Now suddenly without a significant other and running obscenely late for my appointment, I double timed my way to the Baker's District of Sticktown. Sticktown was built on the south side of Portland Sound, west of the submerged Ruins of Portland and Columbia City. The Barker's District was not a wealthy district, but did have the advantage of being uphill from the water compared with other lower income areas such as Poorman's inlet. I didn't understand what reason, beside cheap rent might have prompted a well known figure like Freeman Harbinger to set up his office in the Baker's district, nestled between Candy lady's wheeled carts, Bakeries and Breweries and Apothecary shops. The Baker's district bustled with activity, people shopping, children shrieking for sweets, a chatter hum of activity that reminded me of an angry bee hive. I traversed the crowds carefully and drew my father's note from my pocket. Written in his precise printing was the address of Professor Harbinger's office: #2 Honey Bee Street (second floor). I was unfamiliar with the street name, and had bought a map from a street vendor the day before. Honey Bee Street lay just off Redemption Ave and had seemed on the map to be a tiny little side street. The location had seemed easy to find, laying as it did just off the main road through the Baker's District on a street so small that I couldn't help but see building. I had been so confident that I could find the location, that I hadn't scouted it the day before. And if I were being honest with myself, I also didn't scout the location the day before due to my misgivings about Freeman Harbinger. The man was well know in Sticktown, and even in the surrounding cities, for his preternatural ability to understand the motives of the criminally insane. But his reputation from his earlier days tinted all his later fame, the occultist who made the ill fated expedition deep south from which only he returned. Freeman Harbinger had been excommunicated by the Catholic Church and was wanted for heresy in the Bannerlands. His reputation was almost as dangerous as my own, but from all accounts Freeman Harbinger positively reveled in his dangerous reputation.
And because I had failed to scout the location ahead of time I found myself over an hour late, wandering back and forth on Redemption Avenue like a lost child in search of a parent. I was lost and crushed by the scrambling, stinking, screaming crowd of the Baker's District; up to my eyeballs amidst people with whom I had nothing in common. The press and weight of the crowd began to push inwards and I could feel my vision narrowing. I couldn't hold back the sense of threat that the crowd engendered and it threw me like a cork in the water. I began to lose sound and noticed black around the edges of my vision. I pushed my way to the edge of the avenue and sat down upon a battered oak bench beneath the stilts of a storefront bearing a sign proclaiming it as Mrs. Yu's Confectionary and Apothecary. I took slow and deliberate breaths, I focused on my hands and tried to force them to stop shaking and ignored all thoughts that entered my head. Thoughts were counterproductive at this point. I focused on my hands and my breathing, trying with some limited success to hold myself together. The sounds of the crowd were slowly returning, and my goal was to keep it so that my mind registered only the sounds that were actually there and not the sounds of a battlefield in Ashland. A hand dropped onto my shoulder. I almost screamed, and had Eccleston T-handle knife halfway out of my boot before I recognised the weathered face and hand of my father: Victor Maximillian Crowe.
"Dahlia, can you hear me kiddo?" He said as I replaced the knife in my boot sheath.
"Father, warn a girl before you do that."
"I did Dahlia, I called to you several times. How are you managing? You are very late." He said.
"I know, and I'm also apparently single." I answered, "And in addition to that, I can't find the address you gave me. I'm sorry father. I'm a disgrace."
"What do you mean single? Actually, never mind that right now. I can give you one piece of good news at least," He said and then pointed across the street to a shop that seemed to specialize in honey confections, "You have found the address, it's right there."
I shook my head and stared, and there the damned place stood: #2 Honey Bee Street. A battered Oak sign hung from the second floor while declaring 'Freeman Harbinger: Investigations and Excorisms'
I shook my head, "I didn't even realize I was on Honey bee street. I thought I was still trapped on redemption Avenue. I am so late. I'm sorry father, your friend is never going to be willing to work with me if I show up this late for our first meeting."
My father smiled, and shook his head, "You might be surprised. Freeman is a, well let's say that he's a surprising human being. And punctuality is not exactly his strong suit, so I imagine he'd understand. Although in this case, he's not likely to know. I have knocked on his door, and nobody is home. The door is locked, his landlord indicated that Freeman hasn't been home for at least two days. He's even more late than you are. And in fact the real question regarding punctuality may be whether an army brat like you can handle Freeman's lack of regard for time and punctuality. And of course, he may have simply got himself killed this time and we may have come out her for nothing save for me to identify the body for the Sheriff."
"Was that a joke father? Or do you actually think he might be dead?"
My father ran a hand through his hair, grown long into a fashionable though graying ponytail now that he was no longer in the military. He looked out towards the horizon, and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and didn't answer.
"You really do think that he might be dead. What does this man get into father?"
My father waved a hand to stop me, "Freeman gets into everything. Everything and anything. I don't think that he is dead. I am, however, always aware of the possibility that Freeman might be dead. He's younger than I am, but he's still not a young man; and yet he refuses to slow down. It will catch him somebody, death is not going to find Freeman lying in bed unless that bed is in a hospital or a prison cell."
"And you think he will help me? You think that with everything I am trying to manage right now, that such as person is what I need?"
My father smiled. I don't think I've ever seen my father angry, and I've seen him hack men to pieces with his sabre on the battlefield. And yet nothing unsettled him.
"Dahlia, this man is precisely what you need. You do fine, as long as he's not dead, or on another vision quest, or a doomed expedition to a lost city in search of some ancient grimiore, or being possessed by the spirit of a dead god or some such."
"None of this is improving my view of your plan father."
"Freeman is a good man, friendly and optimistic- if a little too trusting on occasion. He's scattered and bombastic and tends not to think of the consequences, but he means well and he will put you in a situation where you can do good. And I think you need to do good. He'll certainly get you into trouble, but I doubt that it will be worse than anything you've already had to manage. You'll get to fight, and you'll know that you're fighting for the right side this time, which will be therapeutic I think. Just don't let him get either of you killed and you'll do fine."
"So, do we just wait here and hope he returns?" I asked.
"Of course not," My father answered, "You wait inside and hope he returns. Not I. I've got places to be and matters to which I must attend."
He smiled and produced an old tarnished key on a long chain with a copper medal emobssed with esoteric symbols. He dropped the key and chain into my hands and then pointed at a door to the side of the honeyed candy shop, "That's the entrance. Go on up, and wait for him. I can't imagine he'll be gone much longer. I did remind him of the appointment several times. He's not that likely to forgotten, I don't think."
"You don't think? So I may just end up waiting in the office until the man's landlord decides to rent it to somebody else?"
"No, I'm sure a body would turn up before then."
"Father, are you having me on?"
"Probably a little. But with Freeman, maybe not. Head on up, no sense waiting. he might even be up there and simply have forgotten that he locked the door. If so, I recommend lying and pretending that you've been waiting down here until I suggested going up with the key. He shouldn't be upset with that I don't think.
"There is no way this ends well."
"You'll be fine kiddo," My father gave me a characteristically awkward one armed hug and quickly disappeared into the crowd. I watched him go. And then watched the street where he had gone. And then simply watched the writhing crowd for a a long while. Finally, with no other option and crossed the street, shouldering my way through the midday crowd. The key stuck in the lock, but yielded to a bit force. I opened the door and stared up a long narrow claustrophobic little staircase tot he second story and further regretted obeying my father in this matter.
I took the staircase slowly, listening the the aging steps creak under my bootheels. The whole place smelled of cedar wood and mildew, Another door with a frosted glass window on the upper half of the door stood at the top of the stairs. I knocked, and waited for a count of sixty before knocking a second time. After a second count of sixty and no response from the unlit room within, I tried the door. The door was locked. I inserted the key and turned. The key stuck. I jiggled the key in the keyhole and put a little muscle into my efforts. Finally the key turned and the door unlocked. I twisted the doorknob and opened the door on the most appalling mess I had ever seen.
I had grown up in a military environment and was used to the order of barracks and the demands of frequent inspections. The room before me stood in a state I had never before seen. I hesitate to describe it as an office, the room appeared as though some madman had run through tipping over ever filing cabinet and throwing everything else on to the floor before fleeing the scene. I didn't see any filing cabinets of any sort. Paper lay at least ankle deep on the floor, collecting dust and mildew and the spores of a whole menagerie of fungi. Lettuce sprouted from the sink in the kitchenette. I counted more than a dozen empty bottles of Morderca Czaszka vodka on the window sill collecting the corpses of wasps and flies in left over pools of vodka at the bottom of the bottles. Half built mechanical contraptions stood piled on military surplus metal shelves and the military surplus desk in the corner was piled with musty of leather bound books that appeared to have escaped from a horror novel, scrawled with arcane symbols and swirls.
"How did this man survive to adulthood?" I asked the empty room.
A skittering sound to my left drew my attention. I looked and saw a large cochroach emerge from between two piles of discarded paper. Antennae twitched and the creature paused. An instant later a rat burst from within an upturned steel kettle and caught the cochroach in it's jaws, biting through the carapace and swallowing half the insect in a single bite. The front half of the cochroach, seemingly oblivious to the fate of its hind end, continued scrabbling across the floor. The rat paused a moment, seeming surprised at the persistence of its intended meal, and then crouched as though to pursue the diminished insect. But as it did so, a lean looking raccoon crept from an opening behind a pile of contraptions on one of the metal shelves and smoothly saunted up and snatched the rat up in paws and quickly bit the smaller rodent's head clean off.
"So if I'm hired, my job will be to help him solve crimes, track villains, and feed the raccoon?" I said, staring at the raccoon. The animal looked at me as I spoke. It seemed profoundly unimpressed, staring at me for just a moment before shuffling forward and picking up the escaping front end of the cochroach swallowing it with two swift bites.
"This is what I've come to: barred from re-enlisting, my friends dead or forbidden by their superiors from consorting with me, seeking help from a madman who can't keep his office from becoming a complete ecosystem. Dahlia are you sure that you couldn't have handled the whole incident better than you did?"
Pounding heavy footsteps on the stairs behind me shook me from my thoughts and I spun around, drawing my Ehrenfeld 9mm pistol from its holster at my hip and aiming it at the door. A moment later, a large old man with wild graying hair and full beard burst into the room. He stood nearly as tall as I did, which was something most men didn't do. He had a heavy build and beet red weathered skin that looked like he had lain in a solar cooker. He was dressed in a charcoal bowler hat, a cream button down shirt, brown joodhpur pants, matching suspenders and heavy brown leather boots.
He was carrying two large leather travel bags that he flung to the ground, sending the raccoon fleeing for cover.
"Brilliant to see you. I'm glad you're here. We need to start immediately. Do you speak Mandarin or Cantonese? It's going to be awful if neither of us do after all. Are you easily put off by blood? You're a career soldier I know, but recent history may have changed that. What's your opinion on the persistence of the soul? I'm never sure with Buddhists. Can you field dress a wound? Your father said sniper, but you stitched that seem on your jacket with a lembert stitch, so I'm assuming you've had some medical training. How long can you run without stopping? I mean distance by that and not speed."
"I. what. I mean. Yes, I'm a training, or rather trained field medic. No, I don't speak any Chinese. English and Spanish only. I don't believe in a soul, why would that matter? Run? I can run until the instructor tells me to stop. I'm Dahlia by the way."
"Of course you are. I know your father. I can't believe that we never met before now. Probably my fault, generally my fault. I'm a hard fellow to nail down, and you father was probably afraid I'd lead you into trouble. But you've managed that on your own now haven't you? you didn't answer about the blood, but given the drawn gun I'm assuming that it's not an issue."
I opened my mouth again, found no words forth coming and closed it in silence. Then I holstered my gun at my side.
"You look as though a femme-fatale lounge singer was conscripted by Military special forces. Strong build, muscular, athletic- that's good- but still womanly. Midnight blue eye shadow and strong crimson lip stick, but no other makeup. You want to create an impression, but minimize preparation- practicality and efficiency trump preening and prettiness. You still wear your dress uniform after your discharge, despite your family's money. You're either more comfortable in military clothing or you don't want to accept your father's charity. Since you're here at his request, I must assume the former. So you clearly haven't let go your military career in spirit if nothing else. Doesn't matter either way. Where is my pistol?"
I looked around, and then answered, "There's an Allegheny Pistol hanging off that chair by the junk table masquarading as a desk." I pointed.
The man laughed and lept throught he junk, sending silver fish and mice scurrying for safe cover. He plucked the gun, rummaged through the piles on the desk and retrieved and shoulder holster and quickly strapped the holster on and holstered the pistol.
"There's no time for introductions, but I can't stomache rudeness, and so my name is Freeman Harbinger. You're Dahlia Crowe, my new assistant and/or partner, and we have to run."
"So I'm hired?"
"Of course you're hired. You were hired the moment your father asked. Now we must move. We're late." Harbinger scrambled for a cream jacket to cover the hoslter as he spoke.
"What are we doing?" I asked.
"People have been killing themselves. Suicides, but all wrong. People don't kill themselves that way. I've been telling the police for weeks, but they've never listened. But this one is strange enough that my dear from Sheriff Hurley has decided that my theory might be right. Some poor woman has blown her brains out, and I can't imagine that she did it on her own."
"So you're rushing around because we're going to a crime scene? Is the corpse in a hurry?"
"Oh no. We're meeting my sister for beer and vodka. You do drink I trust?"
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