though dropped into icy water. Karon softened his voice, “Is it worth it?”

Mrs. Seymour slid to the floor, her arms wrapping tight around herself as she started to sob. “Why? Why? I gave up my career, my family, to be the perfect wife. How could he do this to me? How could he?”

Karon gathered her clothes and draped them over her shoulders. He sat down on the floor beside her, silent, just letting her cry.

Letting her cry would be the best.

Mrs. Seymour clung to Karon’s arm, her face pressed into his shoulder. Between shuddering sobs, she could only manage the same word again and again: “Why, why...”

Karon understood; she wasn’t looking for answers.

***

Out at the dining table outside, Mary whispered, “How much did you charge?”

“Two thousand rupi,” Mason said.

“Are you out of your mind? That much?”

“The last one paid twenty thousand,” Mason corrected. “That’s just how much this kind of service costs.”

“Do you really think Karon can do it?”

Mason paused for a moment before answering. “I think so. Ever since my nephew recovered from his illness, he’s seemed... different.”

“Different how?”

“Sometimes,” Mason said quietly. “I feel like I should call him Uncle.”

The door clicked open. Karon stepped into the hall, Mrs. Seymour following behind. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. It’s my job.”

Mrs. Seymour offered a small bow to Mary and Mason. “I’ll leave my husband’s arrangements in your hands.”

“Of course,” Mason replied.

“No need to thank us,” Mary added.

“I’m sorry to trouble you so late,” Mrs. Seymour continued. “I’ll head home now.”

“It’s late, and taxis are hard to get at this hour,” Mason offered. “Let me drive you.”

“All right, thank you. I live at 46 Rhine Street.”

“That’s not far at all.”

Hearing the address, Karon spoke up, his expression polite and his smile careful, “Mrs. Seymour, do you know Mr. Piaget?”

Mr. Piaget had given his own address as 45 Rhine Street. On the surface, at least, the two were neighbors.

“Mr. Piaget? Of course I know him. We’re neighbors. He’s close to both me and my husband. He and Seymour would often go fishing together. His wife, Linda, is wonderful too. A fantastic cook, she used to invite us over for dinner all the time.”

“Ah, I see.” Karon watched as Mrs. Seymour mentioned Linda Adams. For just a moment, a shadow of a smile touched her lips. There was something not quite right about it. If things followed their usual course, her next words should have been “Sadly, she passed away last week,” yet those words never came.

Instead, Mrs. Seymour went on, “Just this morning, Linda brought over an apple pie. It was delicious! I put half in the fridge for my husband... What a shame that he’ll never get to taste it.”