Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1) by Robert III (best books for 7th graders .txt) 📕

changed. The bright afternoon sun evaporated in the WIRE projection, and the light and shadows were replaced with a dark, chilly night. She shivered and looked behind her. The dark line of night separated her from the reality of bright sunshine. It was a bit disorientating, but she wasn’t here to investigate technology. She stepped closer to the pub and reached into a pocket for her pad and pencil— where were they? Did she drop them? She stopped and looked behind. Nothing but footsteps lay in the dirt. Were they on her dresser? She distinctly remembered placing them in her pocket this morning. Then she remembered and cursed under her breath.

Someone bumped into me. A pickpocket. Who would do such a thing?

She chewed the inside of her cheek and blinked. Someone cleared their throat, and she looked up at the waiting judges. She was already under immense pressure from all sides. How would she be able to think clearly and rationally? She clenched her fist and let out a loud sigh.

The men turned at the noise, but she ignored them. When her eyes spotted what lay on the wooden porch, fear and apprehension stole her breath. It wasn’t too late to turn tail and leave. But she knew this was her opportunity, and she wasn’t going to throw it away.

A severed head lay in a pool of blood on the porch. The shock of the mess was striking. Ugly. Gory.

She swallowed to protect her composure and her eyes looked down. Her foot tapped the wooden slats. They felt and sounded real. Looking around brought a surreal sensation. The air smelled like oil from lanterns, dust from the rafters, and the pungent odor of gobs of blood. Pulling out a handkerchief, she pressed it up to her mouth and nose, doing her best to ward off the crushing odor.

A headless, obese body, dressed in a three-piece white suit and lying face down, blocked the entrance. He appeared to have fallen trying to exit the pub’s door. Small chunks of flesh and congealed blood covered the white coat’s collar and shoulders. She looked at the doorframe and found blood spatter, most of it dried, but some streaks still carried a dull chocolate-red sheen. Her eyes wandered over the seemingly random patterns, the disarray of the essential fluids of life.

She stepped inside the pub and sought answers to a single obvious riddle. How had this happened? Yes, he’d lost his head, but how? More than likely from a long sword or a swift stroke of an axe. But why couldn’t anyone else figure this out? Why was this unsolvable? This was her test to see if she belonged with them or not.

Long, bloody flecks marked the interior walls adjoining the doorway on the left and right sides, but not above. She looked along the lower portions of the walls but found nothing useful.

She turned aside to interview the crowd. “Did anyone see anything?” she asked, searching the faces for a response. The judges outside listened through speakers and watched her work as though the walls didn’t exist.

“There were a lot of people, but I saw what happened,” a younger man answered.

“Thank you. Let’s step over here, and I’ll take your statement.” She reached into her pocket for the notepad and let out a quiet curse. There would be no note-taking today. “Can you tell me your name, please?”

“John Smith,” he said.

“And what did you see, Mr. Smith?”

“The bloke was sitting at a table inside there,” he said.

“Can you show me?” she asked.

He pointed at the table. A chair lay on the floor. “As I said, he was sitting right there, having a drink by himself, when he made a noise.”

“By himself? Are you sure of that?” She nodded to another drink opposite where the dead man had sat.

“Uh, pretty sure he was by himself,” he said. He shifted his eyes.

She looked at the table and decided it wasn’t worth pursuing. She was on the clock, and time was a fickle construct that waited for no one.

“You said this gentleman made a noise. What kind of noise?” she asked.

“Kind of like ...” He looked at the others before continuing. “He made a noise like this: Ergh!” He grabbed the back of his head and closed his eyes.

“Did he grab his head just like you did?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he continued. “He grabbed the back of his head and got up out of his chair, walked up to the door and—pop! His head came right off.”

“Came right off?”

“Came right off, and there he is.” He pointed at the body.

“And no one touched him? No one came near him?”

“No. Everyone stayed away because of his weird sounds.”

“Did anyone strike him or throw something at him?”

“No, ma’am.”

“And his name?”

“Trevin something or other. Came in here frequently, he did.”

“Trevin,” she said. “What line of work was he in?”

The man shrugged.

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” she said. “Did anyone see differently?” No one answered. “Then I ask that everyone step away from the crime scene, please and thank you.”

The men stepped away and watched her. She glanced at the upstairs windows. The constable supervisor sat and chewed the stub of his cigar.

Coyle put her hands on her hips and chewed her lip, ticking off the facts inside her head: a man sits in a pub, has a drink with someone, grabs his neck, walks to the exit. His head comes off. And she was supposed to solve this. She rubbed the bridge of her nose and squeezed her eyes shut. How did this man’s head just—pop off? Now she understood the previous investigations dilemma.

The more obvious fact was that the Academy had piled obstacles in front of her progress. They didn’t want her to get the position of detective. They didn’t want her to succeed. Which was why they gave her the unsolvable crime. They wanted to prove a woman couldn’t do men’s work.

I’ve got to prove them wrong.

Every crime was solvable. One couldn’t rely on evidence found in the light. You