End Game

Hot, hot, hot

Outside the sun was shining. Days there are when sunlight falls like rain, flushing out the shadows from every dark corner, flooding the nooks and crannies too, cleaning and disinfecting as it goes. Sweetness and light. Then there are days like this one – days when the heat of the sun lands with a dull thud and, having nowhere to go, goes nowhere. Dead heat.

"Wonderful summer weather we are having," commented Tim.

Min gave him an odd look. "There he is. Good, he's on foot. I half expected him to disappear into an air-conditioned limousine."

An air-conditioned anything was a thought to savor in this weather, but Tim pushed it aside, making an extra effort to catch up with Min who had already set off down the footpath after their quarry. Together they hurried off, wading their way through the lethargic air.

Cranially exposed in the café, Husk was clad now in his hat and sunnies – as a disguise effective; as a fashion choice not explicitly out of place given the nature of the day. As camouflage, a complete waste of time: the street was empty of pedestrians. What madman would willingly go out in this heat?

Occasional cars glided by, hauled along by teams of invisible pixies, silent but for the slight scrunch of tire on road. Overhead traffic was heavy as ever, but went unnoticed. Otherwise the city was quiet in a way that might have seemed unnatural were it not for the deadening effects of all that still air.

Husk had gone no more than fifty meters along the high street before turning into a side road by a tattoo parlor. Following not far behind, the pair found that they had crossed a border, leaving behind the retail precinct of the café and neighboring curiosity shops, entering instead a shallow canyon of light industrial buildings. If there is such a thing as consumer culture, then this must be the wholesale world. "Whole 'nother place." muttered Timothy, only semi-conscious of doing so out loud. Min cast a glance his way, this one containing a suggestion of understanding.

Peering down the street, Tim noted a tire center and a hardware chain outlet, but otherwise the signage was minimal and inscrutable.

Having got as close to Husk as was wise, Min slowed, taking a phone from her pocket and pointing it at their target. "I know he's not exactly Elvis," she explained, "But I bet there are people out there who'd be interested to hear of sightings."

Dubious about how much value might be placed on a shaky shot of a be-hatted figure with a bag of sandwiches caught from behind, Tim nevertheless bit his tongue on this skepticism. "Where do you think he's going?" he asked instead. A fatuous question, but one that entered into the correct spirit of the occasion.

Min was saved from answering by Husk halting outside another warehouse-like building; this one distinguished from those around it only by a complete lack of any signage at all. He opened a door and disappeared inside.

Min and Tim stopped. "Now what?" he asked.

The answer was supplied, not by Min, but from a discreet clearing of the throat behind them. They turned around.

The two men who faced them were walking clichés – broad across the shoulders and dressed in identical dark suits (in this heat?). One even had an earpiece, complete with curly wire, visibly protruding from beneath his crewcut. Timothy was not at all surprised to see a large black SUV with tinted windows parked a few feet behind them. It hadn't been there when he and Min had passed.

"Why were you following that man?"

Min answered. "Why not? This is a public place. A free country."

The man's expression shifted, perhaps an expression of mirth at this notion. He repeated his question.

"That's Melon Husk, isn't it?" Timothy blurted, taking care this time to use the correct pronunciation.