THRESHOLD | Part 2 "Death Mask of Fear"
A fearful finding, a difficult choice, an old friend...
THRESHOLD is a direct continuation of Malevolent, the Audio Drama. This Series 2 sees John and Arthur having returned to Arkham after their time seeking the BLACKSTONE and facing the new and terrible truth this world has revealed to them. Faced with the new challenges before them and old foes perhaps still a threat, the duo must carve a new path in this strange world.
Featuring Jo Guthrie as "Faroe"
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PART TWO: DEATH MASK OF FEAR
Transcripts made and edited by keyraven, pie and jack
CWs: gun violence, murder, assault, high-pitched ringing, police violence, descriptions of rotting corpses
(BEGIN Part 2.)
(Pouring rain. A car approaches, and a radio is briefly heard. The car stops, and the door opens.)
JOHN: Something's not right. (The car door slams shut.)
ARTHUR: Yeah? Other than it's been raining in the east as well? (Arthur scoffs.) Faroe… She gambled. Or maybe that's just the confidence –
JOHN (overlapping): Arthur, the front door is open.
ARTHUR: How open?
JOHN: All the way.
(Metal clicks, like a gun being fiddled with.)
JOHN: Yeah. Good call.
ARTHUR: What are we looking at? Whereabouts are —
JOHN: This area of Arkham is almost outside the city lines. There are neighbors, but —
ARTHUR: Few and far between. Yeah, I remember.
JOHN (suprised): You remember?
ARTHUR: Parker and I had a potential case up in this area a few years ago. N-Nothing special.
JOHN: Potential?
ARTHUR: Parker turned it down. Money was good, too.
JOHN: Huh. Either way, it's a gray stone facade. It reeks of wealth, two stories with a long rounded driveway and enough room for half a dozen cars. The lights are off inside - which is expected, given the time.
ARTHUR: It can't be later than 10:30. We've made good time.
JOHN: I didn't check, but, yeah, thereabouts. We should grab the torch from the boot.
ARTHUR: Yeah, okay. (The car trunk is opened. Arthur grunts. Sounds of rummaging inside the trunk.) The note. Didn't say anything else, did it?
JOHN: Only context was Faroe. I wish now we had asked how he sounded.
ARTHUR: She said he was frantic.
JOHN: A tizzy.
ARTHUR: We need to proceed with caution. I have a bad feeling here.
JOHN (serious): Agreed. (The car trunk is closed. Arthur grunts.)
ARTHUR: Slow and steady, remember. If we are entering a crime scene, wipe anything we touch.
JOHN: Alright. (Footsteps on gravel.) Slow! The ground… The stone stairs leading up to the front door are wide, and spread out, in a radial pattern. It's difficult to see through the rain, but it looks like there are splinters of wood.
ARTHUR: From the door?
JOHN: Looks like it. Head up. (A short pause.) Yeah… yeah, there are bullet holes. (Arthur sighs.) I can't tell the caliber, but they look small. Someone from the driveway may —
ARTHUR: Wood splinters are on the outside, though. On the stairs.
JOHN: Meaning?
ARTHUR: The shots came from inside.
JOHN: I don't see any blood. Or body. Maybe no one was hit.
ARTHUR: The holes - are they dead on or do they look angled?
JOHN: They look straight, as if the door was closed.
ARTHUR (pondering): Why fire at a closed door?
JOHN: Unless you're expecting trouble.
ARTHUR: Well, he was expecting us, though. No? Let's move.
(Footsteps. The rain quiets.)
JOHN: The front hallway is long, stretches all the way to the back of the house. Stairs leading up are grand and on the right side. The door to the right at the bottom of the stairs is closed. Looks like maybe a dining room.
ARTHUR: And the left?
JOHN: Portraits along the wall. The first door on the left is past the stairs.
ARTHUR: No angle. So they fired from down the hall.
JOHN: A broken vase lay halfway down the hallway and a few paintings have come away from the wall. Whatever moved down this hallway did with tremendous force.
ARTHUR: What would do such a thing?
JOHN: I swear it almost looks like… like a gust of wind or something. Even the dirt from the broken porcelain planter that was knocked over looks blown toward the back door. (A door creaks, then shuts.) What are you feeling for?
ARTHUR: The wall that the front door touches, when it's open all the way.
JOHN: What about it?
ARTHUR: The force of the door being opened… (Arthur sighs.) It left a dent in the wood.
JOHN: Well, that could have been there from time, wear and tear.
ARTHUR: The splinters coming off of the damage feel fresh. And a house with this much money would have taken more care to fix that, if it were old.
JOHN: Good point.
ARTHUR: Down the hall.
JOHN: H-H-Hold on! Shouldn't we announce our presence? We could be endangering ourselves. For all we know -
ARTHUR: For all we know, whoever did this is standing over Puckett now and still thinks he's alone. We're not the police. We're not saying shit unless we have to.
JOHN: Understood. (A flashlight clicks. Footsteps.) The hallway stretches back. Careful of the broken glass. (Glass crunches. Footsteps.) Wait wait. Looks like whoever fired used a pistol, a semiautomatic.
ARTHUR: Shell casings?
JOHN: At least… five shots. Which tracks with what I saw on the door.
ARTHUR: Those are shots fired in fear. They didn't know who was on the other side of that door.
JOHN: You think?
ARTHUR: Look, you want to kill someone, you let them in first. Or you fire standing on the other side of the door. You want to scare someone away, you shoot anywhere else. Let the noise scare them. But this person was afraid of who - or what - was on the other side of that door.
JOHN: Maybe they didn't want to be up on the door to kill them. For fear of them shooting back.
ARTHUR: Yeah, possible. There was no blood on the steps outside, right?
JOHN: No. But it looks like it's been raining here on the east for at least an hour or so.
ARTHUR: True. (Glass crunching. Footsteps.)
JOHN: There's a phone here, on a side table. Should we call it in?
ARTHUR: Right now, for all we know someone accidentally discharged their firearm a few times. Let's not have the bluecoats buzzing around here until we at least have a look.
JOHN: The neighbors aren't that far. They could have heard the shots. Especially if it were five in a row.
ARTHUR: All the more reason to move quicker. So they fired at the door from here. What, a good ten feet away?
JOHN: More like, fifteen, maybe even twenty. They had some real distance.
ARTHUR: So then what? The door burst open, maybe, and…
JOHN: And they ran into a room on the left.
ARTHUR: How do you —
JOHN: Because it's broken in two. This way. (Footsteps.) The door to what looks like a study or a library is broken in two. Something with immense force threw itself against the wood. Until the door gave way.
ARTHUR (sighing): Is there blood on the door? Fragments, clothing, anything that may have been caught when the perp threw himself against it.
JOHN: Nothing. In fact, the force doesn't even look like it's come from one shoulder. It's fairly evenly spread.
ARTHUR: What do you mean?
JOHN: Look, you throw yourself into a door, the pressure is gonna come from about five feet up, on your shoulder. It'll leave a dent before the door gives way. But this door… there are no dents, no obvious points of contract.
ARTHUR: Theories?
JOHN (deadpan): A very large man with no shoulders?
ARTHUR: Real theories.
JOHN: You know what I'm thinking.
ARTHUR (huffing): That bad feeling is growing into full-blown dread.
JOHN: Good. Then this won't make it worse.
ARTHUR: What won't?
JOHN: We have a body.
ARTHUR: Fuck. Two bodies in one night, that's a record.
JOHN: Only since coming home.
ARTHUR: Yeah, fair. (Footsteps.)
JOHN: Mr. Puckett, I presume.
ARTHUR: It's a good bet.
JOHN: The body is slumped against the bookcases at the back of this room. He's an older man, thinning gray hair, deep lines on his forehead and cheeks, and an expression of… absolute terror frozen upon his face. A death mask of fear.
ARTHUR (disturbed): Jesus.
JOHN: Arthur, I don't… I don't see how he died.
ARTHUR: What do you mean?
JOHN: I don't see any bullet wounds, or bruises. I mean don't get me wrong, there are a thousand ways he could have died that I won't see, but… the obvious ways don't seem to be the case here.
ARTHUR: Huh. Anything that confirms he might be Puckett?
JOHN: He's wearing a silken maroon colored housecoat, striped navy pajama pants underneath, and brown slippers. A foot or so away from his right hand is the semiautomatic pistol.
ARTHUR: Well, then odds are in favor of a positive ID. (Arthur grunts.)
JOHN: Right there. Use your handkerchief.
ARTHUR: Yeah.
JOHN: Yeah.
ARTHUR (suprised): He reloaded.
JOHN: After firing on the door.
ARTHUR: Yeah. But he didn't fire again.
JOHN: What?
ARTHUR: He didn't fire in this room, right?
JOHN: I don't see any shell casings.
ARTHUR (grunting): So he was scared enough to fire at the front door from fifteen feet away. Then, whatever entered, entered. Ran into this room, shutting the door behind him. But didn't fire again. He just… waited. What the hell happened?
JOHN: One way to find out.
ARTHUR: Yeah, let's touch the body. See what happened in the last moments. Quickly, though. I don't like the look of this. And I think now might be the time to call the buttons.
JOHN: Agreed. (Frantic.) Wait, wait!
ARTHUR: What?
JOHN: The body. It is … it's wet!
ARTHUR: Wet?
JOHN: Around the neck, mainly - wait. So are parts of the floor.
ARTHUR: Parts? What do you —
JOHN: The torch light barely catches it but… there's water leading off to the right, along the bookcase. Further into the library, beyond some shelves.
ARTHUR: Leave the body. (Footsteps. Fabric rustles.) Follow the water.
JOHN (sighing): But, seeing how he died could —
ARTHUR: It doesn’t matter right now… the killer could still be here. Or at least someone who got here before we did.
JOHN: To the right. The bookshelves run along the back wall. There’s a way forward that opens up before the windows that line the backyard. (Insistent.) Be careful.
ARTHUR: You're my eyes. (Footsteps.)
JOHN: The water trail stays closely to the back wall.
ARTHUR: Footprints?
JOHN: None that I see. Just… dripping water. (Footsteps.) Here! Here. The corner turns left. (A pause.) Now! (Arthur grunts. Metallic clicks, like a gun being drawn.) It’s clear. Stacks of books, a comfortable sitting chair, a globe, and a writing desk. This area seems like a retreat. A work area to take time and absorb the contents of a volume. A single glass door exits this area… and the water leads to it. Move. (A pause. Footsteps.) The door is closed.
ARTHUR: Lock?
JOHN: None on the door. And it looks like it leads into a… a plant-filled area. A glass enclosure.
ARTHUR: A greenhouse.
JOHN: Precisely. Kill the torchlight for a moment.
(A flashlight clicks.)
JOHN: There seems to be a fair amount of ambient light in the next room. (Whispering.) Quietly now. (Arthur grunts. A door opens, then closes. Rain becomes louder.) The air in here is uncomfortably hot. The greenhouse is filled with jungle-like greenery. The rain falls on the glass roof overhead. It's designed like a large dome. The walls are frosted glass, though I can only see pieces through the thick foliage.
ARTHUR: Where are the tracks then?
JOHN: Erm. The water we were following disappears here. The air is thick and moist, suffused with a suffocating odor.
ARTHUR: Orchids.
JOHN (thoughtfully): Oh. But the dew clings to the surface of everything here, including the flagstone covering the dirt floor. It’s impossible to see which way he went, and with the thick plants… he could’ve gone anywhere. (Leaves rustle.) The path winds through the rows of orchids. The light comes through the glass ceiling overhead, casting everything beneath the canopy of tall flowers in… shadow. I can’t… Arthur, he could be hiding anywhere within here. (Footsteps, leaves rustle.) Maybe… left, if we…
(Arthur shushes.)
JOHN: What?
ARTHUR: Rain. There’s an open window, to the left.
JOHN: Yes, I hear it too. (Arthur grunts. Footsteps. The rain becomes louder.) Left. H-Here! Straight ahead. (Frustrated.) Agh! (Wooden creaks.) It’s an open window.
(Arthur sighs.)
JOHN: It looks like he just climbed out. Damn! He must have climbed in through here as well, moved through the greenhouse to the study, and… did whatever he did. Could’ve been as innocent as check the body to see if it was still alive, but…
ARTHUR: The floor at the base of the window, is it…?
JOHN: Mud-covered.
ARTHUR: Right, okay.
JOHN: Though there seems to be a… I think they dropped a piece of clothing here, maybe!
ARTHUR: Where?
JOHN: Here! (Arthur grunts.) It’s mud-covered and…
ARTHUR: They used it. To clean their shoes. Damn.
JOHN: That’s why there were no prints, only —
ARTHUR: Only the water dripping off their coat, which I’m sure they lessened with the towel before using it to clean their shoes.
JOHN: That’s risky.
ARTHUR: They knew what they were going to find.
JOHN: What do you mean?
ARTHUR: They climbed in through a window they knew would be unlocked, they cleaned their shoes… probably even brushed them by the door of the study.
JOHN: Brushed?
ARTHUR: By the study door we came though, there was a brush of some sort, right?
JOHN: Yeah.
ARTHUR: It’s a shoe brush.
JOHN: How did you know —
ARTHUR (meandering): The greenhouse inside, you said flagstone… the dirt’s going to get carried inside through the house without one… y’know, it doesn’t matter. It only matters what it tells us.
JOHN: Which is?
ARTHUR: This person had been here before. And they also knew that Puckett was already dead.
JOHN: Then why come back?
ARTHUR: Why indeed. (Pondering.) Why indeed.
JOHN: You don’t think we’re being… (Quietly.) Set up, do you? Arthur?
ARTHUR: No no, nothing here is about us. I don’t think the killer even knows Puckett contacted us.
JOHN: So, what are you —
ARTHUR: Why leave the rag?
JOHN: The rag?
ARTHUR: Used to clean the mud.
JOHN: Well, they were in a rush to leave. Clearly we cornered them.
ARTHUR: Yeah, but it's on the way out anyway, you’d have to step over it to leave, it would be easy to-to… (A pause.) Unless?
JOHN: Unless what? (Arthur and John grunt. Rain becomes louder.) Why are we looking out the window?
ARTHUR: What’s beneath the window, on the outside, in the garden bed? Prints?
JOHN: It’s too dark, turn the torch back on.
(A flashlight clicks.)
JOHN: Yes, I see them. This is where they climbed in through the window.
ARTHUR: The prints, here, below us, are they leading away from the house or towards?
JOHN (overlapping): No no, no… no. Toward the house.
ARTHUR: Coming toward the window?
JOHN: Yeah. (John grunts. The rain quiets.) So what the hell does that mean?
ARTHUR (ominous): It means they’re still here.
(A thud. Arthur grunts in pain. Intense music starts.)
JOHN: Arthur! (Something metallic is dropped. Sounds of a tussle.) A man, his face hidden by a dark red scarf. He’s tackled you to the floor! Your gun has fallen to the stone. His stomach, Arthur, hit his stomach! (A punch. Arthur and the attacker grunt.) Yes, Arthur! (Tussle continues.) Arthur, I don’t see a weapon. He’s holding you down, on top of you. Headbutt him! (A thud. Brittle crashes.) Yes, Arthur! He’s fallen back, quickly! Go for the gun, go for the —
(A loud thud, John grunts in pain. Ear ringing.)
JOHN (muted, becoming clearer): He grabbed a shovel, Arthur, you're on the ground. Arthur, go for the gun. It's maybe five, six feet away. Quickly! Here. Here here here. Turn around!
(Music stops abruptly.)
JOHN: H-he-he's gone. He’s gone. He dove through the window. Quickly. (Arthur groans.) Move through the window, look, through the —
ARTHUR (whatever): Yeah, yeah. Yeah.
JOHN: He’s going to get away!
ARTHUR: Probably.
JOHN (annoyed): Wh-What the hell? Don't you want to chase him down!?
ARTHUR (insolently): In the rain? Not really.
JOHN (yelling): Tell me what I am missing, Arthur! I —
ARTHUR: Look. Look look look. Number one, this is a crime scene. A car is parked right out front, us running away from here is only going to cause more trouble. Number two, he wasn’t going to kill us. I felt… he had a piece on him but he kept it holstered. He tackled us instead. Even after seeing that I had my gun drawn. And he hid his face: a precaution you don’t take if you plan on doing away with someone.
JOHN: Fine, but still —
ARTHUR: And number three. (Wincing.) I think he might’ve broken my ribs. Ough.
JOHN: You’re fine. You let him get away, Arthur.
ARTHUR: Yeah, well, he’s not going to get too far away before realizing I took the thing he came here for.
JOHN: What? What did you – ?
(A chain jingles.)
JOHN: A key?
ARTHUR: It was in his pocket. You really think I’m that bad at fighting?
JOHN: Where did you get that?
ARTHUR (wincing): I thought a few possible broken ribs were worth the risk of seeing what he had on him.
JOHN (impressed): You were searching him. And you’re so certain this key is what he came here for?
ARTHUR: Well, look at it. It’s on a chain, isn’t it?
JOHN: Yeah. A long chain, like —
ARTHUR: Like one that would go around a neck?
JOHN (realizing): And Puckett had water around his collar.
ARTHUR: Exactly.
JOHN: Still, how did you know he didn’t have this on him already?
ARTHUR: Well, it was the only thing in his pockets of any weight.
JOHN: Of any weight?
ARTHUR: I felt some paper, maybe a bank note, but other than the gun and his shoulder rig, the key was the only thing of substance in his pockets.
JOHN: Huh.
ARTHUR: Look, it’s not one hundred percent but it’s a pretty good theory. He came here for the express purpose of grabbing this key. Probably from around Puckett’s neck.
JOHN (pondering): Why?
ARTHUR: That, my friend… is the million dollar question. But until we can answer that… (Arthur groans.)
JOHN: Steady, steady. You really did take a beating.
ARTHUR: Yeah.
JOHN: Look, maybe this is something we should just stay out of.
ARTHUR: What do you mean?
JOHN: Puckett called us to look into something. But he’s dead. You sure you wanna keep this key? Could bring a whole world of trouble down on us.
ARTHUR: You think we should hand this off to the buttons?
JOHN: I mean what’s keeping us from it? It’s not like we’re gonna to see any money from this.
ARTHUR: Look, if we only did things for the money, we wouldn't have Faroe back. Let alone this life.
(A sad melody plays.)
JOHN: I know. I don't mean to —
ARTHUR: I-I know what you mean. And you're right. We can't put the genie back in the bottle.
JOHN: Yeah.
ARTHUR: But I also think… this is what we decided to do. We've seen the truth of this world. We've witnessed first hand the cold, alien eyes that watch us from the stars. We've touched the cracks in the plaster that held back the darkness that lay beyond. This may very well be another case to file away as mundane, but if it isn't… if Puckett called us tonight, hoping for a voice to a hear him, to aid him in stopping whatever strange foulness may have come here tonight - then I think we owe it to ourselves, and to Puckett, to take this case.
JOHN: Agreed. Besides, whether or not we involve ourselves, the man who just escaped saw your face.
ARTHUR: Yeah, well, that too. When he comes looking for us I'd rather be in the know. Who knows how serious things will get.
JOHN: Right. (Footsteps.)
ARTHUR (grunting): Alright then. (Fabric shifting.)
JOHN: What — what are you doing with your hat?
ARTHUR: An old PI trick.
JOHN (questioning): An old —
ARTHUR: Folding the inner band here. See? (Metal jingling.)
JOHN: You're hiding the key in your hat.
ARTHUR: Safer than my pockets. Okay. Now we call the police. (Sounds of shifting.)
JOHN: Huh.
ARTHUR: What?
JOHN: Mud on the shoe brush, by the study door. Just like you called it.
ARTHUR: I have my moments. (Door opens and shuts.)
JOHN: While we're waiting for the police we —
ARTHUR: We can touch the body.
JOHN: My thoughts exactly.
ARTHUR: Yeah.
JOHN: We've back in the study. The body of Puckett still lay unmoving. (Arthur exhales.) The phone was in the hallway.
ARTHUR: Right.
JOHN: Here, here. To the right. Toward the front door. (Footsteps.) Here.
(A phone is picked up. Button clicks. A phone starts ringing.)
JOHN: Why is it ringing?
ARTHUR: I don't know. Where's the operator? Could this be a direct line? (The phone is replaced. Ringing stops.)
JOHN: To whom?
UNKNOWN SPEAKER: Well, look who it is. (Arthur gasps.)
JOHN: A figure. Backlit by the night outside. H-He stands in the doorway.
UNKNOWN SPEAKER: Mr. Mouthpiece himself. (John growls.)
ARTHUR (under his breath): You've got to be kidding me.
JOHN (contemptuous): Detective Logan.
ARTHUR: Logan! I -
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Get your hands where I can see them. Right now.
JOHN: Jesus.
ARTHUR: You've got the wrong idea, Logan.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: That's detective to you, Mr. Mouthpiece. (Footsteps.) Up.
ARTHUR: I'm touching the sky.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Where I can see them. (Patting, on clothes.)
JOHN: He's searching us. Patting us down. He's drenched, Arthur. A-And… I think I see a red scarf under his trenchcoat. You don't think he —
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Is this loaded?
ARTHUR (flippant): Wouldn't be much good if it wasn't.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: A wise guy, eh? Is that how you want to play this, mouthpiece?
ARTHUR: Only if it's a game.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: What are you doing here?
ARTHUR (deadpan): Was driving by, saw the was door open. Thought I'd use the restroom. (A punch.)
JOHN (grunting): Jesus, Arthur! He hit you right in the stomach.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Think you're smart, wise ass? A real smart guy carrying a loaded gun on private property with a door full of bullet holes would know well enough to answer my questions. Get up! What are you doing here?
ARTHUR (groaning): Visiting a friend.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: And where is this friend of yours?
ARTHUR (breathing heavily): Dead. In the other room.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Why, you got a real sick sense of humor, mouthpiece.
ARTHUR: Have a gander.
JOHN: His eyes flick towards the door you gestured toward. The one to the study.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Your feet better stay planted. (Footsteps.)
JOHN: He walks away to check out the body. Damn it, Arthur! Of all the people…
ARTHUR: Well, we got lucky with Callihan. Might as well meet the devil.
JOHN: He's been hell-bent on sticking us with Parker's death since before we came back.
ARTHUR: Oh, the irony.
JOHN: If he can find any way to pin this on us, he –
ARTHUR: He won't. It's a clean sneak and we'll be on the level with what went down.
JOHN: Save the key.
ARTHUR: Bingo.
JOHN: I think he's coming back. (Footsteps.)
DETECTIVE LOGAN (distantly): Jesus Christ. (Closer.) Well, you really loused up tonight, mouthpiece.
ARTHUR: Oh, I was late for dinner with my daughter, sure. But he was already pushing up daisies when I got here.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: And you expect me to believe that?
ARTHUR: I expect you to do your job and detect.
JOHN: His eyes flash red with anger, Arthur.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: You watch your mouth.
ARTHUR: Or what? You'll break a few more of my teeth?
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Now, you listen here -
ARTHUR (intense): No, you listen, Logan. I've had it up to here with your vendetta against me. All it takes is one call downtown - I know what they really think of you. I know you have your sights on me and nothing I say is gonna change that. But I'm not the only one who told you to back off. Whatever's gone down between us, it's old news. I didn't kill Parker and I sure as shit didn't kill him either.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Ah, you tell it to Sweeney. You expect me to believe you just happened upon this house?
ARTHUR: He rang me. Or more specially, my office. My daughter took the message and I came right here.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: And what? (Footsteps. Hand patting on clothes.) Rolled in the mud?
ARTHUR: No. I saw the stiff and then headed out back to the greenhouse. I got tackled. Whoever gave him the works was still here. We had a dust up, but he blew out the window after hitting me with a shovel.
JOHN: He smirks… with pleasure.
ARTHUR: Check the prints outside the window if you don't believe me.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Oh, I believe you. You getting worked over ain't hard to buy. You saw his face?
ARTHUR: He had it covered. Although his build was about your size.
JOHN: He's even wearing a similar trenchcoat.
ARTHUR: And, you know, come to think of it - you don't look too clean yourself. Someone work you over?
JOHN: He sneers.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: And you're sure you didn't see his face?
ARTHUR: Sorry to disappoint.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: So why’d he call you?
ARTHUR: Don't know. But feel free to let me know if he tells you.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: I'm not the one that talks to dead bodies, mouthpiece. (Smug.) Ah, that's right. You don't like that name, do you? Mouthpiece.
ARTHUR: Are we done here?
DETECTIVE LOGAN: In such a hurry?
ARTHUR: Oh, if you need more from me, we can wait for the rest. Hell, maybe bring the captain down too. Last time he and I spoke about you I believe I threw around the idea of an injunction. Given how you were stalking my office. My daughter.
DETECTIVE LOGAN (angry): You little rat, I oughta -
ARTHUR: You oughta ask me your questions or dry up and let me go.
JOHN: His eyes tense for a moment… before relaxing. He takes a half-step back.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: You're right, Lester. This doesn't seem like your scene anyway. You're into killing your partners.
JOHN: Don't let him goad you.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Say, you found a new one yet? Or are you still living off the high of getting away with Parker?
(A pause.)
ARTHUR: Are we done here?
DETECTIVE LOGAN: I'm gonna write up what you told me here. You come by the station later to sign it.
ARTHUR: Yeah, yeah, yeah.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: No "yeah yeah." It's "yes, detective."
ARTHUR: Yes. Detective.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: And if you've left anything out - anything of importance —
ARTHUR: Hey, you're the detective. I'm just the mouthpiece.
DETECTIVE LOGAN: Scram. (Footsteps.) And you better not be planning on taking on this case.
ARTHUR: Who would pay me?
(Footsteps. Rain becomes louder.)
JOHN: Goddamn that man! Breathe the fire out of your lungs, Arthur.
ARTHUR (muttering): Fucking piece of shit.
JOHN: Relax.
ARTHUR: The gall of that man.
JOHN: I know.
ARTHUR: Weeks he's spent hunting me, watching me. Waiting for us to slip up.
JOHN: I know, I know. Let's just… leave. Before any more police show up.
ARTHUR: Oh, you think they will?
JOHN: Well, why wouldn't… they…?
ARTHUR: I don't know. Maybe Logan needs time to clean the scene first.
JOHN: You don't actually think he was the same man we fought in the greenhouse?
ARTHUR: You see his car?
JOHN: No. Just ours. But he would have parked down the street, no? Especially if he was responding to shots fired.
ARTHUR: And it's a detective that responds?
JOHN: What are you saying?
ARTHUR: Nothing. It's probably just a coincidence.
JOHN: Well… head to the right. The end of the driveway. Here, here-here. I see a car down the street.
ARTHUR: Was it there when we arrived?
JOHN: I… I don't remember. We could go check it out.
ARTHUR: He's rattled as it is. And that would not look good if we were caught.
JOHN: True, but if what you're saying is correct… if he circled back to the front door…
ARTHUR: It's a very thin theory. I'm just going off what you told me.
JOHN: Still. Look, you want to head to the morgue, right?
ARTHUR: Yeah, there's a good chance Callihan is there. If not, Sam's body would be, and I'm curious to see if he came up with anything.
JOHN: We don't need to see how he died.
ARTHUR: No, no we don't.
JOHN: Well, maybe we stop quickly at his car first, on the way there.
ARTHUR: Hm.
JOHN: Maybe he wasn’t the man in the greenhouse, but… but surely Logan has his secrets.
ARTHUR (sighing): Believe me, I understand the impulse. But this line of thinking is only gonna land us in more trouble in the long run.
(A hopeful melody begins.)
JOHN: You’re not wrong.
ARTHUR: Ugh. Fuck him. Let’s just go to the morgue.
JOHN: Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. This way, to the car. (Arthur grunts. Footsteps.)
ARTHUR: You know, I think what bothers me so much about Logan, about his unfettered pursuit of us, isn’t the harassment.
JOHN: No?
ARTHUR: No. Honestly I think… I think it’s because deep down, we know he’s right.
JOHN: Here - here. (Car door opens.)
ARTHUR: We both know that his hunch is correct. That we did kill Parker. (Arthur grunts. Car door closes. The rain quiets.) And his unwavering faith in our guilt is… it’s a constant reminder of what we did.
JOHN: You’re right. And despite his approach, despite his ruthlessness, it’s that confidence that scares me most.
(A lighter begins to click repeatedly as John continues. A muffled melody plays. Arthur gasps.)
JOHN: Somehow, some way he’s seen the truth of our role. I mean, obviously he doesn’t see all of it, but… (Becoming increasingly muffled. A distant, jazzy melody plays.) Enough that he’s willing to risk so much to prove it. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he was a friend of Parker's, but… (A pause. Lighter clicks and melody continue.) Arthur. (The lighter clicking and melody stops. John's voice becomes clearer.) Arthur!
ARTHUR (disoriented): Wh-W-What?
JOHN: Are you all right?
ARTHUR (weakly): Yes. Yeah, I…
JOHN (unsure): All right. I’ll take us to the morgue.
ARTHUR: Yeah, yeah.
JOHN: So long as I can —
ARTHUR: Yeah, please, please.
JOHN: Thank you. (A car starts.) It’s interesting, actually. All of this. Especially what just happened at the house. It makes me think of… (Becoming increasingly muffled.) Well, it makes me think of The Black Iris. (Unintelligible. The same melody plays. Lighter clicks repeatedly. A long pause.)
JOHN (muffled): Arthur? (Clearer.) Arthur!
ARTHUR: Yes, yes.
JOHN (annoyed): You zoned out, didn't you?
ARTHUR: No, no, no-no, I didn't.
JOHN: Don't lie.
ARTHUR (grunting): I'm sorry, I heard a bit. I —
JOHN (frustrated): A bit? I've been talking for over ten minutes.
ARTHUR: I'm sorry, it's not that. I —
JOHN: You don't — You don't have to tell me what's going on with you. But I'm not an idiot.
ARTHUR: What do you mean?
JOHN: It's been happening more and more. You… tuning out like this.
ARTHUR: Like this?
JOHN: I could feel your heart begin to race. Your breathing quicken. You have these moments of… anxiety. And I'm more than happy to ignore it. Let you talk about it when you're ready, but - but to pretend everything is fine is… infuriating.
ARTHUR: I… I know, I apologize.
JOHN: Just — don't pretend it's nothing.
ARTHUR: John, I… I want to explain. I do, it's just —
(Lighter clicks repeatedly. Muffled melody.)
JOHN: There. There, you're doing it again. I can tell.
ARTHUR (pained): I can't. Not yet. Not until I…
JOHN: It-It's fine, Arthur. Believe you me, I've been there. Over our time together, I've had my fair share of issues that I didn't know how to bring up. Whatever this is, I know you'll tell me when the time is right.
ARTHUR: I will.
JOHN: Good. We’re here, Saint Teresa's, again. (Car door opens.) So, what's our goal?
(Car door closes.)
ARTHUR: Knowing Michael, he —
JOHN: He'd be doing the paperwork —
ARTHUR: And he knows our MO.
JOHN: Right. (John sighs.) The large stone exterior of Saint Teresa's beckons us forward. Despite being here a dozen times or more, it… it always feels daunting entering her courtyard. As if this hospital is, in actuality, a holy place.
ARTHUR (quoting): ‘I'll make this voyage to the Holy Land… to wash this blood
from my guilty hand.’
JOHN: Past the wrought iron gate that circles the hospital, the morgue wing sits, isolated. As if the dead need to be separated from the hospital.
ARTHUR: The stairs?
JOHN: Are just ahead, slightly to the right. (Footsteps.) These stone stairs down to the basement are cold, brutal, inelegant concrete. I always think of those who must come here to identify loved ones… and wonder how they must feel descending into the green light below. As if descending into Tartarus.
ARTHUR: A prison for titans. Huh.
JOHN: Maybe that's where Kayne ended up. (John sighs.) Door. (Door opens, then closes.) Looks like Wilson's behind the desk tonight. Not Grimsby.
ARTHUR (quietly): Oh, thank God. (Louder.) Evening, Si. Is the doctor in? (Paper rustling.)
JOHN: He doesn't look up from his crossword. He just nods. (Footsteps.)
ARTHUR: Thanks.
JOHN: You don't like Leonard?
ARTHUR: He's a talker. And I'm just... I'm tired.
JOHN: Right, right. The doors are here. (Door opens and shuts.) The Arkham Morgue, under the eastern wing of Saint Teresa's. The white tiles that cover the floor and half the walls always look a little stained beneath the overhead fluorescent lights. The wall to our left is filled with lockers, cupboards for the dead yet to be examined. Of the three slabs in the center of this room, only the farthest is occupied. And our friend Michael Callihan stands next to it.
ARTHUR: Michael!
JOHN: He looks up, a pained smile on his face. The doctor is in his office to our right. The door is slightly ajar. Looks like Taylor is working tonight.
ARTHUR: One second, Michael. Knock knock. (Knocks. The door creaks.) Evening, Dr. Taylor. Uh, that the body that came in from the Arnett farm? (Wooden creaking.)
DOCTOR TAYLOR: Yes.
ARTHUR: Anything major of note?
JOHN: He looks at you with a combination of annoyance… and disinterest.
(A whimsical melody begins.)
DOCTOR TAYLOR: Is he not the police officer?
JOHN: He only gestures to Callihan.
ARTHUR: Come on, Taylor. Have you and I not built a rapport yet? .
(Taylor sighs, annoyed. Wooden creaking.)
JOHN: He turns back to his paperwork.
ARTHUR: Alright.
DOCTOR TAYLOR: Shut the door.
ARTHUR: Can do. (Door closes.)
JOHN: Callihan makes a playful expression. As if we've just been told off by the teacher.
ARTHUR: I'II win him over eventually.
OFFICER CALLIHAN (amused): I'm sure you will.
ARTHUR: How's the night been, Michael?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: I've had worse. Had a lot better as well.
JOHN: Oh. His hand is wrapped in a bandage. He's not trying to hide it exactly. But it is slightly behind his back.
ARTHUR: What happened to your hand?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Oh, well. Something at the crime scene. Cut myself on a damn...
JOHN: He looks a little embarrassed.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: A wheel. Rusty wheel thing. It-It don't matter.
JOHN: Huh.
ARTHUR: Yeah, well, make sure to have Taylor take a look at it.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Already did. Heh.
ARTHUR: So... This is Sam.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Sam Becker, 38. An Arkham resident — though he's been in and out of halfway houses for the better part of the last year.
ARTHUR: He served time?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: In his early thirties. Though he only did a year before he got transferred to the asylum.
ARTHUR: How come?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Haven't found a reason yet, but based on what you told me, I wasn't surprised.
ARTHUR: What'd he go away for?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Armed robbery and assault with a deadly weapon.
ARTHUR: He didn't kill anyone?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: No. No, in fact, the man he robbed and assaulted ended up writing a letter advocating for his release, if you can believe it.
ARTHUR: Yeah, he didn't seem like a violent man. Seemed like he needed help.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: So you said.
ARTHUR: So. He left the asylum in the last year.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Within the last few weeks, actually. He was supposed to maintain visits with a psychiatrist and a parole officer, but... well, that's on the detectives to pursue.
ARTHUR: Oh, yeah. I ran into Logan.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Well, that's about as smart as running into a doorknob. Who are you doing that for?
ARTHUR: It's a long story, but let's just say Sam isn't the only body that'll be on the slab down here tonight.
JOHN: His eyes squint in confusion.
ARTHUR: Faroe gave me a message and I wound up at a house in the east. Found a DB. No obvious cause of death, though I think the perp was still there. He hit me with a shovel.
(Footsteps.)
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Arthur Lester, I swear. You draw trouble like spit draws flies.
ARTHUR: Spit? I think you mean shi-
OFFICER CALLIHAN: No, I don't. (Arthur laughs.) Look, keep me out of whatever you and Logan have, and don't draw me into any more bodies tonight, please. Tonight I'm busy. Gonna go check Sam's last known over on Townline.
ARTHUR (sighing): The halfway house.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Yeah.
ARTHUR: That your job?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Well, I doubt the dicks will take this very far.
ARTHUR: What do you mean?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Left the asylum, wielding a knife, bizarre mystic nonsense drawn in his blood. This one's kind of a case closed for them.
ARTHUR: I mean… I suppose.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Unless you made anything out of that paper.
JOHN: The page Sam gave us.
ARTHUR: No, not yet. Uh, I'Il have a look at it before bed.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Ah. You mean consult those… books of yours.
ARTHUR: I mean, have a look at it with an open eye.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Huh.
JOHN: He makes a disapproving grunt.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Well, shall I leave you… alone… with the body… so you can… do your thing?
ARTHUR: My thing?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Whatever it is you do.
ARTHUR: You mean listen to the dead?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Arthur, we've known each other for a while now. (A whimsical melody begins.) Yes?
ARTHUR: Yes.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: I'd say we've become friends, right? Had dinner here and there, met Faroe a few times.
ARTHUR: Yes, yes. What are you —?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Have I ever asked you about what you do with these bodies?
ARTHUR: No.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Have I ever asked you how it is you seem to spend a moment alone with them and - and then seem to have insight into the case, into their death? Better than any detective I've seen?
ARTHUR: No, you haven't.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Do you know why I don't ask you that, Arthur?
ARTHUR: Because you —
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Because I don't want to know. (Arthur and John chuckle.)
ARTHUR: Touche. Well, luckily Sam here doesn't have much to tell me. I was there when he died.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Fair enough. But if you're heading home to look up that page in your... devil's books, you might want to look up this as well.
JOHN: He lifts the sheet that covers Sam. His eyes are open. Cloudy. His skin already paler than when we saw him in the dim light of the attic and… there's something on his skin. A tattoo. A-A marker.
ARTHUR: What the hell is that?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Don't know. But he didn't get it in prison.
JOHN: It's a strange symbol, Arthur. Unlike one I've ever seen, drawn in thin black lines on his chest, with a surprising artistic flair. It looks almost... like musical notation.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: They mark him pretty clearly before the asylum. Write down anything like this in case the inmates hurt themselves or others.
ARTHUR: Huh. Well, suppose I'll just have to look this up in my devil books as well.
JOHN: He drops the sheet. (Fabric shuffling.)
ARTHUR: Alright. That's enough death for tonight, Michael.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Oh, sign this first, will ya? It's the account of what went down in —
ARTHUR: Of course. Sorry.
JOHN: Oh, let me look. (Paper rustling.)
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Strange air lately.
JOHN: It all seems pretty normal.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Something's not sitting right in the world.
JOHN: Sign there, in the bottom.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Like a storm's coming.
ARTHUR: Batten down the hatches. (Pen scribbles.)
JOHN: Here.
ARTHUR: Thanks, Callihan. I'll call you if I learn anything.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Yeah, I'll swing by in the morning for the same reason. Should anything come up.
ARTHUR: You coming?
OFFICER CALLIHAN: You head on.
ARTHUR: Right. Goodnight, Callihan.
OFFICER CALLIHAN: Night. (Footsteps.) Hey!
ARTHUR: Yeah? .
OFFICER CALLIHAN (from a distance): You best keep the devil inside them books, Lester.
ARTHUR: Hey, the devil's not all bad. (Door opens.) Makes a mean egg.
(Callihan scoffs. Door closes. John chuckles.)
JOHN: Home?
ARTHUR (distracted): Yeah, home.
JOHN: Something on your mind?
ARTHUR: Everything. Nothing. Did he seem off to you?
JOHN: No. You?
ARTHUR: No. But he seemed dodgy about the hand, didn't he?
JOHN: A little, but maybe he was just embarrassed.
ARTHUR: He's not wrong about that storm coming. I can feel it as well. Something pushing its way in. It's got me on my hind legs.
JOHN: You think Callihan is hiding something bigger?
ARTHUR: I think… I don't know, maybe we need to be quiet about this. Keep him out of the loop a little bit. Depending on what we uncover tonight.
JOHN: Take on this one alone as well?
ARTHUR: Yeah... I don't know, thoughts?
JOHN: My thoughts are that Callihan is already involved. Any attempts to keep him in the dark may only hurt.
ARTHUR: True.
JOHN: Especially if this case ends up being something more dangerous. We know nothing about the man Sam spoke of. The one he feared so greatly. (A door opens and closes.) For all we know, that person is out there, now. Actively hurting others. (Footsteps.)
ARTHUR: You're right. All right, we'll keep him in the loop. Whatever we find.
JOHN: Agreed. (Arthur sighs.) A left here. And across the street.
ARTHUR (sighing): What a night.
JOHN: You can say that again. Here. H-Here, the car.
ARTHUR: Thanks. (A car door opens, closes.)
JOHN: Am I good to take —
ARTHUR: Yeah, take us home.
JOHN: Thanks. (The car starts.)
ARTHUR: So. Sam Becker. And Robert… Puckett?
JOHN: Yeah, Puckett.
ARTHUR: Is that name familiar?
JOHN: No?
ARTHUR: Sam was living in a halfway house, having left the asylum. But skittered away to the Arnett farm…
JOHN: More specifically the barn.
ARTHUR: Yes, the barn, in order to perform some sort of ritual.
JOHN: A ritual that required a human heart.
ARTHUR: Yes, and one that would… stop it.
JOHN: Sam spoke of an unnamed person who may have sent us and claimed this person did horrible things.
ARTHUR: Right. Despite what happened, let's call this man Sam's Killer.
JOHN (unsure): R-Right.
ARTHUR: Look, we pulled the trigger, yes. But someone drove Sam to that barn, to that sigil. To that knife. This man put so much fear into Sam that he felt he had no choice. He was the real killer.
JOHN: Agreed. Now the Puckett case…
ARTHUR: The Puckett case is much more of a mystery. I'd love to get back to the morgue, to touch the body, but… with Detective Logan on it…
JOHN: That seems quite difficult.
ARTHUR: Yeah. But we do have the key.
JOHN: A key worth killing for.
ARTHUR: At least worth being arrested for. What the hell does it open?
JOHN: Odds are something at the Puckett mansion, no?
ARTHUR: No. No, if it opened something at the mansion, whoever tackled us in the greenhouse would've used the key rather than just try to leave with it.
JOHN: Unless we interrupted before he could use it.
ARTHUR: Possible.
JOHN: It would make sense as to why he hung back in the greenhouse, rather than leave right away.
ARTHUR: Alright. Yeah, let's not rule it out. But my gut says the key goes to something else
JOHN: Regardless, it won't take him long before putting together who we are… and where we live.
ARTHUR (smug): He'll come looking for us.
JOHN: Assuming it isn't… Logan.
ARTHUR: I doubt it.
JOHN (sighing): Wish we had a detective on our side.
ARTHUR: We do. We did.
JOHN: Noel.
(A hopeful melody plays.)
ARTHUR (sighing): Noel. There was a brief time in New York, having Noel help us out, but — God, I can't stress how comforting it was to have another ally. One who not only believed me about this world, about the creatures beyond, but one with more experience.
JOHN: Despite his history with the King in Yellow, he was the first person besides you to address me directly.
ARTHUR: I know.
JOHN: Hm. I wonder if now he'd prefer Charlie Dowd over Noel.
ARTHUR: Why? Cause we're back in Arkham?
JOHN: Well, he was a man with two identities. The one he was born with: Charlie. And the one he used after his time in the Dreamlands.
ARTHUR: Noel was a real person, John, remember? He was a childhood friend of Charlie's back in Harper's Hill who went missing during the war.
JOHN: Oh. I remember.
ARTHUR: All that is to say, Noel or Charlie… it doesn't matter.
JOHN: We both lost a friend.
ARTHUR: Hey, we didn't lose anything, not for sure.
JOHN (pitying): Arthur —
ARTHUR: You remember what he said, we spoke to him. Right at the end. It was brief —
JOHN: Arthur, that could’ve been anyone. A trick played by —
ARTHUR (insistent): It wasn't! No, it-it wasn't. (A pause.) Threshold, John. Detective Noel is at threshold. What that is, where that is, I-I don't know. But I'm sure he's there. I'm sure. Anyway, are we almost there?
JOHN: Yes, well, speaking of pseudonyms and detectives…
ARTHUR: Eh? (The car stops.)
JOHN: You did promise to…
ARTHUR: To what?
JOHN: Well, you recall this morning? You mentioned, after dinner with Faroe…
ARTHUR: We're not at home, are we?
JOHN: Just down the street. (Quickly.) It'll only take a second and you did promise.
ARTHUR: Of course, look — (Arthur sighs.) But we have our work cut out for us tonight, you don't really —
JOHN (insistant): Arthur.
ARTHUR (sighing): Yeah, of course.
JOHN: Thank you. Right, here. (Car door opens, closes.)
ARTHUR: So, who's in this one? Holder?
JOHN (energetic): It's been nothing but Holder, for the last few they've accepted.
ARTHUR: You’re done with your other detectives?
JOHN: I think people are connecting more with his stories. Y-You know, growing with the character.
ARTHUR: The character you wrote… based on me.
JOHN: Maybe inspired by you, Arthur —
ARTHUR: Oh, inspired, eh?
JOHN: Here-Here, the door to Haven’s. (Door opens, bell rings.)
ARTHUR: Inspired?
JOHN: Maybe inspired. Head to the rack.
ARTHUR: Oh, I know the way well.
JOHN: Stop-Stop. Here-Here. Up. Up, on the top shelf. There, there. (Arthur grunts, paper rustles.)
ARTHUR: Well?
JOHN (elated): I made the cover! (John laughs.)
ARTHUR (deadpan): Congratulations.
JOHN: It's amazing! Detective Holder is standing on the cover in his trenchcoat and hat, gun drawn. A secret bookshelf is open and the feet of a dead man hang just out of frame. (John laughs.)
ARTHUR: Is that from the story?
JOHN: Y-Yes! Yes. "The Devil's Grin" by John Doe. (Paper rustling.) They said if I could write some more of Holder, that maybe I could get another cover - in November.
ARTHUR: So long as you write while I'm asleep. (Footsteps.)
JOHN (in awe, laughing): A cover. Can you believe it?
ARTHUR: No, I can't.
(Shopkeeper grunts.)
JOHN: A dime. A dime for the book.
ARTHUR: Here's a dime for the book.
SHOPKEEPER: Have a good evening.
ARTHUR: Cheers. (Door opens and closes, bell rings.) So have I lost you for the night?
JOHN (distracted): What? No, no, no. Sorry.
ARTHUR: Sorry? For what?
JOHN: Well, you know.
ARTHUR: No, I don't.
JOHN: Well, I mean… forget it.
ARTHUR: Forget what?
JOHN: Let's just head back to the office and —
ARTHUR (annoyed): No no no. Forget what? What are you saying?
JOHN: Well, I-I just… I know you've been struggling to write music since…
ARTHUR (accusing): Since what?
JOHN: Well, since coming back… and, you know, maybe it doesn't feel good to see me so —
ARTHUR (growing irritation): Listen, whatever tawdry tale you've cooked up for this magazine is undoubtedly ripped off from one of my real life stories. So don't for a minute pity me.
JOHN (angry): How the fuck could I pity you when you do such a good job at pitying yourself?
ARTHUR: Laurence Holder. You do know where you got the name from, right?
JOHN: The fake ID, yes. So what? You don't own it.
ARTHUR: Yeah, I lived it.
JOHN: We lived it.
ARTHUR: Yeah, we lived it.
JOHN: You're so bitter. I regret trying to be sensitive to your feelings.
ARTHUR (taunting): Aw, this is you being sensitive?
JOHN: I was trying, yes.
ARTHUR: Don't worry about me, I'm fine.
JOHN (cross): Good, we're here.
ARTHUR: Good. (Door opens and closes. Footsteps.) (Still angry.) So are you just gonna read that thing all night?
JOHN (stubborn): Yup.
ARTHUR: What do I bet you're just reading your own story? (Arthur scoffs.)
JOHN: I'm proud of myself! Is that so wrong?
ARTHUR: No! I'm proud of you too!
JOHN: Really!
ARTHUR: Yes. (Sincere.) I am, very. I am.
JOHN (taken aback): Wh… well thank you.
ARTHUR: You're welcome. Look… I'm… I'm proud of you, I am. I-I think… I think it's really amazing that you've found an outlet. A creative one at that, and… and I'm really happy that you get so much joy from it.
JOHN (sheepish): And-and money.
ARTHUR (chuckling): And yes. You've been helping pay the bills. And the fanmail has been…
JOHN: Surprising.
ARTHUR: Interesting.
JOHN (laughing): Yeah, well, y-you're right. I wouldn't write half of these if it weren't for you. You aren't… inspiring Holder, you are Holder.
ARTHUR: I know. But the way you tell stories… that is your gift. I've heard it since the first time you described the world to me. You have a way with words.
JOHN: Thank you. (Arthur sighs.) Anyway, we're here. (A door is unlocked, opens then closes. Key jingles.) Ever thought about giving this place up? Or getting an actual apartment to sleep in instead of the office.
ARTHUR: Eh. I'd be sleeping on the same couch.
JOHN: Fair enough.
ARTHUR: Anyway, the night is young.
JOHN: Youngish. You're not tired?
ARTHUR: Nah. Let's do some reading. I'll get settled at the desk.
JOHN: Actually, I wouldn't mind a bit of a time out.
ARTHUR: Oh?
JOHN: Yeah, just to think.
ARTHUR (fondly): You have an idea.
JOHN (excited): I do! A sequel piece to The Black Iris, the first Holder story that I… well, I told you in the car but…
ARTHUR: Yeah, sorry.
JOHN: It's okay, it's okay. I just— I want to formulate my thoughts while they're still fresh. And I'll write tonight while you sleep.
ARTHUR: Yeah, listen, take a bit of time. I'll listen to some music and… I'll pull you out after a bit.
JOHN: Thanks.
ARTHUR: Talk soon.
(An otherworldly zap. Arthur sighs. A melancholy melody plays. Footsteps, Arthur sits down, a pause. A lighter flicks. Arthur gasps.)
ARTHUR: When John couldn't see you… I thought you were just a… coincidence. People near me, flicking a lighter. Then when you started talking and John still couldn't hear you, I thought: Well, that's it. You're a hallucination. An auditory trick. So I ignored you. Refused to acknowledge you for weeks now. And it's led to the ultimate realization: that you're not going away. Are you? Parker. (A lighter flicks.)
PARKER: So the bird can sing. You know, at first I didn't get it. I didn't understand why you weren't looking at me. Why you were looking through me. I thought, maybe I was a ghost or something. Admittedly it took me a little bit longer to catch on. He's got your eyes, right? John.
ARTHUR: He does.
PARKER: Alright, well. Here, let me help. The haunting visage of Parker sat behind Artie in the corner by the window. The orange tip of his cigarette lighting his face with each drag he takes. Parker didn't look how Artie remembered him. His clothes were a bit mustier, falling apart. His face, a bit more… rotten. His cheeks, sunken. His eyes, cloudy white. Parker - Parker was dead. But whatever sat behind Artie was most definitely alive.
ARTHUR (shaken): Alive?
PARKER: I mean, I feel alive. I'm talking. I'm thinking. And I got to say, Artie, you are one stubborn bastard.
ARTHUR: Forgive me.
PARKER: Eh, I knew following you would get you to talk, eventually. You just needed time. Time to warm up to your old pal.
ARTHUR: How do I know you're really him? Really Parker?
PARKER: Oh, I'm really him.
ARTHUR: What's your sister's name?
PARKER: Molly.
ARTHUR: Where did we meet?
PARKER: Jack's Bar.
ARTHUR: What case brought us together?
PARKER: Stolen violin. But you didn't help.
ARTHUR: How much did you owe Edwin?
PARKER: Two large.
ARTHUR: What's your favorite song?
PARKER: Stardust. (A distant, jazzy melody plays.) You know that. You wanna play it for me?
ARTHUR: Not really. I've —
PARKER: Never played for me. I remember.
ARTHUR: I'm sorry, but all this, these are things some of my enemies would know.
PARKER: Yeah, well, would they know you?
ARTHUR (taken aback): What?
PARKER: Would they know that we met at your lowest point? Would they know that we weren't friends before you hit bedrock? And that I knew you needed help, the way that no one else could? Would they know that when I first saw you at the bar I— I saw a hurt in you that made me want to help?
That I kept finding ways to run into you because I thought you could use an ear. A friend. Would they know that I learned from you not to push too far? That I learned the way you dealt with death, the way you talked to kids. The way you steered clear of certain cases. Would they know what it looked like when I pushed you the wrong way? Would they know that I bought you that piano for your birthday? And that it came late? Would they know that I consider you my brother, even now, after everything that's happened?
I don't know why I'm here, Artie. I don't know why you're the only one that can see me or hear me. I don't know if I have unfinished business or if I'm just your guardian angel, but, I'm scared, Artie. And you know I don't get scared easily. (Pleading.) I need your help. Will you help me?
(A pause. The phone rings. Arthur gasps.)
PARKER: Duty calls. You should answer it.
(An otherworldly zap. John gasps.)
JOHN: That wasn't as long as I was —
ARTHUR (distracted): The phone, eh…
JOHN (concerned): Are you okay? You seem —
ARTHUR: Just, I wanted you to hear who was on the other —
JOHN: Right, right right.
ARTHUR (breathless): Yeah. (The phone is taken off the hook.)
UNKNOWN SPEAKER (over the phone): We're sending a car for you. Be outside in five minutes. (Unknown Speaker disconnects.)
JOHN: What? (The phone is hung up.) What? Who the hell was that?
ARTHUR: I don't know.
PARKER: Oh, Artie, it's gonna be a long night.
JOHN: It's late. This can't be good.
ARTHUR: No.
PARKER: You don't know the half of it. I recognize that voice. That's one of Edwin's boys. (Jovial.) Hey. Time to get cosy with the mob.
(END Part 2.)