A Fraudulent Death, Draft 02, CH 16-17 (Patreon)

Chapter 16

Trembor sat at the table, looking at the empty plate. He looked at the place on the other side, the one where Marlot sat the night before. Where he wished he was now. He’d almost begged for him to stay, but his wolf had to work. And Trembor had things he needed to do. Starting with cleaning his plate.

He should get up and do that.

He looked at the plate and remembered holding his wolf in the shower. The smell of his wet fur before it was coated with shampoo.

He sighed.

The plate. He needed to get his day going.

It felt heavy as he took it and his glass to the sink. He washed and dried them, put them away, then stared at the others in the cupboard, his minds in a fog.

If he reacted this way to what he needed to do, maybe he should reconsider. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do?

“Of course it isn’t,” he growled, slamming the door shut. “But there’s nothing else I can do.”

He forced himself to leave the kitchen. Past the office, instead of going to there get his affair in order and took the sheets off the bed. He buried his muzzle in them, breathed in his and Marlot’s scents, their lust, their desire for one another. He folded them and put them in a drawer. From the linen closet, it took a clean set and made the bed, then cleaned the room.

With that done, he told himself he needed to do the real preparations. He walked past the office to change the scratching post, the air filters. He was walking away, when he realized he’d put those with the clean one and threw them out, berating himself for not paying attention to what he was going.

He stared at his office. At how impersonal closing his affairs there would be and decided he’d handle what he could in person. He took his pad off the charging plate and smiled that it was fully charged. When was the last time that had happened? Marlot would be proud of him for it. He put on his heaviest jacket and drove to the financial district.

* * * * *

The bank was busy and loud with people arguing. For as much as could be done over the network, people still wanted to interact. Baring your teeth at a screen didn’t cause a satisfying reaction, or even growling to someone over a pad. When they were on the other side of the counter and you could smell the fear your threat put in them… Trembor smiled in spite of himself.

He wondered how the institution dealt with employee turnover; even a hardened predator could only take so much stress. Prey had to be worse at it, not counting those who were eaten out of anger. Productivity only afforded protection when people were rational enough to remember it was a thing.

Did the bank offer on site-counselors to help with frayed nerves?

He reached the counter and asked for a printout of his accounts, along with the list of all the automated payments he had in place. Once he had that, he asked to access his safe deposit box.

He was escorted to the vault where the attendant and him unlocked his box, which he took to a private room. He entered the code for the box once he was alone and slowly took the items out one at a time. Nothing there had financial value; this was a box of memories more than wealth.

The action figure Grandfather Oliangha gave him a few days before his last hunt. The male had seemed mythical to the young Trembor, doing his own hunting while being so old. Torim never hunted, and he was young in comparison. It would be a decade after the old male was gone before Trembor understood he hunted because he had no mates left to do it for him, or that the ‘last hunt’ had been no hunt at all. Even a stubborn male like him eventually lost the will to continue the everyday struggle.

Trembor wondered what his Grandfather would think of his plans.

Pictures of people who mattered to him, his Grandfather at various stages of his life, his parents, some when they were younger than he was now, which he always found difficult to envision. His siblings holding babies. Each of his nieces and nephews. Their parents when they were also young.

He swallowed as he took out one he’d forgotten was there. A much younger version of himself leaning against a darker lion, almost a decade older. He could see the love in his eyes looking up at Gorrek. Now, he was removed enough to read the smirk of satisfaction on that lion’s face.

He’d put it there as a reminder, in case he forgot things weren’t always as they seemed. That someone acting like they loved you didn’t mean they did. That a tender touch could hide a vicious streak that would leave you ripped apart. With Gorrek dead, at the hand of a hunter no less, Trembor tried to work out how he felt about the male. He remembered the pain, distant, muted by time and experience. There was anger, that what Gorrek had done to him had almost caused him to lose someone he loved over an overreaction on both their parts. It was also a reminder that flaws didn’t mean they weren’t trying to be better.

He dried his eyes, cursing himself for all this sentimentality. He was here for one specific thing, not to lose himself in the past. He could do that once the work was done.

The will was a folded form, paper in this age of everything being electronic. He’d filled it years ago and refused to transfer it to the network; a mix of not being tech-minded and what he considered a reasonable distrust of the electronic medium. At least once a month the newsies had a story about one site or another being attacked, not to mention the stories his father told him, or what he knew someone like Jasber could make happen.

It was a simple document, a few lines outlining the possessions he considered worthy of being passed on to others when he died. Most went to his parents, and they would distribute them to those in his family who could benefit the most. There was a clause determining which of his sibling would get them if his parents were gone before him. He found Bolifen’s name and scratched it out, putting Baytil in his place. While those criminals had their claws in his brother, he wasn’t letting him come close to anything of his.

He looked at his parents’ names. Torim at the top, where the family patriarch belonged, with Arina right below him as his birth mother, Lyria and Sarene followed, with the fiercest at the rear because it was where she could defend them the best.

He hesitated, this would hurt his parents more than what would happen to him, he suspected, especially because they didn’t know, and he couldn’t think of a way to tell them, but he hoped it would help them understand how important this was to him.

Above their names, he wrote Marlot Blackclaw, making him the beneficiary of everything that was his. The mating contract should ensure it, but his father would use the will to fight it, and Trembor didn’t want that to happen. He initialized the change, dated it, then underlined that to make sure his parents understood he did this after he and Marlot broke up.

Hopefully, he’d tell them before the end. They should be angry at him, not at his wolf, but this ensured that if he didn’t, they would still know how he felt.

He placed everything back, adding a picture of him and Marlot; his wolf looking nervous while Trembor had an arm over his shoulder. The picture dated back to the celebration all the RIs had thrown once the Ruxul case was closed. It was the day Trembor had decided to make the wolf his. There had been an awkward kiss, late in the night, both of them too drunk to allow things like good manners and personal fear to stop them, and he’d smelled his wolf’s interest in him then.

On top of everything, he placed the will. He didn’t want his father to dig through the memories to find it.

He closed the box, listen to the lock cycle, and kept looking at it.

Now what?

Tell his parents. He had to do that as soon as possible. But not now, he was in no state to see them, they’d smell his intention the instant he walked in the house. He chuckled. Maybe Serene would make things easy on him and gut him for going back to Marlot. No, he needed a public place, somewhere with plenty of smells to cover up his state, to distract them. He’d have to find a suitable restaurant.

He needed to write that letter to Marlot. He should have done that first. Leave it with the will. No, his father would destroy that in his anger. He needed to explain himself to the wolf. Justify his actions. Keep his wolf from throwing his life away with meaningless revenge.

He wished there was anything he could say that would take the pain away, but the words hadn’t been invented that would allow that. He wished the knowledge he did this out of love for his wolf and his family would be enough. That anything could make up for not being in each other’s life anymore.

He picked up the box and buzzed for the attendant. He needed to say goodbye to some people. For all the friends he had, only a few he felt he needed to see one last time. And one place, the one that had molded a large part of who he was now.

He’d start with that one, less personal, fewer chances to accidentally reveal his intentions and set in motion a chain of events ending with either his parents or Marlot trying to stop him; or worse, all of them together.

The door opened.

He also needed to figure out his last hunt. He wanted it to be something that would make his Grandfather proud, no matter how much he might see what Trembor was going as giving up the daily struggle early.

Chapter 17

Fraudulent Death

Marlot showed his ID to the attendant monitoring the underground parking entrance. The housing building was newer, on the outskirt of the city center, it catered to single people more interested in their career than building families. The male he was here to see was a manager at a popular gambling house. The attendant assigned him a parking spot and Marlot drove in.

The hall on the twenty-eighth floor was immaculate but plain. It looked like the people here weren’t interested in showing their status to visitors. Number fourteen was a door identical to the others, with the number in blocky metal screwed to the center of the door. A camera was tucked discreetly in the upper-left corner of the door frame.

He buzzed it and a lynx answered. He was a full head shorter than Marlot but wider at the shoulders. He had a patch over his right eye, with three parallel scars visible above and below it, showing pale skin among the silver-gray fur.

“Vikor Growls?” Marlot asked, showing his ID. “Registered Investigator Marlot Blackclaw. I’m wondering if you have the time to answer some questions?”

The lynx stepped forward to study the ID. The shirt was tight over his arms and chest. Someone Marlot would have trouble taking in a fight.

“Come on in,” the male answered with a growl so pronounces it could be where his family got the name from.

The living room was a clutter of plates on a low table before the couch, and papers over the couch and stacked along with books on a chair next to it. A muted movie played on a large screen. Marlot saw a tiger couple walking in a field before the lynx turned it off.

The lynx shrugged, moving papers into a neater pile on the couch. “It’s the end of the quarter and the owner’s old style. Everything has to be tabulated manually.”

Marlot fought a shudder. How did a casino operate without computers at every point? How did anyone?

“I’m wondering what you can tell me about a body you killed; Hardir Mixcoat, male, brindled wolf.”

The lynx frowned, closing one of the books. “I haven’t killed a brindled wolf.”

“It was close to six years ago.”

Vikor stared at Marlot, papers in hand. “You’re kidding, right? I go through two bodies a month. I don’t keep track of my kills. Unlike the cubs today, I’m not interested in trophies. I kill it, I eat it, and I don’t bother remembering it. I’m not saying I didn’t eat that wolf. I like to hunt them, lots of meat, and they tend to think they’re better fighters than me just because they’re bigger. One of them can last me a whole month if I watch how I eat. But six years ago? I can’t tell you what I ate three months back.”

“I understand. I’m just trying to account for an anomaly in the system.” Marlot realized he’d lied once the words were out, but it was too late to take them back. And really, what did it matter in this case? “Did you live here then?”

The lynx snorted. “I didn’t make manager until two years ago. I can’t afford this place on a dealer’s income. I was in the Bloodsworth building.” The lynx turned in around, seeming to search for something. “It’s about an hour from here. I don’t know in what direction. Once I was out of there, I never looked back.”

“I have a mapping app,” Marlot said, noting the name. The location would tell him how likely it was they’d crossed paths. The system said this lynx had paid the tax, but it couldn’t say if he’d killed him. That wasn’t something the system cared about. And if no one had killed Mixcoat then, the two of them knowing each other would be something he could use to get answers.

He pulled up the picture and showed it to the lynx, stepping closer so he could smell his reaction.

Vikor studied the image, then shrugged. “Doesn’t look familiar, but like I said, I don’t keep track.” His scent said it was the truth.

The idea was barely a scent on the wind, Marlot admitted to himself as he had it. Maybe his subconscious had let it slip for a reason, but what if there was an actual glitch in the system? He knew whoever he spoke with at the bureau would claim it was impossible, but how automated had the system been five years ago? How advanced the technology used?

He’d have to look into that.

He handed a card to the lynx. “In case you remember something.”

Vikor smirked as he took it. “You have higher hope for my memory than I do.”

Marlot shrugged. “There’s no telling what will trigger a memory.”

“Sure,” he said dismissively. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you.”

In the elevator, Marlot found the Bloodsworth building. It was adjacent to the neighborhood the Mixcoat family still lived in. So, them crossing paths was possible. Now, he if could show they’d known each other, he could…

“What?” Marlot asked himself. “I should be focusing on how the body in the freeze ended up dead, not why it was still alive. Once that’s done, I can figure out this mystery.” If he didn’t use the time to build his new system.

He sent the IT department a query about the possibility of a glitch in the system five years ago to cover that side of things and regretted it as soon as it was gone. He could just imagine the mocking responses he’d get from that.

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