Micro Industry's Arc

Chapter 12 of 14

Silas signed the form. The badge sat cold in his pocket as he drove north across the county line. But a badge only mattered if he got close. The suspect rented a room above a shop. Police said the man watched the door. He would run at the first strange face. Silas needed a reason to knock that a killer would open for. He stopped at the boarding house first. Amos Kettridge sat in his back room, cane by his knee, the inked drawers dark on his forearm. The blind clerk had traded Silas secrets for dollars all week. Silas dropped a bill on the table. His sleeve caught his notepad and dragged an old coffee ring across the wood. "The consultant kept a lockbox at the river dock," Silas said. "What was in it?" Amos tilted his head. "You already know the box moved north. But the county still holds a claim slip. A man can't collect a lockbox without signing for it in person." He tapped once. "Deliver the slip, and he opens his own door." Silas wrote fast. A delivery. Not a cop. A clerk with paperwork the man wanted. He drove to Wren Farley first. The soft-spoken writer had cleared his name once with her strange manuscript. She met him at her door with ink on her fingers and her satchel already on her shoulder. "You came for a story," she said. "I came for cover," Silas said. "I need to look like someone who belongs at that door." He explained the claim slip. Wren pulled a plain envelope from her satchel and slid a folded page inside. "A courier carries a satchel and never looks nervous," she said. She handed the strap to him. "Now you have both." Silas climbed the outside stair to the rented room. He kept his big coat closed over the badge. He knocked twice, the envelope raised. "Delivery from the county," he called. "Lockbox claim. Needs your signature." The door opened a crack. A thin man looked at the envelope, not the face. "About time," he said, and reached for it. Silas stepped in and set his boot against the frame. He dropped the envelope and drew the badge. "You're under arrest." The man lunged for the window. Silas grabbed his collar and they fell against the table. A lamp crashed. Silas landed hard on his own coat, wrapped like a net. But he had the man's wrist, and he did not let go. Two officers came up the stair and took the killer's arms. Silas stood, breathing hard, coffee-stained notepad crushed under his elbow. He had crossed the line and closed his hand on the man who fled. The killer was cuffed and real. But the officer beside him frowned at the badge. "Chief said arrest," the man muttered. "He didn't say this one was yours to hold. There's a question of whose county this is."