Updated: Apr 9, 2021
Amadeus and Mordecai crouch on either side of a lifeless body of a man in an abandoned train station, some five hundred furlongs north of their Capitol City flat.
“Peculiar, indeed,” Mordecai agrees, rubbing his chin. He looks up at his father and taps his notepad with his pen. “But it doesn’t explain the location,” he says, returning to his notes.
Amadeus grunts and rises to look around again. The station, once a major hub of northern territory travel and transport, is now a ramshackle. The floorboards, dry-rotted and cracked, creak underfoot as Amadeus searches the covered platform for clues. Even the walls waver, threatening to give in—outside, a mid-winter wind rolls through the barren hills and fields, testing the integrity of the entire structure. Amadeus steps outside, shivers at the cold, and promptly re-enters. “Do you think he was brought here?” he says, approaching Mordecai, who is leaning over the body. Mordecai nods.
“I do. But not by someone on foot,” he says, pointing to the man’s hand.
Amadeus kneels and with two careful fingers takes a piece of paper from the victim’s hand. “It’s a train ticket,” Amadeus says. “How did you know?”
Mordecai says nothing. He stands, crosses his arms, and walks to the edge of the platform to look at the tracks below, head bowed. The sight is slightly comical: Mordecai, who is only eleven years old, is mimicking the mannerisms of a grown man. Amadeus chuckles softly to himself and shakes his head, watching in wonder as his son engages the full extent of his intellect for which Amadeus can claim no credit.
“First, father, the mud on his boots.” Mordecai says, still staring at the tracks. “Have you seen it?”
Amadeus kneels and examines the boots on the dead man’s feet. “Looks like he stepped in some mud,” Amadeus says dully.
Mordecai rolls his eyes. “Anything else?”
Amadeus squints. “Looks like he stepped in some brown mud.”
Mordecai sighs and returns to face his father. “That mud,” he begins, “isn’t from around here. No realm in the north has anything like it.”
“Do you mean—?”
“And mingled in that mud are red fibers from the carpet of the Capitol City Express,” Mordecai says.
Amadeus’ jaw drops. “So he was pushed out of the train?”
Without saying a word, Mordecai pockets his notebook and gestures for his father to follow him. Together they exit the train station and walk down the steps towards their tethered horses. Amadeus has to run to keep up. “What is it?” He whisper-shouts, but Mordecai does not answer until they reach their mounts.
Mordecai crosses his arms and shudders at the cold. “Whether he was pushed, or whether he jumped…” he says, urgency in his voice, “…he isn’t dead.”
“What!” Amadeus says.
“Shh!” Mordecai brings a fearful finger to his mouth and glances over his shoulder towards the station. “He’s alive, father,” he says.
Amadeus waves his hand, annoyed. “I know what ‘not dead’ means, Mordecai. How do you know?”
“His feet,” Mordecai says.
Amadeus gasps. “The mud?”
“No, but the mud was how I noticed it.”
“Noticed what?”
“His feet,” Mordecai says.
Amadeus puts his hands on his son’s shoulders and takes in a deep breath, summoning the remainder of his patience. “Noticed what…about…his feet, my son,” he says with a manic grin.
“They weren't crossed,” Mordecai says.
Amadeus’ face remains expressionless. “I haven’t a clue what that even means.”
Mordecai shakes off his father’s hands and reaches into his coat for his notepad. “It means he’s pretending to be dead. When people die on their feet, they tend to cross them when they fall. Also his arms weren't crossed—that’s the Lazarus sign.” Mordecai flips through a hundred or more pages of hand-scribbled notes, looking for a diagram. When he finds it he holds it up for his father to see.
“Well I’ll be…” Amadeus says. “You weren’t kidding when you said you were ready for a murder case.”
A smile flashes across Mordecai’s face as he stuffs his notes back into his coat. “Yes, well…this doesn’t even seem to be a murder case,” he says.
Just then, a muted clamor from inside the station cuts through the wind and reaches them, making father and son jump. Out of an instinct he never knew he had, Amadeus puts a firm hand on Mordecai’s chest and steps between him and the train station, but Mordecai climbs onto his horse and reaches for the reins. “Father, we should go.”
Amadeus looks up at him, surprised. “Go? Why?”
“I’m—I’m not sure,” Mordecai admits.
Amadeus gives it a moment’s thought. “Was there a weapon on his person?” He says.
Mordecai furrows his brow and makes to retrieve his notebook, but Amadeus puts a hand on his son’s knee, stopping him. “No. You don’t need your notes, son. Think.”
Mordecai exhales and closes his eyes. “No weapon.”
Amadeus nods. “Then we shall question him,” he says. He offers his hand to help Mordecai off his horse, but Mordecai only tightens his grip on the reins. “Weapon or not, father, it is my gut feeling that we should depart in great haste.”
Amadeus slumps his shoulders. “Come now, Mordecai,” he says. “We’ve been doing this for over a year now. We’ve seen some tight spots.”
Mordecai shakes his head. “Not like this, father. Whatever that man in there is mixed up with, it’s either a crime we can’t solve or a crime that hasn’t happened yet.”
Amadeus thinks it over for a moment, looking back and forth between Mordecai and the train station. “Tell you what,” Amadeus says. “You wait here and I’ll go investigate. If something is truly amiss I will run back here as quickly as I can and we will leave. He holds out his hand. “Give me the claw-whip.”
Mordecai, reluctant, reaches into the saddlebag behind him and hands his father the claw-whip of Cavilløn.
Amadeus enters the train station as quietly as he can manage.
Despite reason, it is much darker than was only minutes ago. Hunched, he hides behind a ticket desk by the door and peers around it. Where the body of the “dead” man had lain, there is only the disturbance of dust on the wooden floor—the center of the station appears empty. Amadeus creeps forward, wincing every time a floorboard protests under his weight.
When he is near the middle, he stops. He can hear his blood pumping in his ears. He scans the station—still empty. He waits a moment, taking in long, slow breaths to steady his heartbeat. When he feels ready, he stands up for a better look around. He goes into the ticket office. He checks the other entrance. He searches behind every desk and in every corner. Perplexed, he returns to the center of the station and puts his hands on his hips.
Must have left, he thinks, stepping towards the edge of the platform.
In an instant, a strong hand has his ankle. In another, Amadeus is tumbling down, over the edge of the platform towards the train tracks below. He hollers, scrambling for purchase—the claw-whip of Cavilløn flies out of his hand, useless.
When he lands, his head clangs on metal and the world goes black.