Adventure of Dallas Fontaine 2

Dallas and Murderbone leave the flooded apron behind and push into a narrow service lane under the pier. Salt water drips from warped beams overhead. Ahead, a rusted maintenance stair climbs toward a dimly lit locker room, and fresh boot prints cut through the grime.

At the foot of the stairs, a metal locker hangs open. Inside, a torn Dock Nine badge dangles from a lanyard, and a smear of blood marks the door frame. Murderbone stiffens, nose pointed up the stairwell.

A figure steps out of the locker room shadows, coat dark with rain, one hand visible and empty. He keeps to the landing, watching Dallas with tired caution rather than panic.

From somewhere above, a door slams hard enough to rattle the stair rail. The sound sends dust drifting from the beams. Murderbone gives a low warning growl as Dallas angles toward the stairs and the waiting darkness.

Dallas takes the stairs two at a time, coat brushing the rusted rail. Murderbone climbs tight at his heel, silent now, while the dim locker room above swallows the lower landing in shadow.

The Stranger stays below as they pass the landing, one hand lifting in a small, wary signal. The open locker swings once, then settles, the torn Dock Nine badge trembling on its lanyard.

Dallas reaches the top step and the service door ahead, with Murderbone braced beside him. The smell of printer ink clings faintly to the air, and somewhere deeper in the building an internal lock slams shut.

He is through the stairwell now, inside the records level. The corridor waits ahead, lit thin and gray, while The Stranger remains below in the stair shadow.

Dallas plucks the torn Dock Nine badge from the lanyard and palms it cleanly, then shoves the service door inward with one hard shoulder. The latch gives, and gray corridor light spills over his coat.

Murderbone slips through beside him, low and tight, while the door swings wider on a protesting hinge. The badge rides hidden in Dallas’s hand as he steps into the records level.

Below on the stairs, The Stranger stays half in shadow, watching the landing without climbing after them. The open stairwell throws up a cold draft, and the smell of printer ink hangs in the corridor.

Dallas eases the door shut behind him, not sealing it, just enough to mute the stairwell. Ahead, the hall stretches empty and narrow, with office glass dull in the gloom.

An internal lock slams somewhere deeper in the building, sharp enough to rattle the frame, and Murderbone turns his head toward it. The corridor holds still, waiting on Dallas’s next move.

Dallas moves off the threshold and into the corridor, coat brushing the dull glass as he takes the lead. Murderbone pads at his knee, silent and coiled, while the stairwell noise falls behind them.

He passes a row of dark office panes and a half-open side door, each reflection giving him only a blur of fedora and revolver. The slamming locks stop, replaced by a hush that feels watched.

Dallas keeps moving, and the corridor opens into a narrow records run with labeled drawers, a desk lamp left burning, and fresh boot marks cut into the dust. The source of the noise is not far now.

At the far end, a door stands ajar with light leaking under it, and the evidence trail points straight to that room. Murderbone’s ears lock forward as Dallas reaches the last stretch.

Dallas keeps his voice low, and the man on the landing answers without looking away from the corridor. The smell of printer ink clings to the air like a fresh bruise.

Dallas studies the ajar door and catches the angle of fresh boot marks stopping at the threshold, then turning back out. Somebody went inside, took what mattered, and left in a hurry.

As he speaks, the open door spills a thin band of light across Dallas’s coat, and the pressure in the hall eases for one brittle second, long enough to choose the next move.

Dallas fires once. The shot cracks the corridor open, and the stranger drops out of the stairwell light before a word can finish leaving him.

His body hits the landing hard, then lies still, one hand skidding against the rail. The thin strip of light from the far door keeps stretching under his feet.

Murderbone flinches at the report, then surges forward, nose low and teeth bared, guarding the corpse and the corridor beyond it.

From the open room ahead, drawers stay open and papers rustle once, as if someone inside has heard the gun and frozen in place.

The landing goes quiet except for the hum of fluorescent light and Dallas's breathing. The evidence path is still live, but the way ahead now waits on his next move.

Dallas eases through the open doorway, shoulders turned sideways, one hand low on the revolver, the other keeping Murderbone tight to his flank. The room takes him in without a sound.

Murderbone slips in beside him, body angled toward the hall, then swings his head toward the desk and the disturbed papers with a hard, silent growl.

The dead stranger stays on the landing behind them. Inside, a desk lamp throws a yellow cone across open folders, a half-turned chair, and a fresh scatter of pages.

Dallas stops just inside the threshold, reading the room in a breath, then steps in far enough to clear the door while keeping the exit in his peripheral vision.

Murderbone advances to the opposite side of the entrance, flanking Dallas cleanly, eyes fixed on the corridor and ears pinned for the next sound.

The papers on the desk shift once in the draft, and the open file at the center of the mess waits within reach, as if the room itself is holding still for Dallas's next move.

Dallas moves to the desk and scans the room once more. Nothing stirs, nothing hides. The open file sits under the lamp like it has been waiting for him.

He opens the file and checks the top page first, then the pages beneath it. A routing slip, a desk note, and a stamped transfer copy line up in the yellow light.

The names are scrubbed, but the approval marks are not. Desk Nine. Covington's office. The paper trail points hard in one direction, and it is not back to the stairwell.

Murderbone stays at the door, head high, while Dallas pulls the papers free and folds them under his coat. The dead man on the landing is still out of sight, and the corridor beyond the doorway stays quiet.

A hard knock rattles the outer hall door somewhere down the line, distant but deliberate. Dallas has the desk evidence in hand now, and the building is asking him to move.

Dallas slips out of the office and into the hall, keeping close to the wall. The lamp glow thins behind him, and the corridor takes him in with a cold, yellow hush.

He moves with measured steps past the first door, then the next, letting the building breathe around him. No one calls out. No feet follow.

Murderbone pads after him, silent as smoke, nose angled toward the far end of the hall. The smell of printer ink hangs faintly in the service lane air.

A strip of light leaks under a side door ahead, thin and steady. Dallas reaches it without a sound and stops just short of the frame.

Beyond the glass, the lower passage looks empty, but the quiet feels managed. Dallas has the evidence under his coat, the hall is open, and the way forward is finally in front of him.