Letters from the Dead

[hazlogs]

Date: 11/1/02.

It's an anonymous bar in an anonymous part of town. A little early for
drinking, perhaps, but that's all right; the glass of scotch at Salem's
elbow isn't even touched. The halfmoon has a table to himself, well in back,
and is methodically hand-rolling a cigarette.

An unassuming man enters the bar, looking rather out of place - even if only
in behaviour. And Jack's attention at least may be drawn to him in that he
scans the bar quickly before taking a deep breath - to steel himself? - and
approaches the Walker. Neither short nor tall, stocky nor slim, the stranger
wears a cheap, dull, blue-grey suit, and bland, plain dark-grey tie. The
features seem perhaps familiar. Not quite gaunt, but close; the angles of
the cheekbones and jaw denote a distinctly slavic background. The
closely-trimmed beard and moustache, plus thick, short black hair reinforce
the thought.

Salem pauses in rolling the cigarette to watch the suit walk toward his
table, and the mis-matched eyes narrow slightly as he searches his memory to
match the features with a name, or at least a place. A frown tugs at the
corners of his mouth; without looking away, he licks the glue to seal the
smoke and snips off the shaggy ends of tobacco with his fingernails.

Closer, it's easier to get a look at the depths of the various lines and the
tautness of the skin over the man's face. Probably in his forties, with
steel blue eyes. There is, however, only a trace of that tell-tale Serbian
accent in his tight voice when he draws close enough to address Salem in
relative privacy. "Do forgive the interruption, sir, but am I addressing Mr.
Jack Salem?" A briefcase by one side is held in a white-knuckled grip. He's
plainly not happy about being here, but determined not to show it.

The Walker regards the man for a long two seconds before answering with a
curt, "You are." The pinch of tobacco off the ends of the cigarette join the
rest in the pouch. "Can I help you?" He puts the cigarette in his mouth and
lights it with a cardboard match.

"Indeed," the stranger confrims quickly, inclining his head. "My name is
Josef Peterson. I am an associate of a certain Mr. Russell Stevenson, whom I
believe you know as - indeed preferred to be referred to as - John Smith.
Today's date may not have any overt significance to you, but it has been
arranged.. that is, I have been instructed to enquire of you as to Mr.
Stevenson's health." He clears his throat nervously, and the carefully
neutral look in his eyes betrays a bare hint of worried anticipation.

Salem shakes the match out, his gaze fixed on the other man with an
intensity that borders on the feral. "I see," he says, after a moment. He
nods toward the chair opposite him and leans back in his own, his eyes never
wavering. "Sit."

Peterson clears his throat again, and his eyes have to flick away from the
Garou's. A certain strain shows in his voice. "This does not need to be a
long and involved affair, Mr. Salem, a simple synopsis would suffice..." He
sits, anyway, but very uncomfortably.

"Smith is dead," states the beast in human flesh, barely half a second after
Peterson gets the last word out. His voice is cold, curt, ruthlessly
_final_.

There's a few moments when the fear is confirmed, and the other man nods a
few times to himself, eyes on the table. No real emotion save... fear? "You
have proof?" he enquires with an arched eyebrow.

"Eyewitnesses," Salem says in that same cold, flat tone. He inhales deeply
on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out through his nostrils like a human
dragon. "The body is, so far, unrecovered."

Peterson breathes out slowly, seemingly undistressed by the smoke, but more
the presence of the Walker. "Then, in that case... the late Mr. Stevenson
left... instructions. Regarding his will, and messages to be delivered in
the event of his death. There are numerous stipulations provided, and I must
enquire as to who was responsible for his death."

Salem studies the other man for a moment before saying, in fluent Serbian,
"The details are classified. In brief, hostile forces. He died in the line
of duty." The predatory gaze watches Peterson's face carefully.

The human closes his eyes for a moment, mustering determination, then looks
into Salem's eyes. "Please don't do that here," he murmurs quietly, in
English. "And before I can properly manage the affairs of his passing, I do
need to know if his death was brought about by either Russians, Chinese,
French, African, or South American criminals." He swallows. "You must
understand that Mr. Stevenson had many enemies."

Salem's mouth tightens. "No, no, no, no and no," he answers. "His death came
from quite another quarter." He taps ash off the end of the cigarette and
takes in another lungful of smoke.

"As he mentioned it would." Peterson eyes the table again. "Very well. The
following documents were instructed to be delivered into your hands for
management and distribution in the event of his death..." The lawyer opens
the briefcase and pulls out - rather surpisingly perhaps - a large, wooden
box. There's just about nothing else in the briefcase. Nothing else would
/fit/. The box is of a dark stained wood, with numerous intricate designs
carved into it. Leaves and vines, with no particular pattern to them, save
symmetry. Polished and glossy, it's quite the work of art, given the sheer
amount of minute detail in the carving. "Many of which are here. Other items
have been... delivered into my safekeeping to be released upon certain dates
in the future, and events in the life of what he referred to as his 'adopted
family'." The box is placed on the table and slid gently towards Salem.

Salem arches a brow. Finally, his gaze shifts away from the other man,
releasing him from that inhuman, vicious intensity, and moves to the box. He
studies it for a moment, not making a move to touch it. Yet. All too soon,
those eyes -- one burning, one dead -- move back to Peterson. "Is there a
key?"

The lawyer has to take another deep breath - he's almost on the edge of
trembling. "Perhaps this may help," he replies stiffly, reaching into an
inner jacket pocket and withdrawing a rather worn-looking plain letter
envelope. He passes it to Salem. "I was never to examine the contents of the
box, and the key is a matter for your 'family'."

Jack Salem sets the cigarette to dangling between his lips, the gesture too
automatic and unthinking to be new to him, and takes the envelope, examining
its exterior and its heft. "Mm. Is there anything else?" Again, his eyes are
on the hapless lawyer.

"Perhaps you should read, first," Peterson murmurs, eyes on the table.
Distinctly uncomfortable. "He did say your people may have questions that
I'm to attempt to answer as best I can, but apart from the other documents
in my possession and the matter of a funeral and memorial, there is little
else we should have to do with each other." Clearing his throat, the lawyer
adds lowly, "He wrote often, you know. And sealed the documents in that box.
He's been doing it for the fifteen months or more, sometimes more frequently
than our pre-arranged meetings."

"Did he." The words drop like stones into a lake shrouded by fog. Quiet.
Undramatic. He takes a pocket knife out from inside the massive black coat;
the blade is short but gleams with a keen, clean sharpness, and it slices
the envelope open with brisk efficiency.

The lawyer starts to say, "That's not necess--" Then sighs softly. "That
particular letter was addressed to myself. It contained brief instructions
regarding the handling of the box. I thought it may lend you some insight."
He points at the seal. "I've opened it before... I simply chose to leave it
close neatly." There's an air about the man that suggests he does /most/
things neatly.

There's a flash of sharp, cold irritation in the Garou's eyes as they flick
back to Peterson, and his mouth tightens with displeasure. He fixes a stare
on the lawyer, a good deal nastier than the halfmoon's usual manner in
dealing with humans, the eggshell courtesy.

Terrified, the man keeps his eyes on the safe neutrality of the table. "The
box, its contents, and everything about it is entirely your affair. I do
believe our business is complete for the day, Mr. Salem." Fumbling hurriedly
around in his jacket, he produces a business card and lets it flit to the
table as he rises. "Should you have questions."

The Garou says nothing, though one hand closes down over the business card
and makes it disappear. The cigarette smolders in his mouth, a thin trail of
smoke rising to join the gray clouds eddying about the slowly moving ceiling
fans.

With that, the lawyer retreats - in his haste, he's forgotten to close the
briefase up properly and it flops open clumsily, to the detriment of his
near-broken composure. Eyes flashing with frustration, the older man claps
the case closed, runs a hand over his short-cropped hair, and departs
quickly.

The mis-matched eyes follow the lawyer's hasty retreat, then turn to scan
slowly over the interior of the shabby bar. The other patrons are few
enough, and all are studiously not looking his way. Satisfied with this, he
examines the contents of the envelope.

The letter's quite simple, handwritten ink on blank paper. The handwriting's
John's, and each words is written in a very careful, deliberate, neat
script. And there's not much of it.

"Josef, this box contains the messages, memories, and advice I have left for
my family and friends. There are instructions for some of them, inside, but
nothing legally binding. There is nothing in regard to you inside, or for
you to read. Opening it and reading any of the contents will invalidate your
element of plausible deniability, and neither of us want that."

The next part has a line through the word 'Rina', replaced with 'Jack Salem'
above it. "If Jack Salem is still alive, please deliver this into his
safekeeping. There is no key in their possession. One of my family should be
able to open the lock, anyway. If the people I have told you are trusted are
dead or unavailable, please find Mel. This will require that you visit
either the Rat and Raven, nearby bars, or the Women's Shelter and enquire
for her as 'Kitty'; I'm sure you'll be in no danger."

A few lines of empty space down, and the letter finishes, "I thank you
sincerely for your faithful and continued service. I hope your family are
well and remain well - and that you appreciate them. Your debt shall be
discharged soon; I hope the burden has not been too troublesome.

Russell Stevenson."

And a signature.

Salem lingers over the letter for long minutes, much longer than is
necessary to read it through once, or even twice. Feeling old, dragged down
by the planet's pull, his flesh too damned _heavy_. The cigarette burns in
his mouth, forgotten.

Finally, he folds the letter, putting it back in its envelope and tucking it
carefully away into his coat. Taking the cigarette from his lips, he taps
off the excess ash, takes another drag, and then chases it with the entire
contents of the shot glass. Only then does his study turn to the box; he
pulls it closer, a hand on either side of it, thumbs stroking at the carved
wood of its surface.

[...]

Salem finishes his cigarette and has another scotch. Then, decisively, he
pushes his chair back and walks out of the bar with the box under his arm,
to the rust-orange car parked outside. Lacking a tribemate or trusted
individual with the appropriate Gaia-magic, the halfmoon sets off in search
of Mel instead.