The Case of the Barille Blood: The Adventures of Deacon Coombs

By Ambit Welder

Before a popular actor suffers a fatal heart attack on stage, he makes one final request to his lover: to find Earthling detective Deacon Coombs if anything should happen to him. Meanwhile, a reptile creature from planet Zentaur has decided he will not assist the authorities with the investigation of his brothers murder. Instead, he intends to exact his death, with help from Coombs.

It is 3534 when Coombs is called to investigate the two deaths. While he is thrust into a high adventure in outer space, Coombs is propelled into conflict with the universes most powerful organization and its corrupt leadership, The Barille Blood. As his investigation leads him deep into space, Coombs uncovers startling clues and meets journalist Ambit Welder who reveals an incredible tale. But just as Barille Blood formulates its plan to threaten mankind and create the ultimate power grid, Deacon discovers their most closely guarded evil secret. Now as his life hangs in the balance, he has no choice but to confront his worst nightmare.

The Case of the Barille Blood shares an adventurous tale of strange alien creatures, merciless revenge, and fierce battles as an Earthling detective travels into space to challenge a powerful and dark threat to mankind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 26, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532014130

Ambit Welder

Ambit Welder resides in Texas with his wife and two children. The Case of the Barille Blood is his second novel in the Deacon Coombs series.

Book preview

THE CURTAIN FALLS

T HE CAVERNOUS THEATER was pitch dark except for one blaring, focused shimmering beam: one light cutting through the blackness in the auditorium—one light shining as a last hope for a gallant warrior. This solitary beacon bathed a small circular area on the stage in a silver sheen for all eyes to share. Inside this funnel of argent light stood a solitary figure with a tangled mess of dark brown hair falling to his shoulders, a bloodstained wide-bladed sword dragging by his side. The audience was fixated on him.

He was a tall, muscular specimen with broad shoulders walking slowly across the stage in his flowing purple robe while steadfast, with head upright, peering into the blackness, holding his sword with his left arm while his right hand was clenched in a fist by his side. His deep-set bright eyes were glowing with fear.

The ray of light followed him, highlighting him as he crisscrossed the stage from one side to the other until finally he halted at the center stage’s edge. He breathed heavily as if fatigued while his face wore the furrows of defeat. Hundreds of hearts in the audience had followed his journey tonight; anxiously they had waited for this moment.

All is lost! the warrior screamed to the heavens in a baritone voice that resounded in the hall. With phlegm welling in his throat, he forced the words he wished not to speak but did. I have disappointed you, my people. I have blemished our honor and damaged the pride of our nation. He shook his head violently as his twisted locks swayed back and forth across his face.

There was a tremor in his raspy voice as he announced, Our battle is lost; my army has fled or surrendered. His scratchy voice conveyed his disappointment to the crowd. His sword, which had slain many in battle, fell from his clutches, hitting the floor with a distinct metallic clang as the hulk sunk to his knees.

The room was deathly silent as the audience barely heard his faint plea. Forgive me, my people, for we succumb to our mortal enemies. Sadly Lady Wallas has fled. Perhaps, in this darkest hour, she has fled even to save herself and betray me. He bowed his head as a single sob was uttered.

His body faced the audience now as the spotlight subtly raised its brightness as it narrowed the beam to focus on his face and torso. All eyes concentrated on him as, from inside his robe, he extracted a small dagger. Plazzet held it outward in both hands for the audience to see. It glistened in the moonlight. Then, without hesitation, in front of witnesses, he thrust it just below his ribs, breaking the pouch of ruby liquids, causing the bloodlike contents to spill over his robe and onto his hands and the dagger, and then drip onto the stage. With a pointed grunt, he appeared to push the knife deeper into his cavity as his eyes burst open while his chest heaved.

The spotlight continued to capture the final moments of Plazzet’s life as it spewed slowly onto the stage. For those in the audience who were witnessing the death scene of the play The Warrior’s Tale for the first time, they were moved to moist eyes and hands over their mouths as the gallant warrior Plazzet, played by the famous actor Dymentt, exhaled the final minutes of his life after a valiant battle. In his last words, he pleaded for forgiveness that would not be granted. He called out for Lady Wallas to come forward to comfort him one last time, but she came not. He had guessed correctly; she had fled. Then, in one last jerking motion, he fell forward, his body sprawled on the stage, his mouth agape, his fierce eyes paralyzed as the ruby contents of his life oozed out of his mouth and wound.

For three hours on the finest stage in Olde London, Dymentt had magnificently been consumed by the role of Plazzet, holding the audience in captivity with another flawless performance. Around the universe, patrons flocked to the showings of The Warrior’s Tale, an age-old story of love, betrayal, revenge, and tragedy that presented a formula for success.

It was said by his peers, and written many times, that this play had been created for Dymentt. Tonight’s performance was introduced by a renowned fellow actor who addressed the assembly before the curtain lifted. He said, "Ladies and gentlemen, there is but one actor to play this tragic role of the warrior Plazzet. On opening night on planet Mendalgon many years ago when The Warrior’s Tale debuted, Dymentt made claim to the role of Plazzet with a magnificent performance. I come here tonight to celebrate with you this heartfelt tale of …" He continued to praise the legend, the script, and past performances.

Now three hours later, the assembly held their breath, knowing that the end of The Warrior’s Tale was near. Dymentt’s body continued to lay spread on the stage, the red liquids still seeping from beneath his robe with the life of Plazzet finally extinguished. The end was signified prophetically by the abrupt termination of the beam of light, which plunged the theater into darkness.

Through no prompting, the crowd was on their feet, yelling Bravo! as the curtain fell slowly. Bravo! The shouts were repeated as everyone felt the spell that the entire cast had placed on them. Mostly they empathized with Plazzet as they felt the heartstricken sadness of failure in the brave warrior’s final soliloquy. The design of the auditorium magnified the thunderous ovation as the curtain fell.

Outside, in the creeping, soupy fall fog of Olde London, the neon lights spelled the claim that Dymentt was ceremoniously playing the role of Plazzet for the five hundredth time in his distinguished career. Inside, behind the fallen curtain, the actors rushed onstage, led by the leading lady, Maisie Pitchford, who in the play had served as Plazzet’s admirer, lover, and then betrayer, Lady Wallas. Maisie, like Dymentt, was ready for the curtain to rise so they could all receive the deserved accolades of another riveting, satisfying performance. Tonight there was a special buzz, for the royalty of Europa were in attendance to adorn Dymentt and Maisie with honorable titles to recognize their lifelong achievements in live theater. Maisie beamed as she recalled all the pleasures she and Dymentt had given audiences for almost thirty years. In return, their audiences had given them adoration.

She ran across the stage toward him. Peculiar, she thought to herself, seeing that Dymentt had not moved. She called his name in her crisp soprano voice. Dymentt, I am so proud of you. Listen to that ovation! This indeed was your peak of accomplishments tonight. Rise to hold me, my knight.

When he did not rise, she knelt beside him smiling, thinking he was deceiving her in his usual cunning humor and was about to turn over to leap into her bosom and hold her tight. She froze.

Dymentt! Dymentt! Her summons drew immediate attention from her fellow performers as the actor remained motionless. One of the attendants, who was onstage mopping up the red liquids, spied the open eyes and gasped at the etched expression of death and pain on Dymentt’s face. The attendant quickly summoned help over the din of the anxious actors by waving his arms.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the curtain, the throngs broke the cheers of Bravo! replacing them with synchronized chants of Dyyyy … mentt! Dyyyy … mentt! Some had waited years to see this crowning achievement come to Olde London’s theater. Some had boasted to friends about their chance to personally witness the actor Dymentt.

Maisie commenced to wail as her fellow actors forcibly stood her up, secured her under her armpits, turned her, and then reluctantly led her away from Dymentt’s body as her head turned back to see the astonished looks of her peers. An enveloping madness was gripping the cast. It was chaotic behind the curtain. Most of the actors were on their knees praying or shedding tears; others were standing with hands cupped over their mouths. The manager of the theater was dumbfounded as a physician, who was summoned out of the audience, pronounced with a gaunt face, I can’t believe it. Then he faced the manager stoically to declare, Dymentt is dead. There was no emergency plan for this scenario.

News spread quickly of the tragedy of Dymentt’s death. What was to have been a regal affair was now enveloped in a calamity. As the audience became aware of what was unfolding backstage, the outrage and anguish and weeping magnified. Maisie Pitchford was bombarded with sympathy while being overwhelmed with grief by friends and fellow actors who surrounded her to volunteer their emotional support. Maisie moved away from all of them, seeking refuge to confront her personal sorrow. She sat in her dressing room in a corner on a small stool, buckled over, facing the wall, while acknowledging none of the supporters who entered. Her heart had never been consumed with such grief.

What is to become of my life without my lifelong friend? she thought to herself over and over and over.

Then it suddenly hit her. She felt nauseated, she felt a tingling in her cheeks, and she felt a pain in her heart; her mind was spinning. She bowed her head as she placed her hands over her head so no one there could witness her cold, pensive glare. The sound in the room from chatter was deafening as her body rocked. The room resonated with the incessant sounds of others lamenting their misfortune. We have lost the anointed leader of our profession, Maisie overheard someone say.

Her head sunk further to rest on her knees as she hid her face, wept, and then thought about a past moment. Dymentt, her lover, had shared his last dying wish with her only recently. She recalled the awkwardness of that past discussion.

I will scold you, Dymentt. You will listen to me, because we are soulmates. We are at the pinnacle of our acting profession. So why are you infuriating me today with this silly discussion of your death? But Dymentt ignored Maisie on that occasion as he completed his dark thoughts to her. Now she was overcome with that last wish; she must make it her mission to fulfill her lover’s last request. Was it coincidence or fate that he should be so forthcoming about his last request? And to speak of it only recently to me?

Maisie smiled under her canopy of hands as she recalled their first meeting over thirty years ago. She remembered sitting alone in her dressing room at the conclusion of the play, a comedy. A loud knock sounded at the door to disturb her. Before she had time to respond with Who’s there? Dymentt boldly opened the door to her privacy. Positioning a chair beside her, he sat down, placed his headdress on the counter, and then turned his body to face hers to brazenly address her in a firm tone.

Maisie Pitchford, I should like to compliment you on a magnificent performance tonight. Your high energy level creates bonds with audiences wherever you go. I believe we had this audience in great spirits. He didn’t give her time to respond but rather rambled on without pausing.

I decided many, many years ago that I would build a career in acting. It is my passion to travel around our universe to meet new races and to delight audiences in distant places with memorable performances. Excuse my impertinence—he leaned into her, smiling—but … tonight in act three, when you and I shared words of fondness on the stage, when you and I stood across from each other, and when I gazed into those sparkling green eyes, I felt a sincere tug in my heart. I held your soft, fleshy warm hands. As he spoke, he reached over to grab her hands just as he had onstage. She awaited Dymentt’s next words with anticipation as she felt her cheeks tingle.

Dymentt swallowed hard. These weeks of rehearsal, with the dinners together and the onstage presence of us together, well … I must admit that I am a victim. For if there is such a thing as being struck by the lightning of love, and if there is such a thing as being starstruck by a woman, and … well, love at first sight … then Maisie Pitchford, you have cast your spell on my soul.

Maisie’s heart heard these words as she smiled back with her thin lips taut. She was bursting inside, for she had grown to admire and respect Dymentt, and perhaps even feel a hint of love for her leading man. He certainly was a tall, handsome, overbearing specimen. Now, to her pleasure, he was melting in front of her as a fantasy come true. Her reminiscence of that past warm event ended abruptly as the chaos in her dressing room rose to break her trance.

Now reality seized her as her feelings migrated from a warm reminiscence of Dymentt to exercising an outburst of crying she couldn’t control. The room of people heard her every accentuated sob. The nightmare she was living was real. Now suddenly she returned to her previous thought as she recalled the last testament of Dymentt during that distasteful conversation where they discussed his death. They were sitting opposite to one another. Dymentt was determined for her to hear him out; she was upset at the morbid topic of conversation about his death but eventually conceded to remain attentive, as Dymentt firmly believed he was to be the victim of an assassination.

Dymentt concluded his conversation on the topic of his death that day with three words as his last dying request. She knew not much of this being. She admitted her total bewilderment at the words he spoke. However, she now knew that she would honor to her death Dymentt’s last wish: Find Deacon Coombs.

VIOLENT MOONLIGHT

R ADOON TOOK TWO long strides forward before coming to a sudden halt, at which point he considered his vulnerability. While doing so, his snakelike golden eyes darted from side to side. Somewhere in the thick shrubs in front of him, the murderer was hiding and no doubt waiting for him to make his next move. The reptile stood statuesque as he flicked his massive purple tongue in and out of his mouth in rapid pulses, each time analyzing all the sensed odors. He knew well the offensive scent of this murderer. He had visited his planet many times and had recorded the disagreeable odors of the planet and its inhabitants. Radoon had followed the putrid smells, further guided by his instincts, to this spot. Now he felt nothing and sensed nothing. He knew not which direction to traverse. He knew that the vigilant eyes of the killer were somewhere in front of him, spying on him, planning an ambush if he should react in a careless, hasty decision.

Radoon’s ripples of flesh in his thick neck changed formations as he rotated his oblong green-scaled head from side to side. The reptile’s eyesight was not keen, so his nostrils continued to flare to reconnect with the scent as he heaved his massive muscular chest in and out in a slow, methodical rhythm. He was a predator on the hunt but was useless without the scent of his prey. The reptile flicked his tongue again in rapid succession while flexing the muscles in his powerful arms. In this excited state, his long tail swished back and forth on the ground.

To his left, reddish fog banks were forming in the cool air to skirt the high treetops. Overhead the two moons of Zentaur blazed reflected purple-bluish light onto the planet’s surface. It was the time of Hazam, when both moons were in alignment, both moons in position for peak reflectance, and both moons in their twice-a-year full moon phase. Radoon crouched now as he looked skyward to admire their exquisite bulbous beauty. Then the rage inside of him boiled as the green spiked crest on his head became erect, taut, and pointed. Black plasma vessels pulsed inside to express his anger. The serrated crest was one of the distinguishing marks of a Zentaurian, and Radoon’s was in stunning glowing colors in his excited state.

He thought of the sheer audacity of the murderer. To himself, he speculated, You strike when the moons are full. You dare me to catch you at the sacred time of Hazam. In nine more days, both moons will be behind the planet Zentaur for many evenings and the scene in front of me will be an opaque blackness. You dare to commit your crime instead in this glorious sacred moonlight.

Radoon stood tall, snapping his plump tongue in and out voraciously with loud flicks, just as his mother, Xudur, had taught him as a young boy during their first lessons in hunting. He opined uneasily, The murderer must not escape. Where are the guards I quickly summoned? Why do they not respond? Surely this demon couldn’t have influenced them with favors? Even during this quiet time, troops should have arrived to my aid. He decided that he would discipline them later. Then an ugly thought surfaced, so he spoke softly in disgust. Perhaps my execution is planned tonight too? Is that it? While he spoke these words, he scanned the horizon in front and to each side.

Meanwhile, lying prone in the heavy growth of the damp bushes directly in front of Radoon, the murderer breathed easily, trying not to dispel an incriminating scent for Radoon to recognize and track. He realized he was placing Radoon at an extreme disadvantage when he plotted his escape route earlier in the day. On his final selection, breezes would carry his scent away from the palace and away from Radoon as the Zentaurian reptile chased him. In addition, the murderer exhaled into a cavity in front of him, which controlled the release of his recognizable pungent breath. With fortune on his side, the murderer had discovered this small cave when he examined the gardens earlier. Now his eyes scoured the frustrated hunter in front of him. Radoon was pacing on all four limbs, his head bobbing to and fro, his tongue continually emerging and then retreating into his mouth, his nostrils close to the ground, sniffing loudly, and his meaty torso swaying underneath.

The assassin smiled. The royal family is in mourning, Radoon. Firstly, you are agonizing over the untimely but glorious death of Princess Xudur, your mother, the leader of the House of Jask who gave her life in battle to save Deacon Coombs; now, suddenly, the family is in shock because of the murder of Xudur’s eldest son, Gargur, slashed to death by me before any rescue could be mounted. Another victory.

The murderer chuckled. I am a mercenary, Radoon, and have sworn an allegiance to my superiors to complete my mission tonight.

Meanwhile, Radoon’s mind was in confusion as he tried to justify the senseless murder of Gargur. The reptile strutted into the clearing bathed in lustrous moonlight, running about on his four limbs, sniffing voraciously before erroneously selecting a path in the opposite direction of the assassin where fog banks were developing.

The murderer smirked while standing upright to declare, What an ally the fog is tonight as I smartly slither away from you, Radoon. The slayer was momentarily startled as the serenity of the night was shattered by Radoon’s trumpet calls to the guards for help. It was his second such yelp. The reddish fog bank quaked from his cries. Meanwhile, the murderer retreated deeper into his sector of the brush to become more distant from Radoon.

Radoon twisted and turned through the royal forest, his mind trying to decipher the next move of the killer as the soupy mess intensified to block his path, turn upon turn. He halted momentarily to rise on his two bent stocky rear haunches while his tongue moved in frenzied motions to cut the air. Disappointment set in.

What cunningness, he thought. There was no evidence of the disagreeable odor. His reptilian head hung as he realized his mistake. The criminal had not used the natural cover of the fog; instead he had gambled on Radoon to make that erroneous conclusion. He quickly bolted back to the clearing from which he had initiated his search. His powerful, thick scaly legs pounded the ground as quakes foretold the coming of his massive physique. Then he propelled himself ninety degrees to sprint toward the lake.

Upon arriving at the lake’s front, he stopped on the soggy embankment while his feet and claws sank into the mud. The beach was bathed in full glory from the two moons’ show of lights, so he walked slowly along the edge to spy for any other footprints or recent signs of intrusion. Failing to notice any, he looked across the lake. Out in the darkened waters, he spied a ripple effect as something broke the surface of the lake with spiny black scales. It was Radoon’s sole clue to the escape of the murderer.

He looked around. His summons for troops still went unheeded, so a solo pursuit was ordered. Radoon accepted the challenge by splashing into the icy waters, where his cold-blooded body quickly adapted to the freezing temperatures of the lake. He pushed himself to his limits of exhaustion as his body writhed back and forth like a spongy, twisting eel while his powerful leg muscles flexed to their limits, being used as giant propellers. His torso heaved while his body tonnage panted and puffed until the other side of the lake came into view. He was an expert swimmer, so he pressed his swimming skills to the limit.

The murderer looked behind him to break into a grin. Radoon was in hopeless pursuit but didn’t know it. As fast as Radoon could swim, the murderer knew with confidence that he could propel himself faster, as he weighed less and trained every day for arduous missions of this nature. So brimming in confidence, the assassin continued his journey to an escape hatch on the far side of the lake. As he emerged from the black waters, the murderer stood up on two limbs to shake the water out of the crevasses between his char-black scales. His red eyes bulged on either side of a long, slender orange nose. He opened his mouth to reveal disgusting fleshy red pulp, before falling on all four limbs to lap up some liquid out of the lake with his fatty tongue. He grunted a victory call and then spat on the lake’s edge to give Radoon a scented clue to follow before vanishing into the deep thicket, crushing all the plant life in his way with his sweeping arms and broad, flat feet. His head start over Radoon was so significant that he cared not that he had shown him his escape route.

When Radoon finally arrived on the beach, both moons were now in their full brilliance, so he navigated easily along the lighted shoreline. Finally he picked up the foul odors of the demon, just where the villain had spat. He glanced into the bushes, spying the cut path. Immediately he bounded through the recently damaged growth while never losing hope. After some time, the path disappeared, as did the scent. Radoon backtracked to the last discernable odor. He knew it was hopeless to continue the search, as Madoc’s smell was faint.

Radoon was dejected so paused to rest, standing upright to express. Madoc. Friend. Companion. Confidante in the Zentaurian forces. A distant relative of the Zentaurians from another planet in the system, Hullll, where fellow Zentaurians have evolved and morphed into smaller, stronger, more colorful species. He remembered how Madoc always teased Radoon and his brother Gargur into believing that remaining isolated on Hullll had made their species of Zentaurian smarter, more aggressive, and more mobile.

Madoc always declared accusations to Gargur. The inhabitants of planet Zentaur grow lazy. You spend too much time eating the abundant pleasures of meat on the planet. On Hullll, it is challenging to find wild game, so we are more fit.

Radoon sadly muttered in his menacing voice while shaking his head, Why, Madoc? Why have you done this? Now he screamed in the hopes Madoc would hear him. Madoc, why have you betrayed the House of Jask?

As he relaxed, he recalled that it was only recently he had witnessed Gargur and Madoc returning with freshly slain game from a hunt on the royal grounds. Later he and Madoc jousted in hand-to-hand combat, punching one another in respect as the encounter led to wrestling. His mother, Xudur, told her sons that Madoc was a distant blood relative from the royal family that decided to relocate to Hullll to populate that planet before other species in the region claimed it. In the back of Radoon’s mind, an ugly thought surfaced. Perhaps your family now has royal ambitions, Madoc?

He bellowed for all to hear. You traitor, Madoc, I will have the pleasure of your company again. I will not rest until your death!

Radoon returned to the lake’s beach, where he performed one last gesture. He raised his upper limbs to the heavens, pointing them toward the sacred moons of Hazam. He spread his stance while planting his webbed feet firmly in the muck. Radoon opened his gargantuan mouth cavity to scream and scream in anguish, as only Zentaurians can do in a prolonged single breath, to signify the bereavement of a loved one. The gurgle emanated from the pit of his body before manifesting into a piercing howl that resonated into the forest and across the lake. All Zentaurians within proximity of the scream recognized the ceremonious call and knew that one of their fellow species had just lost a loved one. The ritual was customary for Zentaurians to signify the end of mourning and the beginning of healing.

But Radoon had already decided that his healing period would be laced with hatred and revenge. The House of Jask would not suffer such humiliation at the hands of Madoc, an inferior kin. Radoon’s mind was saturated with impure thoughts. He would not assist authorities with the investigation of his brother’s murder. Instead he would exact Madoc’s death.

And he knew whom to contact to assist him in his quest—Deacon Coombs.

A DYING MAN’S WISH

M AISIE PITCHFORD PARKED her single-seated transport vehicle off the road behind a clump of twisted oaks with broad trunks. With that completed, she moved into the roadway while peering back into the brush. She decided that it was well hidden from the view of any travelers passing by. Maisie had learned to drive this type of craft at an early age from her father, so she often traveled solo on Earth when she visited, as she could navigate adeptly through Earth’s various terrains while using this model for infrequent airborne jaunts if needed.

Then she donned her long black overcoat to set off on foot. She traversed the narrow, winding dirt road methodically while often stopping to take a peek from within her hood over her shoulder to ensure there were no obvious followers. Her instincts told her she had been tailed, but there were no signs now to support that.

The autumn’s morning air was cold and crisp, so she kept a brisk pace while keeping the hood tight against her ears. A look at her face showed that she was frightened and apprehensive, but she trekked onward until the old mansion Moonbeam came into sight. She thought, This certainly is isolated from the main paths of civilization, residing on the most remote part of the Anglo coast. Then she realized that she had traveled only hours from the city limits of Olde London to reach here.

Maisie sized up her situation as she stood, hands on hips. She did not see any obvious signs of detectors, but she was certain that her presence had been announced by camouflaged sensors. She stood to eye this stately homestead.

Moonbeam was a two-story white stone structure with few windows on this side of the house. The roof was covered in a mossy green stain, while the walls were laced in parallel ivy vines from hundreds of years of growth. The house commanded a presence as it stood majestically on a small knoll rising from the clearing where she stood, to overlook the chalky white cliffs of Dover, which defined the seascape on the backside of the building. She strutted across the small clearing and slowly climbed five steep stone steps onto a full-length sheltered porch where she noticed the beautiful fall colors of blooming shrub foliage to her right. Behind her, on the other side of the clearing, where she had just traversed, the forest was dark even in today’s radiant daylight. The path she had just traveled was deserted as far as she could see. The only sounds emanated from a slight breeze rustling in the trees.

Maisie turned back to face the front door, but before she determined how to officially announce herself, the massive, regal red oak portal opened to expose a curious-looking being. The being was tall, sinewy, and had jet-black hair without a strand out of place. Dressed in a red apron, the being stared back at her with glassy green eyes.

Villya. The greeting was friendly.

Villya, and a good morning to you, sir. My name is Maisie Pitchford. I will not apologize for my intrusion. I would like to inquire if this is the residence of Deacon Coombs? If it is, is Mr. Coombs at home? Further, if he is at home, is he available to receive me? I am so sorry to interrupt, but I come on a mission of high importance.

There existed a prolonged silence during which the being continued to stare at her while blocking her way into Moonbeam. She shifted uncomfortably. Finally, after a few minutes, there came a monotone reply. Yes, this is the residence of Deacon Coombs. I will inform the master that he has a guest.

While holding the door open with one arm, Jim motioned for Maisie to enter with a sweep of the other arm. Maisie, upon moving inside, noticed that the hallway bisected the house; she could see the ocean’s distant horizon through the panorama of windows at the back of the abode. Jim opened the door to a small study with seating for four. The door quickly closed behind her. Maisie gazed at the antique printed books. They had long vanished from society in her lifetime but were prevalent and in abundance here in this private library of Deacon Coombs. She took note of some classics and how worn and faded the covers looked. From the recognizable titles, she identified three that were over two thousand years old.

She was ensconced in the selections of literature when the door opened as the detective entered. Previously she had seen only pictures of Deacon Coombs so was surprised that a detective of universal recognition should have a sloppy brown hairdo while carrying a little extra weight around his thighs. However, just as in the pictures, he had those bright, resilient round blue eyes that gave him the nickname Moon Eyes. Otherwise, he just looked so ordinary to her—especially dressed in the drab brown colors of his wear today.

She broke into conversation. Villya, Deacon Coombs. It is a pleasure to meet you. I hope that I am not intruding or disturbing some plans you have, but I come on a very selfish mission of extreme urgency. I am Maisie Pitchford. She extended her hand in friendship. As they shook hands, she added, I am honored to make your acquaintance.

Now he surprised her. Deacon broke into that broad smile that he was noted for as he replied, Villya, Maisie Pitchford. I have seen you perform live five times on the stage. Admittedly it is I who am honored that you should pay me a visit. As Deacon continued to hold her hand, he placed his other hand on top of their shake while he spoke.

You are one of my favorite stage performers. I even traveled abroad twice to see you perform in one of my favorite plays. Please sit down. Tell me what has precipitated this honor.

Maisie was flattered. She blushed while smiling back. As she turned to sit, she unexpectedly screamed and jumped across to where Deacon stood to hide behind him. Deacon immediately spied her problem. Miram, how did you get in here?

Deacon wandered over to the sofa, where he opened his cupped hands. The slender, orange, yellow-striped snake slithered around his wrist before cuddling her body in a coil with her head bobbing. Deacon turned to Maisie. May I introduce to you to one of my dearest companions? This is Miram, a present from the late Globianan Geor.

Geor? The Geor? The famous universal statesman?

Yes, he was my friend. We became close when he was stationed on Earth as ambassador for Globiana.

That is a sand viper, right? I read that a Globianan sand viper’s venom is deadly, with no known antidote.

Deacon assured her, You read correctly, but the sand viper only strikes when provoked. Maisie, I can assure you that with your beauty and presence, Miram has no cause for alarm. I can also tell you that many a scream has emanated from Moonbeam since Miram’s arrival here when unwanted guests have intruded and Miram has surprised them. Your scream was not enough to provoke her to strike, as she associates you with me. Move closer, Maisie, to pet her below her head on the underside on this small, smooth region of skin. This is a sign of friendship for Miram. She is a female species who craves affection.

Maisie’s pulse was high, but she stepped forward. Surprisingly, as she stroked Miram’s skin, the viper raised its head to smile back at her in a half-moon gaze. Oh my! She likes me. I can’t believe this! She has actually broken into a smile. I have never seen a snake smile. Miram used her gray tongue to further assess Maisie by flicking it against her hand.

Maisie returned the smile as she spoke. Now that Miram is up close, I see her orange bands are actually flecks of orange on a silvery brown background. How beautiful.

Deacon explained. This is no ordinary snake, Maisie. Globianan sand vipers have a very high intelligence. They sense, they feel, they rationalize, and they learn from experience how to react. There is no other snake like this in our entire universe. They also know when to make friends and so thus conversely know when to strike. Miram is three feet long; males are usually four feet in length.

Maisie continued to pet the viper.

Okay, Miram, time to say good-bye. Deacon looped the asp between his two hands, opened the door, and then, bending over, let the viper unwind to slither its way out of the study. It moved in tight bends down the main hall to another part of Moonbeam. Deacon watched until it was out of sight.

Deacon closed the door for their privacy as the pleasantries continued briefly. Deacon reflected on her past performances; Maisie told Deacon of what she had read about his memorable cases. Maisie made further small talk as she passed Deacon a note while she rambled on.

Deacon accepted the note, unfolded it, and then read it.

Do you have a soundproof room in Moonbeam? My conversation with you and messages to you must not be detected. There may be spies in proximity. Perhaps you could make the excuse of apologizing for not showing me the view and we could end up in a soundproof room if you have one.

Deacon finished reading the note in astonishment. The message concluded with a desperate plea for help from Maisie. He looked back to witness the fear in her eyes and readily complied.

How rude of me, Maisie. I haven’t offered you the beautiful view of the channel with the chalk cliffs of Dover from my back balcony. Come. He extended his arm to assist her in rising before opening the door to the study. He reached out his hand further to hold hers. Then he escorted her to show off his laboratories and a second more modern library before they stood on the grand deck, where Maisie admired the magnificent view of the shoreline and cliffs for miles in all directions. The tide was high as the waves below crashed into the shore. They chatted there before eventually retreating to a small living area where Deacon summoned Jim to ensure their privacy. After Jim left refreshments, the Owler sealed the room. Deacon motioned to Maisie to sit across from him. He intercepted her apprehension as she looked around the room, so Deacon affirmatively stated, I can assure you, Maisie, that Miram is not hiding in here. Maisie giggled in relief as she placed the open palm of one hand over her heart.

There they sat, across from one another, Deacon admiring her curly flowing brunette hair, her beautiful green eyes, and her delicate physical features. She took off her hooded coat to expose her tight black garb. As she sat down, she couldn’t resist another look at Deacon’s large, attractive, orbicular blue eyes, such famous elements of Deacon Coombs’s appearance.

We are free to speak now. You caught me off guard with that note.

Maisie inquired. That tiny small band around your wrist—is that your handheld device?

Why … yes.

I have never seen one so slender. Does it perform all the functions that larger handhelds do?

Yes, it records gargantuan volumes of data. I can conduct topical research on my voice command, it takes high-resolution photos and images, and, of course, it communicates and translates in over five hundred languages. This model was a gift from the High Alliance Council after my last case. I got to order its color, so I chose brown. Deacon leaned forward to let Maisie perform a closer inspection.

It also serves as a lifeline to my assistant, Jim, who obeys all my commands while responding to all my summonses immediately. Maisie, this model of handheld connects to more space objects, more transmission systems, and more databases than any other handheld model in the universe. It houses the highest state-of-the-art technology. If stolen, it can be recovered from an implanted tracer.

Maisie nodded as he spoke. She compared it to her larger one, which she now held beside Deacon’s. Then she went back to their previous conversation as she returned Deacon’s handheld.

I know my note confused you, but it is necessary to speak in private. But first, you know there are rumors about you, Deacon Coombs … that you can read people’s minds because of some great genetic gift … that you intercept energy emitted from the brains of other people and can translate it into coherent messages. Some say it is the Uscher Zone gift. Some say that you are touched. Maisie looked at him curiously. Is this true? Can you intercept my thoughts? Do you actually intercept the energy waves emitted from people’s brains and translate them into messages? If you can, can you sort of not do that to me? Can you allow me to tell my tale without mental interruption? Or is this a false rumor?

Deacon grimaced. I do have the extraordinary gift of intercepting energy waves from the human brain and translating them into coherent messages for most species. It is easily performed on Earthlings. It is supposed to be a secret.

She laughed in a cute giggle. It is not very well kept, I’m afraid. I have read about it numerous times. I have also heard it discussed and speculated on by others.

Deacon smiled back to make her feel comfortable. Maisie, please tell me why you are here in your own words, on your own time. I promise to try not to intercept any thoughts you have, but sometimes that becomes impossible—especially with our proximity and in what I perceive in you as a state of anxiety.

Maisie commenced her conversation by taking a guess. That thing is an Owler, isn’t it? Jim, you called it. It seemed as if it was processing me at the front door.

Yes, Jim is a very special Owler who aided me on a past adventure. Jim is under my instructions to examine all guests I receive. The Owler ensures me that visitors are not armed and that they pose no threat to me through an identity check. My Owler informed me that, yes, you are human, yes, you are the real Maisie Pitchford from your genetic analysis, and you are unarmed. She laughed—this time with vigor—as Deacon smiled.

Deacon finished his thoughts. Jim and I traveled into deepest space on a previous case to solve a mystery. When it ended with his damage and decommission, well, I just had to rescue the Owler from the junk heap to rebuild it. So I reinstated it for my personal use. Jim also cooks meals for me, as my time is better spent worrying about cases. Besides, I am a dreadful chef. As you know, Owlers are also the most efficient bodyguards, which are a necessity in my profession.

Maisie was pleased to hear that they were being guarded. Please, Maisie, you have my undivided attention. Deacon’s soothing vocal tones made her feel at ease.

Maisie fidgeted while shifting in her seat. "I am certain that you heard of the unfortunate death of Dymentt. He suffered a massive heart failure at the end of a performance here in Olde London. It came in his five hundredth performance of The Warrior’s Tale, his signature trademark."

Maisie paused to gather her composure. It was common knowledge that Dymentt and I were lovers. I never had in my whole life a friend as true and loving as Dymentt. We were elixirs for each other.

She wiped a single tear away. Our love for each other carried us into bonds that could never be broken. It was our decision to remain as lovers but never marry. It is not a widely known fact that my body parts for producing children are not capable of doing so. Dymentt always said he wanted a son, but with our everlasting love, he accepted the fact that a son would never be borne by me. He never abandoned me. Enough of that. She wiped another tear from her eye.

She heaved her chest while stroking her hands through her hair as a comb. Deacon knew that Maisie was in her fifties, but her sinewy fit body made her appear so much younger. Mr. Coombs, Dymentt and I had a very uncomfortable conversation recently when we discussed his death. In doing so, he conveyed an unbelievable story to me. At the conclusion, he emphatically requested that if he were to die, that if anything were to happen to him, then his last wish to me was that I ‘Find Deacon Coombs.’

Deacon was trying so hard to control his gift of invasion, but even so terror leapt out of Maisie’s mind. Maisie stood to pace around the tiny study with her arms folded. Deacon tilted rearward, leaning against the high back of his chair, legs crossed, allowing her to speak when ready. She sat down again, staring at him to say in a low voice, Dymentt was Barille.

Deacon never suspected in his wildest imagination that the actor Dymentt could be Barille, so he felt the urge to confront Maisie to remind her of Barille obligations. "Maisie, the Barille are our ultimate police force agency. Our universe has experienced hundreds of thousands of years of criminal control because, as the ultimate policing agency, they maintain peace and carry out justice as a secret organization. Each member of the Barille has the absolute authority to apprehend criminals, pronounce sentence, and administer justice as he or she sees fit. You must know that when one joins the Barille, one’s identity as a member of that organization must absolutely remain a secret. To expose that you are