A Fraudulent Death, Draft 02, CH 14 (Patreon)

Trembor leaned back in the chair, sighing. “I’m not asking for their cage number, Zarr. I just want to know they’re going alright.”

“You know,” the female on the other end of the call said, “if the prosecution finds out you’re asking after the criminals accusing you of bankrolling them, they’re going to see that as you admitting you’re in league with them.”

“Then just don’t tell them I’m the one asking.”

She was quiet for a few seconds. “I’ve got to say I’m curious myself. Why do you care about them?”

“You know I’ve arrested Jasber,” Trembor replied, having worked out his explanation after Barany left, “back in my enforcer days. I just want to make sure the system’s treating her fairly.” He couldn’t believe how many calls it took him to get someone to even consider looking into this. The caging complex had given him a ‘we can’t divulge any information on prisoners’ that was so rehearsed Trembor suspected they used it multiple times a day. Among the people he knew, few had transitioned to positions that let them inquire after prisoners, and Zarr was the first to even consider it. The others had told him outright they weren’t helping him figure out a way to have them eaten.

“I don’t get you,” she said, “never have. How can you care about criminals like them? Especially her, not only did she manage to walk away from, like, every arrest, but now she’s making your life difficult.”

“They’re people too,” he replied, having worked on that answer too, although this one was closer to how he believed some criminals should be treated. “If we treat them like meat, it just encourages them to go back to crimes. And it isn’t all criminals I care about; there are some I would love to see become someone’s meal.”

She sighed. “Alright, fine. I’ll look into it, and if it doesn’t break any rules, I’ll let you know what I find.”

“Thanks, Zarr. It’s all I ask.”

He ended the call and closed his eyes. It had taken too much work, which, he reminded himself, was how it should always be. No one should just be able to call up someone and find out all they wanted, even about criminals. But Flattooth was acting like he had a network of contacts who could get him anything he wanted.

He tried not to think too hard about how it seemed to be what he was doing now.

And he didn’t need to know what Zarr found. All he needed her to do was discover Jasber had been mistreated and start an investigation into that. All he wanted was for Jasber to be taken out of that mole’s claws. She should have been protected, as critical as she was supposed to be for Flattooth’s case against him. But it was apparent now that the caging complexes weren’t the safe environment they tried to project.

Criminals like Borrows shouldn’t have people in them. They should be a place where criminals could reflect on what they’d done, and those who wanted to change could work on that. Instead, it seemed to be a place where the cycles continued. If the mole could find a use for Trembor when he was sentenced to time at one of the complexes, what could she do with those who had no compulsions against taking advantage of the other prisoners?

He placed the pad on the charging plate and walked to the kitchen, where he emptied the last of the blood in a glass and topped it up with alcohol. He went over his options. He wanted something other than what he was contemplating.

He could let Maoma Burrows have her way. Let her manipulate the trial so he’d be free. Any results where he was acquitted, that she be involved or not, ended with him forced to work for her, so that was a non-starter. Not that he could get his lawyer to do anything but fight to defend him as best as he could. He’d have to hope Flattooth’s case was as strong as the hippopotamus believed. And that the mole’s ability to interfere wasn’t as strong as she’d led him to believe.

He snorted. He believed her.

If he somehow was found guilty, then he’d be dealing with her influence within the complex. The people around him would-be criminals, so it would be easier to do what she wanted if he had no choice. He’d be able to ensure he hurt people who deserved to be hurt.

Or it was what he wanted to believe. But Jasber was in a complex. How many others were there without having done anything deserving of being tortured? How would he not hurt them if the mole ordered it? How would he justify it once he started giving in?

And who would he be once he was released?

As much as Flattooth wanted to mark him as some crime king, his sentence would be finite. He would rejoin society. Or at least some version of him would. Who would that male be? He shuddered at the idea he’d be someone comfortable working for Maoma Burrows once he got out.

He’d rather die.

And there it was.

The simplest solution for all involved. It would ensure the mole couldn’t turn him into someone he’d despise.

It was also a simple thing to do; go out, find a healthy bull, or elk, maybe a moose. Try to take them down and fail in such a way he didn’t survive. Maoma couldn’t come back to punish anyone; as she’d pointed out, accidents happened. Whoever killed him would be saddled with paying for his tax, and Trembor had no way to be sure they could afford him, although, with his death, the case would probably proceed unimpeded. Bringing his productivity down drastically.

He’d have to look into something to divert his funds to help his killer cover the tax. Only, he realized, if anyone found out about that, it would be a clear indication he’d planned his death.

That would destroy his parents.

He’d survived Gorrek. That he’d let this take him down would be an affront.

“You can survive this,” his mother had told him, pleaded with him, when he’d been at his darkest after that lion. She’d believe the same now.

Only it wasn’t the same. With Gorrek, he’d been the only one at risk. Going on living, risking running into that lion again, only put him in danger. Now, his survival put any Goldenmane at risk of being used to teach him a lesson.

He agreed with them. Giving up was an affront to who he was, to what he’d survived. He didn’t want to do it. He simply couldn’t think of any other way to protect those he cared for that didn’t also turn him into someone they would hate.

He brought the glass to his lips and discovered it was empty. Had his musings taken that long? He turned to the sink and rinsed it.

He wished he could go to the one person with the skills to help him set everything up in a way his family would never find out. Marlot could hide everything in the network, to activate once he died and direct the funds in such a way no one would know they came from him.

But his wolf would lead his family in keeping Trembor safe rather than allowing him to protect them. Marlot would go to war with the entire crime syndicate to protect him. Trembor couldn’t let him risk his life like this.

It meant he was alone. It was an uncomfortable feeling for a Goldenmane. Lions were tightly knit and his family more so.

He needed to go through his accounts. He needed to ensure he had no outstanding bills someone else would have to shoulder. He needed to pull out the agreement on the house; he didn’t remember what the death clause was like. He berated himself. His father had told him to read any contract carefully.

He had to arrange for the distribution of his possessions. If he didn’t write up how it was to be distributed, it would all go to Marlot, since they were mated. But that would put him at odds with his family.

Trembor sighed. Yet another thing that would be his fault. As if the pain of his death wouldn’t be enough. His family would find out he and Marlot were trying to rebuild their relationship. If Maoma thought what she could do would be destructive, she had nothing on a full-blown confrontation between Sarene and Marlot when both would be in pain and angry.

He held onto the counter as yet another realization hit him.

Anytime he spent with his wolf only meant his death would hurt him that much more. He should just end things with him. Make it clean to minimize the blood. Write him a letter for afterward explaining why he’d done it. At least Marlot wouldn’t be left wondering if it had been his fault. What he couldn’t do was see his wolf again. With that cursed course on scent recognition, there was nothing Trembor could do to keep him from scenting his intentions.

He dried the glass and put it away.

What else would he have to do to ensure it happened and caused the minimum of damage to others? He’d covered his killer, if not how he’d keep his family from finding out afterward. His debt, Marlot, his—

The door buzzer rang, and he patted himself down for his pad. Had he missed someone’s message saying they were coming over? His family didn’t just show up. It was in the office, charging. He chuckled. The rare time he remembered to charge it would be the one time he’d need it on hand. He thought about getting it, then opening the door, but whoever it was would freeze their tail off.

He opened the door and stared at the wolf on the other side.

“Hi,” the black wolf said shyly. He raised a package wrapped in butcher paper in one hand and a bottle of blood in the other. “I couldn’t remember what your cooler looked like so I brought meat.”

“Marl,” Trembor said once he found his voice. What was he doing here? What would he do once he caught his scent? Right now he was downwind, the frigid thing blowing into the house. If Marlot entered, with the door closed. He’d figure everything out.

“Trem, is everything okay?”

He should send him away. Slam the door close on that part of his life. Hurt him now so he wouldn’t hurt later. He didn’t move.

“Trem?”

He shook himself. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.” Now he could send him away and be safe, Marlot would understand. Instead, he stepped out of the way. “Get in before this cold strips both our fur off.” He’d missed his wolf.

With the door closed, as warmth reasserted itself, Trembor readied for the coming argument. He watched Marlot sniff the air and his expression grow worried. Trembor wouldn’t lie to his wolf. Even if he wanted to, he didn’t have the skill needed to control how he felt even slightly. In letting the wolf in his house, he’d ensured things would turn out so much worse.

But he needed to smell his wolf. If that meant war with Maoma, so be it.

Marlot hugged him tightly but stayed silent. Trembor heard him breathe in deep. And after a hesitation, he wrapped his arms around the wolf and pressed his nose on the side of his head, and took in the scent. Memorized it; attached it to every good memory he had. This was his last chance to have a moment of quiet with him. After this would come questions, demands, arguments. War.

Marlot stepped back and offered him the package. “I’m going to let you bake this however you want.”

Trembor snapped his muzzle shut on the ready justification. Where were the demands? The questions? Marlot hadn’t missed how worried and afraid he was. So what was he doing? Should he tell him anyway? He knew Marlot wouldn’t do this to make him suffer. His wolf wasn’t like Gorrek.

Then why?

He took the package. It had good weight. A substantial meal for both of them. Alright, he’d let Marlot control this. He smiled. “You say that because my baking isn’t that much more elaborate than yours.”

“You add sauced and spices, and I’ve seen you sear meat. It’s better than me just reheating it.”

Trembor nodded, trying to get over the lack of question.

Marlot canted an ear. “Unless you’re much better than you’ve shown me before, I don’t think the meat will bake with us standing in the entryway.”

Trembor shook himself. Looked into his wolf’s eyes and fought the impulse to tell him everything, knowing it would lead to him running off to take on Maoma, her entire organization, and get himself killed. He wanted to tell someone what was happening. Anyone.

But he couldn’t tell his wolf.

“I’m sorry for the state I’m in,” Trembor said, taking Marlot’s hand and leading him to the kitchen.

“The meeting with your lawyer didn’t go well?” Marlot asked, hesitation making him stutter slightly.

He placed the package on the counter and opened it. “It depends how you look at it,” he replied. Professional work. Marlot had a store process his kills. He took a knife from the holder and sharpened it. He cut the slab into two smaller portions. If he was going to bake for his wolf, he was going to do something worth eating. It could be the last time they shared a meal.

Satisfied with the cuts, he placed the cast-iron skillet on the stove set to high heat. Out of the cooler, it took sauces and spices, then two glasses that he filled with blood, adding a splash of alcohol to his after Marlot shook his head.

“Barany, that’s my lawyer—he’s from my dad’s old firm—is confident he can resolve this, in spite of who he’s up against.”

Marlot placed the glass on the table. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

Trembor paused in the process of adding spices to the sauce in the mixing bowl. “Marl, I’m guilty.” He looked into the bowl, not wanting to see his wolf’s disappointment. “I can’t stand the idea of the system being manipulated to let me go unpunished.”

A hand touched his back softly, and he shivered.

“Trem, you’re a good male. This one thing doesn’t make you a criminal.” The hand was replaced with Marlot.

No, he thought, he’d just let other criminals dig their claws into him. He felt, more than heard, Marlot sniff his fur.

“I’m sorry,” his wolf said. “I know this goes against who you are. I’ll drop it.”

“That’s not—” Trembor began defensively and forced himself to stop. Marlot had apologized, not accused. He took a few calming breaths. “How was your day?”

Marlot snorted in his fur. “Oh, it was fine,” he said with derision. “That body I’m investigating might very well have died close to six years ago instead of a few days like I thought.” Marlot kissed the back of Trembor’s neck and stepped away.

He already missed his wolf. “How is that possible?” He focused on the glaze. “It’s probably just someone who looks like him.”

“Probably. I have the male’s clothing from when his belongings were returned, so I’ll know as soon as I have a DNA comparison done. It’s at the lab with a gentle request to expedite is as much as they can.”

Trembor looked over his shoulder. “You don’t go around forcing your way through any queue, but you are the telling type, not the gently requesting one.”

Marlot’s ears folded back. “I’m trying to be more considerate of others.

“Marl,” Trembor said, rolling his eyes. “You’re not—”

“Do you remember Telima?”

Trembor frowned and checked the skillet’s heat. “The name sounds familiar.”

“He was the boy toy of that cheetah vice president of one company or another. She was raped and killed by the reptile. Telima’s a jackal.”

“Right, the prowler.”

“Do you remember how I went and told him about her being pregnant without any considerations for how that would make him feel? How her contracted mate showed up at the freezer? How devastated they both were?”

Trembor remembered trying to caution Marlot against doing that. “I do.”

Marlot sighed. “That’s the kind of male I can be; have a bad habit of being, it seems.” In the pause, Trembor soaked the first slab into the glaze and put it on the skillet. “I never realized how set on getting my way I tend to be, so I’m trying to pull back.”

He put the second cut into the pan. “Is this something your counselor told you to do?”

“I haven’t seen her yet. I don’t have your skill at getting one of my friends to shuffle her other clients around so she’ll take me early.”

Trembor wanted to tell Marlot he did nothing like that, but he’d just gotten Zarr to look into something she wasn’t comfortable doing. “If you came to that realization yourself and have already worked out a plan, I think you’re going to do fine.” He turned one cut, then the other, and the spicy fragrance filled the kitchen.

“Hopefully. I’ll see what she has to say tomorrow. As for the male, until I know, I can only work with the facts I’ve uncovered and they tend to lead to him being that dead male. Physically they’re close enough his mate admitted they could be the same person. She doesn’t believe that, but that’s because she knows he’s dead, having received the survivor’s benefits.”

“How did he die?”

“Broken neck, without any signs he fought back.”

The sizzling kept him from falling too deeply into the analogy. “Suicide?” He turned the meat to sear the sides.

“It’s what it’s looking like, but it raises so many questions, like why did the killer just leave the body there afterward? I can’t link an ID to the body, so that was a free meal, no matter why he died.”

“Maybe he just freaked out at how easy the kill was and didn’t even look.” He forced the gloom away but made a note of it. He’d have to make sure he didn’t freak out his killer, so he’d have to resist some. He took plates out and determined to enjoy this time with Marlot.

It might very well be their last time.

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