Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

The skiff knifes into a narrower channel, then eases toward a half-lit service dock swallowed by fog. Rusted pilings drip black water, and a warehouse silhouette looms ahead like a closed fist.

Dallas Fontaine steps onto the slick planks with the evidence tucked tight under his coat. Murderbone follows, low and alert, nose working the air.

This dock is recent traffic. Somebody was here tonight.

A cigarette ember blooms in the mist near a stacked pallet. The Dockside Runner is gone. In his place, a new figure waits by a chained service door, one hand raised to shield a match flame.

The stranger flicks a glance at the dark water behind Dallas, then toward the warehouse door, where fresh scrape marks cut through the grime around the lock.

Dallas crouches by the chained door and runs his fingers over the fresh scrape marks. The metal is nicked clean through the grime, too narrow for a hand, too bright for old rust.

He shifts closer, but the chain and lock are already half-swallowed by fog and glare. The scrape tells him only what forced it, not who.

Murderbone lowers his nose to the threshold and gives one quiet growl toward the dark seam under the door.

Dallas tests the chain, and the metal bites back with a wet screech. The lock twists just enough to show the scrape marks are layered, old damage buried under a fresh cut.

Dallas studies the layered cuts, and the shape settles into focus, a compact bolt cutter with sharp jaws, used twice, maybe more. The outer scrape bites left to right, the newer one deeper, as if someone came back to finish the job.

He catches a fleck of bright metal in the gouge and rubs it free with his thumb. The shard comes away warm from friction, and a dull streak of the same color flashes under the grime on the chain link.

Murderbone lifts his head from the seam and turns toward the dock, ears pricked. The Stranger goes still, their match flame shrinking as they watch Dallas work.

Dallas finds a second clue in the scored latch, a tight double notch made by a gloved hand bracing the cutter for leverage. It costs him a nick across the knuckle as the metal snaps back, and a bead of blood spots the lock.

The scrape marks are no guesswork now, they match a hand tool, a hurried cut, and a second pass by someone who knew the door was resisting. Beyond the chain, the fog presses against the warehouse seam, waiting for the next move.

The Stranger’s eyes flick to the tool marks, then back to Dallas. Their shoulders ease by a fraction, like the question has already given them permission to talk.

Murderbone stays rigid at Dallas’s side, but his attention settles, listening instead of bristling. The wet chain hangs between them like a witness that cannot lie.

The answer lands cleanly. Whoever cut the lock was local enough to know the dock, and nervous enough to return before the job was done. The fog keeps pressing at the warehouse seam, silent and patient.

Dallas slips past the chained door and follows the fresh scrape marks inside, keeping his revolver low. The metal flecks lead him along the warehouse seam, into the dark.

Murderbone pads in beside him, silent and keyed up, while the fog thins at the threshold behind them. The lock and chain stay behind like a marked scene.

The scrape marks run straight to a side run of stacked crates, then angle toward a narrow service corridor. Dallas reads the gouge as a path, not damage.

A dim work lamp flickers ahead, catching wet scuffs on the floor and the edge of a dock transfer note half-slid under a crate.

Dallas reaches the corridor mouth and sees the warehouse interior opening out beyond it, all shadowed beams and shut metal doors. No fresh voices answer, only the slow slam of internal locks settling somewhere deeper inside.

Dallas crouches at the crate and eases the damp paper free with two fingers.

A dock transfer note lies folded under the lip, stamped with the same routing marks he has been chasing all night.

Dallas squares the paper to the lamp and reads the handoff line, the time, and the receiving bay without lifting his revolver.

The stamps match the ledger, and the destination is inside the warehouse complex, not on the dock.

Murderbone pauses beside him, ears forward, while the internal locks settle with a final metallic clack deeper in the building.

From farther down the corridor, a door unlatches once, then goes still, as if someone inside has noticed the paper in Dallas's hand.

Dallas folds the note once and slides it into his coat pocket, then smooths the wool over it until the paper disappears. He eases to the unlatched door and leans in close, holding still.

He listens through the seam. A soft scrape answers from inside, followed by a breath caught and held.

Murderbone shifts beside him, quiet as smoke, ears fixed on the same door.

Dallas straightens a fraction, revolver still low, and the corridor beyond the door goes perfectly still.

The warehouse seems to hold its breath around them, with the hidden route now in Dallas's pocket and the unseen listener waiting for his next move.

Dallas drops to one knee and takes the latch with two fingers, revolver rising with his other hand. The door gives without a sound, swinging inward on a soft, tired hinge.

He lowers his head and peers in from the floorline, barrel first, seeing the room before the room sees him.

A narrow office opens beyond the threshold, lit by a single desk lamp. Scrubbed ledgers lie scattered on the desk, and a chair sits overturned near the far wall.

On the floor, a man lies on his side and does not move. His sleeve is smeared dark, and one hand still curls around a folded routing slip.

Murderbone leans past Dallas’s shoulder, hackles low, staring into the room as the lamp throws hard shadows over the desk and the open file.

Dallas rises into the office in one smooth motion, sweeps the corners with his revolver, and finds only still air, the lamp, and the body on the floor. Murderbone stops at the threshold, watching the hall while Dallas keeps the room covered.

He moves in fast, boots quiet on the wood, and drops beside the man with the routing slip. The sleeve is soaked dark, but the face is slack and gone pale, the kind of dead that has already cooled into fact.

Dallas takes the folded slip first, then checks the pockets, turning up a clipped office key and a stamped note with Desk Nine marks on the corner. The paper trail is still being carried by a corpse.

Murderbone noses the overturned chair, then settles again, calm but ready, as Dallas reads the body for angle and wound. The shot is close range, ugly and efficient, meant to stop a runner in place.

Dallas straightens with the routing slip and key in hand, his eyes landing on the open desk, the scattered ledgers, and the dark corridor beyond. The office is clear, but the trail now points deeper inside.

Dallas scans the routing slip, catching the Desk Nine stamp and the fresh smear of dark grease along the fold. It points not back to the dock, but down the corridor, where the warehouse keeps breathing behind closed doors.

He rises, slips the paper and key into his coat, and steps out of the office with his revolver low. Murderbone shadows the threshold, ears up, then angles toward the hall with Dallas.

The corridor is all slats of yellow light and sealed steel, the internal locks still settled shut like teeth. The dead man stays behind in the office, and the trail ahead is now plain.

Dallas takes the first steps into the corridor, past the open door and toward the deeper dark, while Murderbone holds tight at his flank. The whisper of the warehouse gives him nothing back.