Vigilance's Apprentice: Bedlam's Heroes, #2

By Jeremy Michelson

Super hero friends are great. Except for the super villains trying to kill you.

 

Twenty-five years after the Vigilante returned to New Bedlam, their daughter has taken up the hero's mantle. Protecting the city from…wait, what are you–

Hi, Burke Hale here, interrupting whatever this is to tell you what this story is really about. It's about me and my super ninja hero ferret, Binky.

 

You see, I came home to my converted motel room apartment in the seediest part of town and found myself dead on the couch. Or some wickedly handsome dude who looked exactly like me. Because I wasn't dead. Though lots of people would be thrilled if I were dead.

 

The cops were already there, examining my–the other dude's–non-living body, and they were surprised to see me. Like, creepy ghost time surprised.

 

Then these other guys showed up from some super secret government organization. They whipped their guns out and…

 

That's when Binky the awesome ninja ferret kicked their posteriors.

 

Shortly after that things got weird.

 

Which is saying a lot for me.

 

I'm up to my eyeballs in trouble. So is Nora, my Vigilante hero girlfriend. Ex-girlfriend, technically, but I was working on changing that.

 

Except the bad guy keeps blowing things up and everything keeps twisting around on me. I don't know what's what anymore.

 

Then things get even more weird.

 

If I can't figure it out in time, everyone and everything I love is going to be as dead as that handsome guy on my couch.

 

Which would be really bad.

 

Vigilance's Apprentice, the next strange and thrilling chapter in the Bedlam's Heroes series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeremy Michelson
• Release date: Feb 15, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224028658

Book preview

1

The dead guy on my saggy old couch looked exactly like me.

Except for the bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

I checked my own forehead. Nope. No bullet hole.

What a relief. I wasn’t having an out of body experience. No spooky ghost life for the intrepid and handsome Burke Hale.

Not yet, anyway.

Two guys in white plastic coveralls and latex gloves hovered over the body. A tall skinny one and a shorter, balder one with weight management issues. The way they looked at me with wide eyes and open mouths, maybe they believed in ghosts.

My apartment slash office slash place-where-I-go-to-smoke-weed-and-be-sad had an aroma of gun smoke overlaid over the usual skunky funk that permeated every dusty, cobwebby corner of the place.

And, okay, maybe handsome wasn't the first adjective that popped to people's minds when they saw me. I always dressed in faded blue jean cutoffs and a revolving number of indie-band themed t-shirts, mostly black. My brown hair was wavy and curly enough that I could run a brush through it and it'd be okay for the day. I shaved maybe every three days. Though I was contemplating just going full Grizzly Adams. Razor blades were expensive.

No, people had other ways of thinking about me. They were always more like: Where’s the rent, Burke? You expect me to pay you for that stupid, useless report, Burke? No, we can’t take bus tokens for food, Burke.

The crime scene techs and I stared at each other for what seemed like hours, but what was probably more like ten or fifteen seconds. Maybe twenty or thirty. My mind was on other things.

Like the deceased dude on my poor, old eighth-hand couch that I got for free because it was too gnarly even for the thrift store. They threw it out. Score!

Hey, free stuff is still free.

The apartment was overly warm because air-conditioning costs money. And because leaving the windows open would cost me more money since the meth addicts down the hall would steal my stuff. Given the opportunity.

I tore my gaze away from the handsome corpse on the couch. Did a quick scan of the apartment. The fifty-five inch flatscreen on my wall was still there. My custom screen saver scampered from side to side, corner to corner, on it. It was a stylized red and gray ferret with a bandit mask and a blue cape with the letters F.I. on it.

Ferret Investigations. I had wanted to call my business Ferret It Out Investigation Service, but, frustratingly, some other jerk had already taken that name. I tried to buy the name off him, but he wouldn’t take bus tokens for payment either.

I had spent a lot of hours programming that screen saver.

Business was slow.

My Bluetooth keyboard and mouse were still on the end table by the couch. And by end table, I meant wobbly-wooden-crate-I-snagged-from-behind-the-Save-E-Mart-down-the-street. The blue ethernet cable I plugged into my laptop still hung over the arm of the couch. The laptop itself was safely cocooned in the well-worn canvas backpack slung over my shoulder. I never went anywhere without it.

A significant portion of my meager income went to a cripplingly expensive high-speed internet connection. If I ever made enough money to justify a tax return, I was going to write it off as a business expense.

Under the couch, a few inches from the dead guy’s butt, I had stashed a couple encrypted external hard drives.

I wasn’t going to check for them just yet.

The tiny kitchen off to the side still had the remains of my last gourmet meal on the counter. Chicken ramen noodles microwaved in an oversized coffee mug. Livened up with a splash of soy sauce and Sriracha. Eaten with a plastic spork from Taco Pagoda. One of these days I was going to branch out my culinary skills and buy a pan of some kind. If I was feeling flush, maybe I’d get something with a nonstick coating.

Upscale, baby.

Other than the bathroom, that was pretty much my lovely, no bedroom studio apartment. Actually, the building was a former Easy-Nite Motel that had been abandoned by the mother company after the highway had been diverted through another neighborhood of poor people who didn't have the means to object.

At least it was a sort of quiet place to live. Other than the three am domestic disputes, crying babies, and bone rattling bass of the drug dealer’s car stereos.

I’ve lived in worse places.

But where was Binky? I scanned the room again. Crouched down and whistled.

Binky! Where are you, baby! I said.

The guys in the white crime scene suits looked at me like I was crazy. Which was a strong possibility. But given the general state of things anymore, who wasn’t crazy?

Binky! I shouted.

I gave the two crime scene techs an evil look. You better not have let him out.

They continued to stare at me like I was a crazy ghost. Maybe I was the ghost of all the crime scenes they’d been to. Maybe they were wondering if they’d gone crazy.

I certainly was.

Binky! I shouted yet again.

I slapped the (highly worn and non-too-clean) carpet and whistled the first few bars of Binky’s favorite indie death metal anthem. (It was Purple Apocalypse Daisies by the Three Fingered Butt Scratchers.)

I heard a muffled squeak. Then his furry little head popped up from behind the couch.

Of course. That little monster lived in that couch. Along with everything small enough for a ferret to carry.

Those little maniacs could carry a lot of stuff.

Socks. Binky was constantly stealing my socks and stuffing them up inside the couch. It had gotten to the point where I stopped buying socks. Well, also because when it came down to a choice between socks and food, I chose food.

Eh, one less thing to worry about, right?

Binky slithered his slinky body all the way up to the back of the couch. Sat up right beside the handsome corpse’s head.

One of the techs–the one with weight management issues saw him.

And let out the most girly, blood-curdling scream I had ever had the misfortune to nearly have my eardrums ruptured by. I mean, it was horror movie quality. The guy could do voiceover work on the next Friday The Thirteenth movie–Jason Reads His 401k Statement.

The guy’s eyes fluttered up into his head. Then he fell like a big white Tyvek sack of potatoes. The impact bounced the floor. Everything in my apartment rattled. It wasn’t that the guy was that big. It was just the cheap nature of the old Easy-Nite Motel construction. I suspected they took the low bidder’s estimate, then took him into a back room and said: Okay, now let’s look at cutting some corners on this puppy.

The other crime scene tech took one look at Binky and sprinted for the door. He about knocked me aside, he was in such a rush.

Left his poor partner lying there on my dirty carpet.

They were probably going to have words later.

Binky, naughty boy, I said, Get your stinky butt over here.

Fun fact: Ferrets are members of the skunk family. Ferrets sold commercially have their scent glands removed–but they still have a skunky funk about them that no amount of spring meadow scented shampoo can ever tame.

When a person loves a ferret, they come to terms with the funk. But for me, the funk was a bonus. As a dedicated consumer of low quality marijuana, Binky’s funk added a bit of cover to my lonely trips to stoner-ville.

Binky chattered something at me. Then he bounced off the couch and scampered over to my outstretched hand. He ran up my arm. I kept his claws trimmed so he didn’t draw blood as he traveled over bare skin and up to my shoulder. I’d learned that lesson long ago with ferrets.

He nose bumped me. Gave me a quick, chattery account of his day.

Which was probably a lot more interesting than usual, given the dead doppelgänger sitting on my couch.

I dug into my pocket and pulled out some treats for him. He gently took them from between my fingers. I was lucky that he wasn’t a biter. Some ferrets liked to chomp everything that moved. Not my Binky. He was a gentleman ferret.

So what happened here, buddy? I asked him.

He chattered at me some more, in between bites of treat. I nodded and made encouraging noises at appropriate intervals.

It was really too bad I didn’t speak ferret. Much time would have been saved.

Binky quickly wound down his rundown of recent events. He didn’t have a lot of patience. He had the attention span of a ferret, after all.

He jumped from my shoulder. Ran down my back. Bounced off my butt and made a beeline for the water dispenser I’d duct taped to the kitchen cabinet.

I stood back up. The portly guy in the white Tyvek suit was still out. I really hoped he wasn’t dead. One dead guy in my apartment was bad enough. Two, well, that would just be overdoing it. It might possibly veer into serial killer territory.

Binky, I said, Did you commission a mad scientist to make a clone of me? Then, when the clone failed to bring you treats in a timely manner, did you acquire a gun and shoot this poor fellow right in his noggin?

Binky slurped at his water dispenser. Pointedly ignoring me.

Answer me, young man, I said, You do know that murdering a clone still counts as murder, don’t you?

Actually, I had no idea if that were true. As far as I knew, there hadn’t been any successful attempts at creating human clones. Though I’m sure once that happened, someone would murder one and then it would be a matter for the courts to decide if it was murder, or just housekeeping.

Binky didn’t seem to care. He satisfied his thirst and bounded away. He scampered around the perimeter of the room, in his little, cute humpbacked gait.

He’d probably already forgotten where he hid the murder weapon. Stupid short ferret attention span.

The floor started bouncing again. Someone ran up behind me. A couple someones.

There! tall and skinny crime scene guy shouted. He pointed a skinny finger at me. That’s the guy.

I was indeed the guy. Though which the guy was up for debate. I needed a little context, and tall and skinny wasn’t quite providing it. His thin face was almost as white as his suit. The hand he used to point at me shook and trembled.

There was some kind of animal, he said, It came out of the couch and attacked Craig.

Craig being the portly one? Why weren’t these guys wearing name tags? It only added to the confusion.

There wasn’t any confusion about the guy behind tall and skinny.

He practically filled the doorway before he stepped into the room. Built like a college linebacker. Stuffed into a dark blue suit that was too tight in the shoulders and too loose in the pants. His black hair was buzz cut into a flat top. A manly mustache sat over his upper lip like very obedient dog. Five o’clock shadow blued his chin all day. Below a narrow depression on his forehead, his dark brown eyes sat under thick black brows that always seemed drawn down into a deep frown.

Especially when he saw me.

Detective Dio Galanis.

He stared at me. Shook his head and gave a deep, deep sigh.

Burke, he said, his voice deep and manly, Why did it have to be you?

2

Detective Dio (as I like to call him) and I went way back. He was the first cop to ever arrest me. The first to ever deliver a jailhouse beatdown to me. The first person who ever threatened to kick my ass up between my ears.

No, wait. That was my grandmother who threatened the ass kicking ear thing. I sometimes confuse them. She’s kind of big and burly too. But Detective Dio’s mustache wasn’t as thick as hers.

Over the years, Detective Dio and I have formed a mutually beneficial relationship. When he’s not threatening to end my life in some hilariously crazy fashion. Like nailing my arms and legs to the floor and letting rabid raccoons eat the flesh from my bones.

I mean, hilarious, right? Cray-zeee. Right?

Detective Dio occasionally steers a little business my way, and I occasionally hack into his various accounts to smooth things over for him.

He’s been in anger management therapy for a few years. It’s really helped. He hasn’t killed anyone in months. And he’s only put three guys in the hospital. This week.

I have to admit, when my good buddy Dio stepped into my apartment right then, I took a couple steps back. A wave of his earthy body odor washed over me. A potent mix of cheap aftershave, garlic and onions and sweat that made even Binky’s funk whimper for mercy.

It wasn’t his smell that made me back up, though. His broad shoulders eclipsed the doorway and cut off my closest avenue of escape. I considered jumping through the window, but I wasn’t stoned enough to forget how glass shards could lead to severe arterial bleeding and death.

I looked closely at Detective Dio's face. Had he just come from an anger management session? Because usually he was worse afterwards. The current therapist had him meditating for two hours a day. There had also been something about aligning his Chakra's, but I doubt anyone was brave enough to touch Detective Dio's Chakras.

And mindfulness just wasn't in his nature. His version of meditation was to sit for two hours and stew over scores to be settled and beatdowns to be delivered.

I kept a close watch on my good buddy Detective Dio. For the sake of my own silky smooth skin.

This fine summer afternoon, Detective Dio’s thick, black brows were down low over his dark eyes. So low it was amazing he could even see.

But it was the mustache twitch that I looked for.

If the mustache twitched, it was time to run.

For some reason, the sight of me often filled Detective Dio with uncontrollable rage. Especially in situations where a crime had been committed and I just happened to be somewhere in the vicinity. Which was usually a total coincidence.

But this time was different.

The mustache twitched. But his eyes weren’t on me.

They were on the handsome corpse on my couch.

What the hell? Dio said.

Dio looked to the corpse. Then to me. Back to the corpse. Back to me.

I had a feeling like this could go on for a long time. Detective Dio was, as the saying went, not the brightest bulb in the chandelier. Not the sharpest tool in the shed. Not the stickiest tape in the dispenser. His cupcake didn’t have a full load of frosting. His cognitive facilities were at the end of a dead end street in a run down building that should have been condemned long ago.

I’m not dead, I said, At least I think I’m not. I held out my arm. Take a pulse if you want.

Dio gave my outstretched arm a look like it was covered in bees and three kinds of poisonous snakes.

The mustache twitched.

What did you do, Burke? he said.

I put my hand to my chest. Batted my eyes in the perfect declaration of ironic innocence.

Nothing. Today, I said, I just arrived at my apartment, only to find these two gentlemen in the process of processing the scene of what looks like a heinous crime upon myself. Or my secret twin. I’m not quite sure which.

You had a twin? Dio asked.

I shrugged. If I did, it’s news to me, I said, I never asked mom for a notarized list of what came out of her hoo hoo.

Did rubbed the center of his forehead with his short, thick fingers. He was prone to migraines too.

He turned to the crime scene tech. The conscious one. Tall and skinny.

Benson, who called this in? he said.

Benson. So skinny and tall did have a name. Good to know. Benson and Craig. Sounded more like a law firm than a crime fighting duo. They needed to work on it. Punch it up a bit. Something like: Jack Danger and Black-eyed Pete.

Hmmm. No, that sounded more like pirates. I’d have to think on it later.

The building super, Benson said, Said he walked by and the door was wide open. Guy was dead on the couch. Seemed pretty happy about it, actually. Wanted to know how soon we could get things cleaned out so he could rent to someone who wasn’t a deadbeat.

They both looked at me. Dio had a knowing look in his eye.

"Hey, I paid my rent. Well, not this month’s rent. But I will. Possibly sometime next spring."

The investigations business wasn’t doing well. Public assistance was making most of my ends meet. But one of these days, I’d get a couple good contracts and then I’d be living high on the hog, baby. I might even get two non-stick pans.

Detective Dio rubbed even harder at his forehead. I hadn’t really put two and two together before–maybe that was why he had a dent in the middle of his forehead. Go figure.

And I considered myself an investigator. For shame Burke. No cookie for you.

I couldn't afford cookies anyway. Well, sometimes. Maybe if the food bank had any. But the last time I reached for a box of cookies there this elderly woman who smacked me with her cane and stole them.

Little old ladies are dangerous. Don’t cross them.

Detective Dio let out a heavy sigh and went over to my uninvited couch guest. Bent down in front of the stunningly handsome corpse. He looked from the corpse to me, then back to the corpse. Then back to me. The gears were grinding in his heavily mustached head. I could almost smell the burning metal. Though not quite. Between his B.O. and Binky's funk, there wasn't much chance of anything else getting smelled in my apartment.

Not until the good looking dead guy started to decompose.

Dio finally stood up. Went back to rubbing the middle of his forehead.

Burke, he said, Please tell me there is some simple explanation for this.

I rubbed my stubbly chin and put a thoughtful expression on my face. When I tell people I’m an investigator, I’m not lying. I really do investigate things.

However, ninety-nine point one hundred percent of my investigations are done while I’m comfortably seated on my blue couch. With my feet up on another salvaged crate and my laptop on my lap region.

Detective work these days is done primarily over the internet. It’s all just information. And most information is stored in someone’s database. It’s only a matter of finding the right database and making it cough up the appropriate info.

And mostly what people want is: find this guy who owes me money.

Yup. Pretty much it. People give me money (though not very much) to help them find people who owe them money. I help bring together the lost lendee and the less than happy lender.

I have a knack for it.

Well. Sort of. I have, on occasion, put the incorrect information into the hands of the money seeker. Which has led to some confrontations between the lender and persons who don’t owe them money. Which usually brings the lender back to me in an agitated state. Often bringing threats of great bodily harm and demands for the return of money I have already spent.

But it all works out in the end. Such and such, nothing to see here, move along.

Burke, Detective Dio said, Why is there a dead guy on your couch who looks like you? Give me something here. Something that makes sense. Can you do that?

I continued to stroke my chin. Thoughtfully.

Then I shook my head. No, sorry, I said, I got nothing.

The mustache twitched. I got ready to run.

Hey! Benson, the thin and tall crime scene tech said.

Two men dressed in dark gray suits pushed through the door and into my apartment. They both had short cropped brown hair, clean shaven chins, and dark aviator glasses.

They could have been brothers, they looked so much alike.

One of them reached into his pocket.

Beside me, Detective Dio tensed. Reached inside his coat.

Cleanshaven One pulled out a wallet. Flipped it open to reveal a very shiny silver badge. I mean, it was really shiny. There was some writing on it, but I didn’t notice for all the shiny shininess going on on that badge.

If Binky saw that, he’d go nuts. Shiny was one of his things. Along with socks. If I ever got enough money to buy a pair of chrome plated socks, the little guy would probably have a gigantic orgasm and go off to ferret heaven with the biggest ferrety smile ever.

Good thing I’d never be able to afford chrome plated socks.

United States Security Investigation Service, Cleanshaven One said, This investigation is now under our jurisdiction. Get out.

3

Oh no! Not the dreaded S.I.S.!

Actually I’d never heard of them before. Security Investigation Service? What the heck was that? Was it a service that investigated security? Or was it security for investigation services?

If it was the latter, I could certainly use it. People were trying to hurt me all the time. Just the other day a client threw a small dog at my head. It may have been a chihuahua, I’m not sure. Ferrets are more my thing, not dogs. Not that I have anything against dogs. Except for ones that have been thrown at my head. And even that one I really didn’t have a beef with. It wasn’t like the dog threw itself at my head.

The four of us (five if you counted the corpse–seven if you counted the unconscious crime scene tech on my floor and the tall, skinny one cowering outside the doorway–whew, it was sure crowded in there. If I had some beer and cheeze doodles we could have called it a party. Alas, Top Ramen and tap water was the best I could do, entertainment-wise. I’d throw in some ferret treats, but Binky would be mad.)

I lost my train of thought…

Ok…The four conscious and not dead people inside my apartment stood in silence for an extended moment. From down the hall, I heard someone arguing. Probably the Gundersons. They were always arguing. Somewhere a bird was chirping. I think there was a nest of robins in the ceiling somewhere. The roof structure of my apartment building had seen better days. And even then, those days weren't very good.

I wanted to take another step away from Detective Dio’s musky, oniony, garlicky body odor, but the two dudes from S.I.S. looked very serious. Also, there were bulges in their coats that didn’t look like bibles.

Detective Dio drew himself up to his full, impressive, height. The mustache didn’t twitch. But I kept a watch on it from the corner of my eye.

"This is my jurisdiction, he said, And my investigation. Until you get a court order, YOU can get out."

Cleanshaven One exchanged a glance with Cleanshaven Two. Cleanshaven One nodded. Cleanshaven Two reached inside his coat and pulled out a piece of paper, folded in thirds. He held it out to Detective Dio.

Dio’s mustache twitched. I tensed. There wasn’t anywhere for me to run. Maybe I could go sit with the corpse on the couch and play dead.

Dio snatched the paper from the S.I.S. agent’s hand. He unfolded it and squinted. His eyesight wasn’t all that great up close. But it was like he had hawk-vision at a distance. Maybe it was from all those years of chasing footballs across fields.

He took a pair of reading glasses from his inside coat pocket and settled them on his nose. They looked comically tiny on his face, but I dared not chuckle or giggle. Even a slightly upturned corner of my mouth would be dangerous. Detective Dio was a man of vanity when it came to things that made him appear weak. He would happily punch to oblivion anyone who dared to question his might and manhood.

I had little fear that he would quickly dispatch these two so-called federal agents. Send them packing, each loaded with full bags of hurt. He’d kick their heinies so hard their mommies would feel it. He’d–

Well, Detective Dio said, Looks like everything is in order.

He handed the paper back to Cleanshaven Two. Gave the men a sloppy salute.

Good day, gentlemen, he said.

And then, he left.

Walked right out. Didn't even give me a peck on the cheek goodbye.

Disappeared through the door and out of my life. Well, out the door anyway. We’d have to see about whether our bond had been shattered or merely stretched to the breaking point.

The first S.I.S. agent turned to the crime scene tech, Benson, who stood outside the doorway. The agent snapped his fingers and pointed at the tech on the floor, Craig.

Benson scampered in and slapped Craig a couple times. The tech’s eyes fluttered open. Benson nodded to the dark suited agents. Craig’s eyes widened. He scrambled to his feet. A few seconds later, they had collected their gear and exited my apartment in a less than dignified manner.

Which left me alone with Agent One and Agent Two. Who looked very much alike. Right down to the frowns sitting on their chiseled faces. The black aviator glasses over their eyes might as well have been the gateways to the pits of hell. It would not have surprised me to see flames licking inside those dark lenses.

I gave them a big smile. Hooked my thumbs in the pockets of my cut-off shorts.

Hey, so, how about this? I said, You guys look like you work out. You have a gym membership, or does your job have a place?

The agents exchanged another glance. Then Agent One reached inside his coat again.

This time he brought out a gun. It wasn’t quite a cannon, but it looked like it would get the job done. As long as the job was killing someone. It seemed quite adequate for such a task. I wasn’t any kind of expert on guns or anything. I knew one end of a gun from the other.

And I was on the wrong end of this one.

The end of the barrel yawned like yet another hellish pit. Aimed right between my eyes.

The Agent held it rock steady. The guy had awesome control. A gun that big, it would have made my arm tired instantly.

"You’re coming with us, Comrade Jorgen," the agent said.

Say whaaaaaaaat?

4

So there I was, staring down the barrel of a gun.

I…

Quickly judo chopped the gun out of the sneering agent’s hand. Then jumped three feet straight up into the air and kicked their nuts so hard the agents immediately left my apartment and joined the Vienna Boys Choir.

Ha ha. No.

That didn’t happen.

What really happened–and I’ll swear on a stack of mint condition Amazing Spiderman comics until the day I die (which could be any day, given my life) that it’s true–is:

Binky bounced out of the bathroom, where’d probably been pooping in the sink like he usually does. He took one look at the agents and went cray-zee.

It was like something out of a bad reality TV show. One that pitted small, slinky animals against guys in dark gray business suits. Set in an old, smelly apartment that used to be a run down motel. I know that somewhere, people would pay money to see such a thing.

But there were just the three of us to witness it.

Something all of us will take to our graves. Some of us sooner than others.

Chattering like I’d never heard him chatter before, the Binkster rushed at the closest agent. He did his sideways, humped-back scamper thing. That was usually adorable and I have, like, a million videos of him doing that.

But this time it was freaking terrifying.

And awesome.

But also terrifying.

Yet majestically awesome.

There’s really no other way to describe it.

That ferret’s a damned hero and no one will ever convince me otherwise.

The agents looked down at this little animal coming at them. Binky chattering, his teeth bared.

And the one with the gun in his hand flipped out.

He swung his gun down at Binky. Before I could do more than blink, the agent fired off a thunderous round.

The flash of flame and smoke and ear-cracking sound stunned me. The stink of gun smoke temporarily overpowered the ferret funk in the room.

I screamed in slow motion…Nooooooooo…

Then, out of the cloud of smoke…Binky rose up. A chattering, stinky avenging angel.

Like an arrow shot from a bow made of the noble spirits of a million million ferrets, Binky rocketed to the agent’s gun hand. Before the agent could pull the trigger again, Binky chomped down on his thumb.

The agent screamed out a string of ear-melting profanity.

He flung his arm up. Released his grip on his gun. The weapon arced through the air. With Binky riding it like it was a bucking bronco.

Agent number two had already yanked his gun out and was aiming for…I’m not sure what. The guy looked panicked. Like, realized he’d locked his keys in his car, panicked.

Number two’s gun went off with another blast of fire and smoke and thunder.

Binky launched himself from agent number one’s gun.

Somehow he hit the trigger and the gun tumbling through the air went off.

More thunder and fire.

Agent number two pulled off another shot. Aimed in the general direction of Binky.

Who came flying through the cloud of smoke. And landed on Agent One’s face with a tremendous chatter.

Agent two swung his pistol toward Agent one’s head.

I stood through all of this, frozen in terror and awe, my body wreathed in gun smoke.

Binky scrambled to the top of Agent One’s buzz cut head.

Agent One saw the gun barrel aimed at his face. Saw the finger tightening on the trigger.

He let out a burning expletive and dropped.

Agent Two’s gun went off, belching flame and smoke and yeah, more ear shattering thunder. I was losing count of how many shots had been taken in my apartment. I was too busy clenching my butt cheeks so I wouldn’t have to change my pants later.

Binky rode the agent’s head all the way down. The bullet screamed above him. As Agent One hit the floor, Binky launched himself at Agent Two’s crotch.

Ooooo, direct hit!

Agent Two yelped and fired off another shot.

At his own, ferret infested, crotch.

Fortunately for his future children, he missed his family jewels.

But the bullet did make a nasty hole in his polished, black, left Oxford.

Agent Two screamed. Binky rushed up the front of the guy’s suit and bit the man’s chin. The guy swung his weapon up to slam Binky with it.

Except Binky was already gone. Having launched himself from the guy’s face.

Too late for Agent Two to stop the arc of his gun. It slammed him in the face with a sound like a heavy metal object striking a guy’s face.

The agent stumbled backwards. The gun dropped from his hand. He started to fall.

Binky landed back on Agent One’s head.

Which knocked Agent One backwards. The Agent’s feet went up in the air.

Agent Two’s gun hit the floor.

And went off.

Seriously, were these guns substandard? Did the low bidder get the contract on them? They sure seemed to go off easily.

Flame belched out the barrel. The bullet zinged out.

And went through the left foot of Agent One.

Wow, these guys were seriously in tune with each other.

Agent One cried out and clutched at his wounded foot. Agent Two tumbled to the floor like sack of potatoes in a charcoal gray suit.

Binky hopped off Agent One's head. He scampered over to the stunningly good looking corpse on my blue couch. He chomped down on the cuff of the guy's pants and tugged at them.

Which seemed to me, after all his heroics, that my poor ferret had lost his itty bitty mind.

He let go of the pants. Hopped back over to me. Tugged at my shoelaces, trying to drag me toward the dead guy. Then he let go and scampered to the dead guy and latched on to his pants.

Maybe the stink of gun smoke was clouding my mind. Maybe it was the ringing in my ears from all the gunshots. Maybe my mind was just blown from the epic ferret superhero action I had just witnessed.

Binky had to scamper back and forth between me and the handsome corpse several times before I realized he was trying to tell me something.

The two agents were on the floor. One crying and cursing, the other moaning, semi-conscious. Temporarily incapacitated by Binky, the heroically awesome super-ferret. I kicked both of their guns under the couch and rushed over to were my dead doppelgänger sat, dead eyes open and jaw slack.

Except for the bullet hole in the middle of his head, he looked pretty much the way I sat while playing video games on my fifty-five inch flat screen.

Up close the guy had an odd smell. A kind of sharp, chemical odor that seemed vaguely familiar. In my near panicked (okay pretty much all panicked) state I couldn’t place the odor.

Binky bounced up the dead guy’s leg and scratched at his left front pocket. There was a bulge of something there that could have been a pack of cigarettes or…

An external hard drive.

I glanced back at the S.I.S. agents. They still seemed more concerned about the blood leaking from their holed feet.

I looked to the dead guy’s face. Swallowed hard. Corpses really weren’t something I dealt with in my line of work. I wasn’t that kind of private investigator. No one was that kind of private investigator. That was just TV and movie made up crap.

Until today.

Yay, lucky me. I got to experience drama in my life. More drama than just people threatening to beat me up for various (usually money related) reasons.

I rubbed a hand over my face. Contemplated the dead guy. Binky scratched at the guy’s pocket some more, then looked up at me.

Okay, okay, I get it. Clue in the dead guy’s pocket.

Sorry, dude, I said to the handsome corpse, It’s not that I’m not into you, I’m just not wired that way. But pardon my reach anyway.

I steeled myself, then thrust my hand into the dead guy’s pocket. Encountered a hard object. Grasped it and pulled it out. It was…

A pack of cigarettes.

Damnit.

No. Wait.

There was something inside it. Something that definitely wasn’t cigarettes.

Stop right there!

Agent One was starting to recover. Sort of.

The Agent was on one knee. He pointed his finger at me. He teeth were bared in a growl. He probably really wished that finger was a gun.

You’re under arrest, he said.

Though it didn’t sound very convincing. I weighed my options and decided they wouldn’t be able to keep up with me in a foot race.

I shoved the cigarette pack that wasn’t a pack of cigarettes in my pocket. Bent down and scooped up Binky. I tossed him on my shoulder. He immediately burrowed into my backpack–which somehow, miraculously was still on my back.

Then I ran the hell out of my apartment.

5

I blinked stupidly in the late afternoon sunlight on the open air walkway outside my apartment door. The odor of stale cigarettes and greasy fried food hung in the air like hell’s inversion layer. The parking lot was full of primer and rust colored cars that had seen better days. Just like the converted Easy-Nite Motel they sat in front of.

Really, people who rented apartments in a converted motel weren’t going to be driving Mercedes. Not unless the Mercedes was at least thirty-five years old and had little to no original paint and looked perfectly at home parked next to a beat up Chevy Cavalier with garbage bags taped over three of its broken out windows.

Several people were outside, looking around to see where the gunshots came from. Gunfire was not an everyday occurrence in my humble neighborhood. More like every other day.

The sharp ears of my fellow citizens had already directed their attention to where I stood.

Oh, hi. How’s everyone today? Gunshots? No, not me.

Which was true. It hadn’t been me who fired the shots. It was the trigger happy S.I.S. Agents and a certain heroic ferret, currently rubbing his stinky self over everything in my backpack.

Where was Detective Dio and the crime scene techs?

Right, there was Dio. In that unmarked