Dale walked with Haxel home from the supermarket. They had picked up some steaks for dinner because Dale had a hankering for red meat. When they reached the pub, the door was open and the light was on.
"Dale, I told you to lock up," said Haxel.
"I did!"
Shacker must have come back to mooch food and beer, maybe even some cash from the till. Shacker's tendency to help himself to the till, while not completely inappropriate, after all he was Haxel's partner, was irritating. Shacker did nothing at the pub but drink, he spent most of his time accompanying Haxel on business meetings with black water clients, and even then Dale knew he was usually a handicap.
Haxel went behind the bar and cursed as he checked the till. Must've taken a good amount, Haxel wasn't big on profanities.
Hungry and disinterested in Shacker's latest foible, Dale headed to the back staircase that lead to their apartment above the pub. Standing at the top of the stairs he began to remove his key from his backpack, when he noticed the the door was open a crack. Thee apartment door was already unlocked, and Dale groaned knowing Shacker had probably gotten into his special cereal.
"Shacker!" he barked as he pushed open the door. No response. All was quiet and dark in the apartment. The cupboard was open though. That bastard, Dale thought.
He hurried over and checked for his cereal. The box was gone. He slammed the cupboard shut and cursed under his breath. He grabbed a carton of orange juice from the fridge and headed to the family room, where he was sure he'd find Shacker passed out, hugging his empty cereal box.
Meanwhile, Haxell was still downstairs, fighting his irritation over a hundred-forty dollars that his fat associate had pocketed from the cash register.
As he marched up to the apartment he debated taking up the issue with Shacker. They had just fought about Art Donnelly that morning, and Haxell was in no mood to enter another business debate with his friend. He decided it best to let the problem lie when he heard Dale cry out. He flew up the stairs and into the apartment.
"What the hell?" he demanded.
Dale stood in the kitchen, a carton of orange juice pouring out at his feet.
"Dale, what happened?"
The boy didn't move. He just stood there, trembling. Haxel followed Dale's gaze to the living room.
Shacker's body lay face down on the floor, a pool of blood around his head where he had been shot. Haxel scanned the room. This was his apartment, not Shacker's. Nothing had been disturbed, everything was in exactly the place he and Dale had left it.
Haxel bolted for his room, Dale could practically hear the siren's in his guardian's head - They were going off in his own.
Too scared to be alone with Shacker's body, Dale headed down the hallway to Haxel's room.
"No, no, no! Come on!" he heard Haxel muttering.
Dale stood in the doorway, timid and scared, "Haxel?"
Haxel was frantically searching through his desk, throwing papers and envelopes all over the place.
"Shit!" he said, grabbing his hair, "The binder's gone."
"Haxel?" Dale tried again.
Haxel looked at him, wild, like a frightened dear.
"Get a bag, get some clothes," he said, "We're leaving."
