Several hours of sitting in my father's office had taken its toll on me. I had had time to kill waiting on Ryan to interact with other involved agencies in this case, and try to lock up as many other open cases as he could to give more time to focus on this. Early on into the project I'd started strong, sorting through a madman's paperwork stacks, taking them off the desk and setting them into a neat stack on the floor next to the banker's chair that he kept. Rustic as always.
I leaned back as the chair's springs squeaked in protest, and stretched, feeling the pops of a few vertebrae. I had started three stacks. Things related to the current expedition, Gwynporth, Things unrelated but interesting like other local legends and contacts that my dad had printed out, like emails between himself and his contemporaries, and everything else went in the last stack.
I'd finally found his laptop, under the last of the stacks. Apparently he was more focused on physical artifacts the last days before his trip than electronic searches. Or was using his phone, who was I to say at this point with as close as I wasn't.
Once I had a clean surface to work with again, I started noticing the bric-a-brac that my father had collected over the years, and had displayed as trophies around the room. Like his office was his own personal cabinet of curiosities. A death whistle that he'd brought back from the Yucatan, and with it a note from the crafter, A sextant that he'd purchased in Portugal from some explorer or another's shipwrecked voyage. What I hoped was a replica canopic jar on the shelf, next to a picture of my dad and Temperance in front of the pyramids of Giza.
I remembered that trip.
He'd emailed me when I stationed in Italy to ask if I had leave to see them, I'd passed off with some excuse. Told him I couldn't get away.
Might even have been true.
Regret still rose in my chest anyway.
The problem with going through a missing man's things is that everything becomes evidence. Paper, souvenirs, dust...
I looked at the corner of the desk. I had been moving papers around and with that came some displacement of some dust that had built up in the office.
But there had been something here.
I looked around the room, and my eyes locked on a metal figurine on one of the bookshelves.
I stood up and plucked it from its place. It wasn't what had been there; there was also a dust ring around where its base had been on the shelf. But--
I placed the figurine in the hole in the dust.
Perfect fit.
Something had been there that matched the base of this figure.
Curiosity struck me as I began to inspect the figure in my hand. It was a small statue, made of some sort of metal. Pewter would be my guess if it was local. It was old. Could tell that just from the touch that this wasn't a tourist trap bric-a-brac; this was something that had its own historical weight. The figure was a slim man, with a large bushy beard, wearing boots, pants, and shirt from what I could only guess would be Civil War era. He had a broad brimmed hat pulled low over his eyes. He also had a rifle pulled to his shoulder, drawing a bead across space and time at something. A deer? A person? Who's to say. I rotated him and saw that he had an inscription on the base. "Protection", with a small monogram A and S. Interesting, but unhelpful. I decided he would protect my evidence while I looked around some more, and plopped him atop the active stack.
Protection had lived on the shelf, so it wasn't my missing figurine, but I bet there was another one around here. I gazed around the room, not seeing much that matched. I took a step around the back side of the desk that faced the room, and felt something heavy hit the toe of my boot.
On the floor was another one. This one on its side in the plush carpeting. Had I knocked it off? I looked at the dust ring. That seemed... implausible. I guess if I had over tipped it it might have left a clean ring on the desk and fallen off?
Picking up the figure, I saw it was another male, this one hunched over, one hand stabilizing him on his plinth, the other holding a spyglass to his face, which was covered in a bandana and slung low under a similar wide brimmed cap.
"Well hello there," This was a spy, an observer. I flipped the figurine over to look at the base. "Vigilance" was scripted into the base, with that same monogram. I rolled my eyes. I was close.
I looked over at the desk, and placed him on the laptop. He could be the overseer. Maybe he'd catch something I wouldn't.
While I was up, I took the opportunity to start going through the desk drawers, and was met with office supplies, pocket knives, and various other things that my dad I suppose had in his pocket when he sat down and put in here for safe keeping. The next drawer had hanging folders, most of them empty. I gestured at the stack of paper.
"Those are for these, Dad. So you can find things."
No answer.
Rude.
I flipped through some of the file folders. Most were blank, one with receipts haphazardly stuffed in it, a map of the surrounding county, and some other correspondence pieces. The two folders with labels "CORVEN" and "ASCENDENT" were both empty. So it's nice to see that the labelling system for his organization was effectively decorative.
I tapped the ASCENDENT label. I knew the name Corven, but I didn't know about this one. I sat up and jotted it down on my legal pad. I decided the filing drawer was no longer useful to me, and pushed it closed with my leg, moving to the other side of the desk.
The top two drawers were apparently additional junk drawers that my father kept. Stuffed with electrical wires, computer parts, adapters, and a myriad of other things. The bottom drawer is what gave me pause.
In the bottom of the otherwise empty drawer was a fax, face up. Scrawled across it in an uneven handwriting was the phrase "THE SEEKER IS WATCHED. THE WATCHER WAITS."
The words made the hairs on the back of my neck lift with unease. This seemed like a threat. A warning? But given what happened, I was in no mood for split hairs. I carefully drew the page out of the drawer and brought it closer, looking at the transmission information most faxes printed at the top and bottom of the page.
10/16/25, 13:01. That was the day before dad left on his expedition. Not late in the evening either where dad would have missed it. That probably wasn't happenstance. I glanced over the page at the crouched figurine with the spyglass perched on the laptop. "Did you know about this—"
BAM
A crash at the window had me on my feet, my gun suddenly appearing in the hands of my outstretched arms. The banker's chair clunked behind me into the bookshelf as it rolled away from my abrupt movement.
I stepped around the desk.
Slowly.
Then I crossed the room, threw the curtains aside and pointed my gun at—
—a blue jay.
We stared at each other a moment. Jays were common enough, but normally would have fucked off after hitting the window instead of perching for dear life on the sliver of a window sill outside of the double pane glass.
It chirped at me. It didn't sound right. Like it was too far away, but entirely too close at the same time.
I felt a little dizzy.
Disoriented.
Echoing out of my mind came a single word, that escaped my mouth before I had a chance to catch it.
"Velandor?"
The blue jay chirped again, and the amethyst bracelet, my mother's necklace that I had converted to a wristband as a child and worn ever since, seemed to happily warm, like greeting an old friend.
Then emptiness.
Temperance shook my shoulder and I startled, wheeling my hands towards her. They were empty.
"Really? I know it's been a while but your first instinct was to aim a gun at me?" She gestured with her head to the chair next to her, where the Sig laid in the cushioned seat.
"When I came in and you were on the floor with the gun next to you, I decided, as a mother would, that a loaded pistol, with no safety by the way, had no business next to you on the floor."
"Did I fall asleep? Pass out?"
"Not unless you tend to do that with your eyes open"
I shook my head, trying to dispel the disorientation. "How long?"
"No idea. I didn't hear you fall over. I came in here with a sandwich, called your name twice, thought about throwing something at you, but with the gun and all, I thought better of it."
"Yeah, probably smart." I said, pulling myself into a sitting position.
"Do we need to discuss something?" she asked, her face set.
"Like what?"
"I don't know, whatever that was. PTSD? Should I be concerned that you have a gun?"
"I don't have PTSD. I had them check after I left the Navy." I grimaced and pulled my left hand to rub my temple— pulling it away from the Amethyst on my wrist, that had returned to a normal temperature.
"Wait, you left the Navy?"
Right.
The communication thing.
Commander Lovett had talked about this in sessions before. I shook my head.
"Right. Yeah. I retired earlier this year."
"Well, happy retirement I guess."
"Thanks. It's been peachy so far." I looked beyond her at the office floor where the fax had landed when I'd heard the bird hit the window. "I do have a question for you though."
"What's that?" she asked, straightening up from her squatted posture and standing her full height.
"You have a better grasp of local numbers than I do. That fax on the floor, do you know that number?"
She walked over to the desk as I lifted myself from the floor, retrieved the Sig and put it back in it's holster, and dragged the chair to the guest side of the desk and sat down.
She looked at the page "Damn it Stefan. What does this even mean? Where did you find this?"
"Stefan?" The name sounded familiar, right on the tip of my tongue.
"That friend of your Grandfathers' that runs that old thrift shop down in Walnut."
Oh yeah that guy. I vaguely remembered going down that way with both of my grandfathers at different times. I remembered the dusty smell, the old paper, the small brass bell over the door that was impossibly loud, and the weird oil soap that smelled like castor oil. Running around the aisles and exploring the racks of stuff around his shop while the old men argued about things unimportant to me. He was a narrow birdlike man, who stood behind the counter like a great griffin, guarding his wares with a watchful eye hidden behind wire-framed glasses. Swan wasn't it?
"Was he working with Dad on the expedition or something?" I asked, shifting in the chair.
"Not that I was aware of," Temperance said, eyeing the figurines as she set the fax down on the desk. "But he's obviously got opinions on something to do with your dad."
"And a phone call would have killed him? Why the cryptic fax?"
Temperance shrugged. "Searched me. Kinda a weird guy. Your gramps would tell us not to promise him anything when we'd go up there as kids."
My brows tightened in a frown. I vaguely also recalled that. Though I typically only went with one of my grandfathers, so I don't recall ever getting that directly.
"I guess he needs to be on my shortlist of people to talk to," I nodded towards the fax. "At least to see what that's all about."
The fax landed flat on the desk as Temperance released it.
"Yeah, that sounds like a plan. Around everything else going on. Eat your sandwich. We've got to meet Ryan soon to check out the scene."
I pulled the small stoneware plate towards my chair. Mustard, Bologna, American on white bread. I leaned back in the chair as I wrapped my mouth around it and took a bite, suddenly aware of the hunger.
Temperance walked towards the door of the office and paused. "Judah. I'm serious, I'd be careful about Swan."
"Real talk. Do you think he's involved?"
"No. But that doesn't mean if you go in guns blazing, he won't give as good as he got."
I looked at the Vigilance figurine on the desk as she shut the door.
Plan: Go see the scene of the attack. Where 13 people died horrifically. Then go see an old man that appeared to be more aware of my father's movements than anyone else in town. Including me.
"I bet you didn't have to deal with this shit with your dad." I said around a mouth full of bread.