Death and Bottle Caps Finale!

Dear story snacker,

I’m as afraid of death as the next mid-twenties bachelor, but when it comes to stories, I absolutely love endings.

Some of my favorite lines in story were the last in their books:

“It is a far, far better thing I do than I have ever done. It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known—”Further up, and further in!”—”All was well”—”Just a little something to remember me by…”—”Redwall!”

What is one of YOUR favorite ending lines? Let me know HERE.

The ending of a story makes or breaks it, I believe, a great or terrible close to a narrative can resurrect or vivisect the entire thing.

So, I’m happy that I get to send you the final chapter of Death and Bottle Caps, and hope you enjoy reading its final lines as much as I did writing them.

Next Storyletter, you’ll be getting a sci-fi story!

STORY SNACK

Death and Bottle Caps

Part 6 (finale)

Part 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5

Darkness fell heavily, its impact raising clouds of dirty mist that bled through the streets, hunkering low to the ground. It had just gone seven and streetlights shone through the gloom onto the silver Lexus parked at the top of the steep hill.

Maea McVale smoked as she leaned against her car door, staring up at the dark doorway of the detective agency. Why hadn’t the old man contacted her yet? He’d told her he would call her today; implied he would solve the case in that time. It wasn’t as if she’d made it very hard for him.

Blowing smoke, the beautiful widow flicked her cigarette into the gutter and pushed herself upright, taking her phone out of her purse. She’d already called him a dozen times to no answer. Lucky number thirteen.

Pressing Romulus’ number, she raised the phone to her ear, staring up the quiet, dark street. The number rang uninterrupted, then went to voicemail. She glared at the phone screen, then dropped it back into her purse with a snort of disgust.

She only heard the footsteps when they were right behind her.

A hand seized her shoulder. Before Mrs. McVale could scream, she was whirled around to face her attacker.

“Mr. Romulus!”

The skeletal detective appeared a little worse for wear in the yellow glow of the streetlamp. His wrinkled face was unhealthily pale, and a white bandage covered most of the left side of his silver head. His suit was rumpled but still buttoned and perfectly symmetrical.

“I’m glad to see you,” gasped the young woman, smiling tremulously up at him. “I’ve been calling you for hours, but it never went through.”

“Forgive me,” rasped Romulus, taking his large hand from Mrs. McVale’s shoulder. “I had to deal with an annoyance.”

“Nothing serious, I hope.”

“No, not at all,” Romulus said, shaking his head gently. “Thankfully, your lover isn’t very good at killing people.”

*

4 hours earlier

Klik.

Zino pulled the trigger again. Then again.

Klik. Klik.

“Unloaded,” offered Romulus with a smile thin as a bulimic supermodel. “Otherwise, I could hurt someone.”

Baseball Cap jumped forward, swinging his blackjack. Romulus’ left fist snapped out, catching the thug in the throat. The would-be-mafioso fell backward, gagging and getting tangled in the curtains.

Zino dropped the empty revolver and reached for the pistol tucked into his pants, but before he could draw it there was a loud splintering sound and the hotel room’s door crashed open.

A stocky man in a wrinkled gray suit stampeded to an ungainly halt five feet from the two men left standing and leveled a very large gun at Anton Zino’s head.

“Nobody move!” the new arrival roared.

The black-haired capo stood still, though Romulus could see he was shaking, the fury in his eyes hot enough to ignite his cologne.

“Were you sampling the complimentary dinner, Shepherd?” the old man asked, raising his eyebrows and then regretting it as his torn scalp twinged. “This is cutting it pretty close.”

“You’re welcome, Romulus, don’t mention it, Romulus,” puffed the police detective, wiping sweat from above his salt and pepper eyebrows. “Remind me not to answer your call next time.”

With a snarl of desperate rage, Zino made a break for the door, ducking to try and get under the policeman’s gun. Romulus kicked him in the back of the knee as he passed, and the capo slammed to the ground with a squeal like a Florentine mouse getting stepped on.

Romulus stepped away from Zino as Shepherd kept him on the carpet with a beefy knee in the back, cuffing him while he matched Italian swearwords with all-American cursing. As the stocky police detective heaved himself up and turned toward Baseball Cap with the light of job satisfaction bright in his eyes, Romulus sat on the made bed and opened the mini-fridge, selecting a bottle of Coke.

He pressed the icy glass to his pulsating skull, closing his eyes. Shepherd would call for an ambulance, and they would patch Romulus up. He would have to go to the police station with the cop and two criminals, they would need his statement and evidence.

But after that…he glanced at the Coke bottle, a twinge of dread seeping through him. He had one final loose end to tie up in this case, and then he would have to make his meeting. That is, if he didn’t want to be killed.

*

Maea McVale’s lovely face paled, but her voice when she spoke was soft and concerned, like a loving child at the sickbed of an ailing grandparent.

“Are you okay, Mr. Romulus? You’re not making any sense.”

“I have been better,” Romulus admitted. With a relieved sigh he sat on the third step of his agency building, unbuttoning his jacket to get comfortable. “It’s been a long day.”

“Did you find Harry?” Mrs. McVale asked, almond eyes never leaving the detective as she took out a pack of cigarettes and slipped one free.

“I did,” Romulus rasped. “His body was recovered a couple hours ago after Anton Zino confessed to his murder. He was killed shortly after he left your home two days ago…”

The unlit cigarette dropped to the ground as McVale’s slender fingers covered her mouth, muffling a choked gasp.

“Oh, my God…Oh god…oh no—” the woman whispered, eyes glistening with tears in the darkness.

“Please,” groaned Romulus, one hand going to his bandage. “Stop it. My head hurts enough without you inflicting your acting skills on me.”

“How dare you!” spluttered Mrs. McVale. “I’ve just found out my husband is dead and you—”

“You knew your husband was dead before you arrived at my office,” Romulus said wearily. “You didn’t come to me to find him, you hired me to find Zino as the killer and to appear guiltless of a murder you could have prevented.”

Enclosed in a swatch of night between two streetlamps, Maea McVale was suddenly still, like a statue with stone eyes that stared coldly down at the seated detective. Romulus spoke, sandpaper scratching in the dark.

“I assumed you were having an affair when you protested too much when I raised the subject this morning, but I knew for a certainty that you had when you gave me the note that your husband had apparently written.”

A hiss of paper on wool as the detective took the note from a pocket that read Black curtain – Sicily in the sun. “It’s smudged, just the way it would be if a left-handed person had written it in haste. I would know. You’re left-handed, as I ascertained near the end of our meeting. You wrote the note, not your husband.’

“Why? To show me exactly where to go to find his killer. I imagine Henry discovered your affair with Anton Zino, and went to the Black Curtain to confront him. You didn’t stop him, even though you knew what kind of a man Zino is.’

“Henry bribed his way into the club, as my friend the owner informed me, and went to talk to Zino. That went about as well as you would imagine, and they left for the Seaside Hotel, Zino’s gun in your husband’s back. You paid Stretch Rafferty to tell me where they went, though you should have chosen someone who was actually there that night and could have actually overheard them. Zino killed your husband, disposed of him, and probably told you to keep your mouth shut.’

“I image you felt a little guilty about allowing your husband to get himself killed, but not enough to take responsibility. So, you hired me, designing everything nicely so that it would all fall on Zino.”

Romulus stood, towering over the young woman, his expression darker than the surrounding blackness.

“I do not like being used, Mrs. McVale. I am afraid I cannot let you get away freely with indirectly causing your husband’s murder.”

A soft chuckle, silver silk in the gloom, burst from the beautiful widow. “What are you going to do, take me to the police for writing a note? Make a citizen’s arrest of a grieving widow?”

“No, all I’m going to do is say this,” rasped Romulus. “Run. Leave town and never come back. If you do, I’ll know and make you regret setting foot in my city again.”

“That head injury must be bad, Erik,” Mrs. McVale said mockingly, taking out another cigarette and lighting up. “You’re talking nonsense again.”

“Zino knows you hired me. He set a tail on you that followed me all day. He’s made a full confession, but he’ll make sure to get the word from prison about your betrayal. If you stay, you’ll be dead in a week.”

For the first time, fear marred the perfectly sculpted features of her face.

“I-I’ll just go into protective custody.”

“To do that you’d have to admit involvement with Zino…and being an accessory to your husband’s murder.”

Romulus stepped forward, and Maea McVale took a stumbling step back, bumping into her car door.

“I’ve had enough of this, Mrs. McVale, and enough of you,” the wolf whispered to the wolf in lamb’s clothing. “Run.”

There was a moment where the two just looked at each other. Romulus watched terror flicker through those dark eyes, then malice, then finally furious resignation. Without a word, the woman opened the door of her Lexus, jumped in a tore away down the hill.

As the taillights disappeared into the night, Romulus turned his left wrist to look at his watch. 7:30. The bottle cap hung in his pocket like a guillotine blade, heavy and poised to fall with deadly force.

Rebuttoning his suit jacket, Romulus began the walk to his final destination.

*

The house loomed out of the dark like an abandoned ship adrift in the night, its sharp edges muddied by the thick silver fog enclosing it like semi-congealed moonlight. Tentacular tendrils of mist tapped at the black, lightless windows, nipping at the porch steps that Romulus slowly ascended.

The porch boards creaked as the detective stopped a foot from the tall front door, the old house announcing its expected visitor. He turned his left wrist, eyes flicking downward. 7:59.

A squeak to his right made the old man turn. The ancient porch swing drifted back and forth slightly in the wet breath of the surrounding fog, its rusty chains complaining.

Romulus realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled slowly through his nose. He had felt less nerves confronting a murderer and facing down a beautiful woman with a loaded gun. Something about this place. Its history.

No matter how old he became, some places would always make him feel like a child.

Romulus slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and plucked out the bottle cap as the glowing hand of his watch struck 8:00.

Not bothering to knock, the old man turned the knob he knew would be unlocked and stepped into a musty hallway nearly as dark as the night outside. A lamp on a small table halfway down the hall looked as though it hadn’t shone brightly since prohibition. Its feeble glow made the gilt-edged picture frames hanging on the walls gleam; their contents remained black, like family portraits of starless space.

Closing the door without a sound, Romulus strode down the hallway, an old Coke bottle cap held between the sweaty tips of his fingers. The silent house smelled stale. The warm, close air pushed against him as he walked, as if unused and none-too-pleased at being disturbed.

The hall opened into a dark living room, a tall armchair with a lamp crouched beside it facing the large windows that, in daylight, would give a peaceful view of the Squak Mountain forest. On the other side of the room from where Romulus stood, golden light shone from beneath a closed door.

His heart pounding, Romulus moved silently to the armchair facing away from him. He pulled another chair close and sat down, facing the person sitting in the chair diagonally.

The man who sat in the armchair was ancient, the gloom of the room making the deep wrinkles in his long face look more like deep scars from a hard-fought century of life. White hair bloomed from a spotted scalp like luminous fungi, falling over thin, yet broad shoulders and contrasting sharply with the impeccably tailored black suit the nonagenarian wore. His chest rose and fell slowly, and his eyes were closed, but Romulus knew they were as gray and sharp as his own.

“I’m here,” Romulus said softly, his mouth as dry as sandpaper. The older man’s eyelids fluttered open, rheumy eyes wandering for a moment before they focused on the skeletal detective sitting close by.

“So, you finally made it?” wheezed the man in the armchair, nodding slowly. Romulus copied the gesture.

“Yes. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long, sir,” rasped the detective penitently.

“Thought you had forgotten about us,” murmured the older man. The corner of his craggy mouth twitched downward ever so slightly.

“I have been busy,” explained Romulus, then held up the Coke bottle cap. “But I did have time to find this…I brought it for you, sir.”

“What is it?” asked the wizened old man, waving a hand impatiently. “Turn that light on, boy, it’s too dark in here.”

Romulus dutifully pulled the lamp’s cord, a flood of yellow light illuminating the two of them and the gleaming red bottle cap.

“Aaah,” sighed the man in the armchair, putting out a gnarled hand that Romulus placed the bottle cap in. The cloudy eyes suddenly flashed like mercury with sudden interest. “Classic Coke…1940, looks to me. Eh?”

“That’s what I thought, too,” Romulus agreed, a specter of a smile floating across his face.

“My, my…well, then…” The old man nodded and leaned forward, opening a drawer in the coffee table that sat before him and depositing the bottle cap inside. Before the drawer closed, Romulus saw dozens of different bottle caps gleam in the lamplight.

Looking back at the detective, the old man smiled. “I think such an addition to my collection more than makes up for your postponements. Thank you, Erik.”

“You’re welcome, Pa,” rasped Romulus, allowing his stiff posture to relax and leaning back in his chair as relief flooded through him.

Behind him, a door creaked as it opened. Romulus rose as he turned to see a silver-haired, petite woman exiting a brightly lit kitchen carrying a tray loaded with tea, mugs and home-made cookies.

“Here, let me,” the younger Mr. Romulus said. Striding forward, he took the tray from the old woman and laid it down in front of Mr. Romulus the elder.

“Thanks, darling,” sang his mother, her wrinkled face becoming more so as she smiled, standing on her toes to kiss him on the cheek. “It’s so good to see you. I told you he’d make it this time, didn’t I, Heinrich?”

 “I only remember what you said you’d do if he postponed again,” wheezed Heinrich Romulus, shaking his head as he poured himself a steaming mug of tea.

“Oh, hush,” chuckled Mrs. Romulus, then said, “Thanks, dear,” as Romulus pulled up another chair for her close to the family patriarch’s armchair.

“I noticed the porch swing’s chain is rusty, Ma,” the detective said as he sat down beside her. “I can fix it tomorrow.”

“Oh, would you? Thanks, darl—Erik Romulus, what on earth happened to your head?”

As the detective settled down in his own chair to explain his day’s work, he remembered what he thought his parents would have done if he had missed yet another visit.

They probably would have killed him.

THE END

Farewell Romulus! I will be seeing you again, as I enjoyed writing your story far too much to just play one day then throw away. Next time I think I’ll write you an entire novel, let you stretch your unusually long legs fully.

And as for you, dear snacker, I will

See you next story,

-Zossima