The rain pattered against the high window of Frank's office. Each patter of rain reminds him of the muffled gunshots heard in the air as he dashes into the sand, scrawling for cover. His comrades lay beside him dead or dying, crying for their mothers, wifes, children, God. But this was just rain hitting the window.
Frank stepped away from it and took a seat back at his desk, ashtray filled with cigarettes and case files strewn all over. Unorganized, he thought, but he can work with it. He was never an organized man, just pragmatic and smart. It got him places. He opens the case file on top of the others as he takes a long, final drag of his cigarette and stuffed it into the ashtray, the smoke dissapating from the extinguished butt. He follows the smoke with his eyes. It reminds him of the smoke from a barrel.
He stares down at the case file open in front of him. Daisy Monroe. Nurse. 27. Frank looks at the evidence photographs. Her face is light and relaxed. Her eyes stare at Frank, though they remain empty. Her hair hangs in front of those eyes, most likely due to a scuffle. He scans each picture carefully. Bruise marks, no indication of outside influence. No ligature marks or textured abrasions. He stops at one. It is of her calf, only it is half. The other half seems to have disappeared in a chunk. He looks at it closer. He runs his fingers over the section of the calf that turns red. Bite marks. Her calf was torn from the leg.
The day before, an old man--hair wild and uncombed, glasses large and magnifying his eyes--stormed into Frank's office with this case file in hand. His hands were stained brown, maybe off-red. Frank paid little attention to his hands, and more to his face. This man's face was white as a ghost. His lips were quivering. Frank had wondered how he'd even gotten to his office. He offered the man a chair, but he fervently refused. He said he had no time. Frank didn't know why he'd go to a private detective before going to a hospital, but this man gave him no time to inquire about any of this. He just said these words and left:
"They will rise. Get out while you can. Now."
The old man then extended his hand sternly, holding out the case file to Frank. It was unmoving, compared to his shivering, frightened body. Frank tried to decipher this man's purpose, origin, ethnicity. Before he could properly do a mental profile of him he stormed out Frank's door. A loud banging sound of it closing was heard throughout the floor. Frank was left standing there, case file in hand. He thought little of it, and more of the man who had just appeared in his office, and as quickly as he came, disappeared.
Now that he had opened it, the closure he was looking for seemed to escape him further. A dead nurse with a chunk of her calf missing. Given to a private detective. What did this man assume Frank would do with this? Pursue the case? He had no monetary incentive. Throw it out, Frank thought. It's not worth the trouble. Look at your desk. Willing clients. Money to be made. Frank closed the case file once more and held it in his hand. He stood there without motion as the rain pattered against the windows and he again remembered the muffled gunshots in putrid, bloody air. He stares at the garbage can beside his desk. And again at the case file.
Frank slams it onto the pile of other folders littered all over his desk. He brings out his worn, wooden chair with one drag. He takes a carton of cigarettes from his breast pocket and a lighter from his back one. One flick lights the flint as the burning of the lighter warms his cold fingers. They are trembling. He doesn't know why. He covers the flame with one hand as he lights another cigarette with the other. Puts it back in his pocket. He takes it out of his mouth and blows out the smoke from his nose in one long trail. Smoke from a barrel.
He stares at the file and flicks it open with one finger. He stands over his desk with the chair under him. Flips through the evidence photographs. Paperwork of a Coroner's Report. Cause of death was blood loss. Frank thought for a moment. Could a wound like that, brutal, yes--but relatively small, cause enough blood loss to kill someone? Daisy must have been incapacitated for her to lose that much blood and die. Found outside the 3rd Street warehouse on Wednesday. One Phillip Caulder, New York Police Department officer, called it in. Frank sat down. He sifted through more paperwork. Last known address. Relatives. None in the city. Canadian citizenship, visa expires four days from now. Nothing significant. Nothing to make him do something about Daisy, or the man who entered his office.
Frank's window suddenly shatters as he flinches when the glass hits his back. He drops the cigarette from his mouth as a hard object hits and bounces off of his shoulder. The glass of the window litters the floor and he can now hear the crashing rain. No more pattering. Thunder penetrates the air as Frank gathers his senses. The sharp pain in his shoulder subsides. The cigarette sets a folder alight. He pours a glass of whisky on the fire by reflex. Frank is not thinking straight. He jumps up and grabs his trenchcoat from the hook. Throws it over his burning files. Jumps up on the table and pats it down with his feet. He takes it off and examines the blackened fabric of his coat. He will need a new one. He takes the squished cigarette off the burnt files and examines these too. Most are intact. Daisy's calf is burnt at an edge. Some paperwork is destroyed. Frank spreads his hands to the edges of his desk and notices his hands are still shaking. He stands up straight and rubs his brow, gathering himself. He had almost forgotten what had caused this stint of chaos in his otherwise calm, dark office.
He sees the rock. It sits beside the leg of his coat rack. A piece of paper stuck on it. He crouches down to pull it off and read the scrambled, barely legible writing.
'Don't trust. Streets run red. TUNGUSKA. HERE. DO NOT TRUST.'
Frank examines smaller writing under this scribbling. It is also barely legible.
'Not from here. Not from anywhere...end. it is end. will not survive. but you will, Frank.'
Frank stands up. Somebody knows who he is. The old man? No, Frank didn't say anything to him. He just listened to the man talk. Could it be him? He looked mentally unstable. No, he was mentally unstable. Frank was tired of cryptic messages throughout his career as a private detective, but this one peaked his interest.
Most likely because it included his name in it and it had been thrown through his office window.
Frank's hypothesis on the message being sent by the Man who entered his office seemed to be gaining legitimacy, logically anyway. He struggled to find a purpose to it however, nevermind the contents of the message. Frank noticed that he had crumpled the paper in his hand while in thought. He looked down to it and discovered writing on the back of the message as well. It covered the entire back, only this writing was clearly legible. He looked closer. Frank's mouth widened slightly.
'YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM. YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM.YOU WILL DIE IF YOU DO NOT SAVE THEM.'
Frank didn't like the thought of dying. Not one bit. He pocketed the damp piece of paper and grabbed the case file in hand. The crashing thunder and hard rain had turned into ambience to Frank's ears. Only one voice remained in his: The Man who entered his office and his plea. Get out while you can. Out of New York is probably what he meant. New York's a big city. Frank didn't want to get out just yet. He grabbed his trenchcoat from the rack and looked at the blackened fabric once more. He put it back on the rack and grabbed his fedora. A trenchcoat Frank could spare, but a private detective is nothing without a proper hat. Frank was glad he remembered at least this much with everything running through his head.
As he locks his office door and proceeds down the corridor, he reads Officer Caulder's report, though slightly singed. Frank guessed that Caulder would be working at this hour. He exits the building and crosses the street quickly. His car is bombarded with rainwater that splashes on impact into Frank's face. His hair is wet and his shirt is getting wetter. He makes sure to keep a stern grip on his keys as he opens the door and enters his car. The file is kept safe under his arm. He closes the door and puts the keys in the ignition. Throws the file on the passenger seat, along with the message out of his pocket. He exhales deeply.
The rain patters against the car windows. Get out while you can, he said. He remembers the muffled gunshots in the sand. Frank always tried to get out. And he'll try again.
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