The loss of a friend

What we found was horrific, to say the absolute least. Gyrating, naked bodies, writhing in all sort of depraved sexual acts, with little attention or care paid to the identity of their partner (or partners). Much of what happened next is blurred by my mind, probably intentionally as a subconscious self-preservation. I remember seeing yet another live mouth, covering (or living as?) one large wall… the teeth, that tongue… grinning, drooling, licking the writhing bodies as they groaned and moaned in ecstasy.

We never found Quincy. Howard says Quincy was swallowed (and chewed) by the mouth on the wall – which makes as much sense as any of it, really. Howard was naked, and mostly out of his senses. Because of Trammel’s death, we were ushered out by the Mexican guards, put into cars and driven away from the premises. Otto and I ended up back at the Presidium Hotel (which we had used as part of our posh disguises). Howard and Erik and the pair of us reunited at the Silver Sable after we heard from Erik a day or so later.

I know I was, and probably still am not, in my right mind. Somewhere along the way, the lines between Grace Sullivan and Sally Silvers became blurred, and I heard myself speaking with her voice as often as my own. I spent a day at the Presidium dressing in her clothes, wearing her makeup, and conversing with Otto as if he were really Mr Himmell.

Although I feel more in control as the hours pass, I know I am suffering from what I saw.

I know I should talk to George. I know I should seek help. But how do I face it all?

Quincy is dead. Dead!

Trammell is dead.

Neither would have happened if we hadn’t interfered. This isn’t justice, this isn’t the way right and wrong are supposed to work.

What are we doing?

I have lost my gun, my bag abandoned at the party or in the car (who could say). I have obtained another here in LA (oh – did I register it as Grace or as Sally?). I could not face going back to … that place… without being armed.

The mansion has been burnt down. We read it in the paper, and have now seen it for ourselves. The fire was named arson and is currently surmised as being caused by disgruntled servants. But it had to be the infamous Captain Walker covering up all evidence of “parties” and murder.

Erik finally contacted “Sally” at the Presidium, and we agreed to all meet at the Silver Sable at noon the next day. From there we formulated a plan to make one further investigation of the mansion, and then depart.

Ensuring all our precious cargo was safely aboard the Silver Sable, we made separate errands (including obtaining yet more dynamite). Our pass during the day, led to conversation with the inestimable Ginial Booker once again, who informed my associates that many hours had been spent clearing out the property of possessions before the house went up in flames. A return trip in the evening found the house unprotected but for some police tape.

I stayed above, allegedly to stand guard, but mostly to avoid losing control of my senses and needing to be rescued. Again. But I hadn’t been there long when gunshots drew me down to the cellar in a hurry. Howard was emptying his clip into the wall. I urged Otto to drag Howard out, and got to work setting the dynamite.

The cellar blew, and collapsed, as we crowded into the already-running sedan and sped off to the airport, determined to leave Los Angeles. Without checking out of our hotel. Without Quincy. With neither dignity nor sanity intact. But with some small comfort that – at least, for now – the drug trade of Samson Trammel had been disrupted.

Frank didn’t ask about Quincy, but merely took off as quickly as possible. We slowly fell to sleep, one by one, lulled by exhaustion and the heavy silence… the only sound the gentle hum of the twin engines.

And one other noise. Otto heard it first. A soft but steady tick.

Tick.. tick.. tick….