Here is the first installment of my "Choose Your Own Adventure" story. The trick is that each installment will end with a decision that our fearless hero has to make (that is, unless the installment ends with his untimely demise) and it will be up to you, the reader, to decide where he goes from there. To do this, you need only cast your vote in the poll on this blog. At the end of the week, the option with the most votes is the winner. Now... let's get interactive!
The
Conspiracy Theorists’ Ball – Part I
By Brandon Palzkill
It was the late afternoon and deep tangerine sunlight
streaked across Adam Barnes’ desk as he peered somberly through a file folder. His shaking hand grasped blindly for the nearly
empty glass of whiskey that sat dangerously close to the edge of his desk while
his eyes focused resolutely on the face of the young man staring back at him. The
pampered-looking boy, all of about twenty, sat unmoving in the three inch by
five inch photograph that had been affixed to the dossier of the private
investigator’s case file.
The
boy had been the only heir to a billion dollar Oil Empire and was last seen
leaving a club at around four AM, a little more than a week ago. He was well known
for his hard partying lifestyle so nobody gave much thought to his absence over
the next two days, but when someone found his car in a ditch, seven miles
outside of town on Highway Twenty Nine, a panic ensued. The police scoured the
area thoroughly for two more days but had come up with less than nothing and
the standard forty eight hour window had already long passed them by, which
made the boy’s father eager to call for Adam’s services.
They
always called him. Sure he was the only private investigator in the city but he
was also damn good at what he did. With his keen senses and analytical mind, he
was able to make short work of any investigation. There were few cases that he
couldn’t solve and fewer criminals who he’d been unable to expose, which was
why he found it so puzzling that the police hadn’t consulted him yet. When they
and the boy’s father finally did seek out his expertise, he had eagerly offered
his services, assuring the boy’s father that his son would be found in no time.
True
to his word, he had found the boy, every bit as fast as he said he would… or
rather, he what was left of him. His killers were savage and merciless and left
him in several pieces, scattered throughout an old paper mill. He thumbed to
the back of the file and found the crime scene photos; it was a horror story
that eternally burned itself into his memory. His stomach rumbled and sloshed queasily.
He hastily pawed for the glass to take a sip of cure-all and knew by the chiming
tinkle rumbling off the floor that he had missed.
“Damn
it,” He groaned, tossing the file aside.
As
if on cue, the door opened and Maggie, Adam’s secretary, walked in. The setting
sunlight caught her strawberry blonde hair in a way that made it look like wavy
locks of fire. Her pale green eyes found the sad puddle of booze and glass and she
heaved a heavy sigh.
“Yes?”
Adam sniped.
Maggie
had worked for Adam long enough to know not to take his shortness personally.
She understood that he always took it bad when his cases went south and this
case had gone as far south as hell. His ability to still care so much was one
of the reasons that he had earned her respect and she considered suffering the
backlash of his bitterness to be a small price.
“I
thought you’d needed some quiet drinking time,” she said; “so I held your
calls.”
She
set two notes down on top of the opened file folder and gave him a sympathetic
smile.
“Would
you like me to clean that up for you?” Maggie asked.
“Thanks,”
Adam muttered. “But don’t worry about it. I got it.”
Maggie
watched with gentle curiosity while Adam went to work cleaning up the broken
glass. He felt self-conscious and slightly sheepish as her gaze bored into the
back of his head and was caught off guard when he nicked himself on a broken shard
of glass and Maggie had been the one to give a sharp intake of breath.
“Look…”
he awkwardly blurted out; “you don’t need to stick around. I’m planning on
calling it an early day. Take off; have some fun.”
The
slightest hint of disappointment shone in Maggie’s eyes and when she gave him
another smile, it looked somewhat forced.
“You
got it, boss.” She answered. “I might suggest, though, that you should probably
check those messages before you leave, too. I’ll see ya’ tomorrow.”
She
disappeared through the door and Adam felt an inexplicable need to call her
back. He knew what it meant but he didn’t have the courage to say it aloud. For
tonight, at least, it was all for the best. He was not going to make for good
company, nor did he feel like being in the company of others for the rest of
the evening.
No sooner had Adam spotted Maggie stepping out
onto the sidewalk heading for her bus when he buried the file in the deepest
reaches of his file cabinet and sacked out on the couch with a fresh glass in
his hand, eager to imbibe a little liquid lullaby. Before he took his first
sip, however, he had noticed one of the message slips on the floor; clearly, it
must have fallen off when he picked up the folder. He grabbed it and set it
next to the other slip of paper and then he figured that he might as well give
them a glance while he was still sober enough to read.
The
first message was listed as being from an “S. Fincher,” which he surmised to be
Sheldon Fincher, the high powered attorney:
“Mr. Barnes,
I require your assistance in a
matter of the utmost importance and discretion. Please join me at my home this
evening at half past eight, where I might give you a greater explanation of my
troubles. I can be found at 210 Nightingale Lane. I hope to see you then and
wish that I might have the opportunity to make use of your talents.
Sincerely,
S. Fincher”
He
knew that neighborhood. That was a swanky gated community and most of its
residence made in a month what Adam failed to make five years time. Any case
that could come out of that neighborhood might keep the lights burning for a
good long while. However, that thought had no sooner crossed his mind when a
second thought replaced it; he couldn’t handle another missing child at the
moment.
The
second message was altogether vexing. That there had been no name attached to
it was only one of its mysteries; the whole message seemed to be an enigma:
“Adam Barnes,
Something disastrous will happen in
the next few days unless you can stop it. Meet me tonight beneath the bridge at
2004 MacDougal Drive at eight forty five, sharp… Trust no one.”
That
was certainly not a safe place to be when the sun goes down. It was located
deeply within the city slums but near the outskirts, where the river passed through
the old industrial district. He couldn’t begin to imagine the sort of clientele
that would ask to meet him at such a place, nor the sort of job that he might
be asked to perform when he got there.
Adam
read and reread both of those messages and was uncertain if he was admiring
Maggie’s accuracy or her flare for the dramatic in her message taking
abilities. Either way, his interest was definitely piqued. The only trouble was
he could never make it to both of them; they were on opposite sides of the
city. What was he going to do?
Will Adam:
A.)
Seek
his fortunes on the rich side of town?
B.)
Delve
into the mysteries of the slums?
