A young moleman drove them away from the scene of the ambush in a ground cruiser of the Moab Surete. They headed west through the Halls of Industry.
“Where are we headed sir?”
“Where are you parked Jack?” Gumshoe straightened his harness.
“We’re under the mall, opposite the Moulin. You can drop us off at the Yard and we can walk. It’s just a couple of blocks.”
“You heard the man, son, just drop us in front of Nodlon Yard.”
“Yes sir.” The policeman engaged the autopilot, and they rolled towards downtown Nodlon.
Gumshoe pinched his nose bridge, and rubbed his temples. “For the first time, I can honestly say that was a riot.” Leaning back, he closed his eyes.
Opening his tablet, Shotgun continued working.
In the cramped confines of the cruiser’s back seat, there was little room for his gangly legs. Gumshoe had pulled the front seat forward, but his knees still pressed the back.
Jack stretched his neck and shut his eyes. He shifted uncomfortably, and tried to take a nap.
This was no ordinary case. In the case of the Old Mammy, the old woman had passed away of natural causes, and he only had to clear her suspicious nephew. They had located the victim alive and well in the case of the Crooked Cousin, and the fellow spent some time in the Yard’s jail for insurance fraud.
But he had never had a case like this. Capricorns drawn in blood, a maiden floating in a lake, a black dwarf dressed up as a warlock, and a professional woman ripped to pieces by a monster, and now black dwarves ambushed them with a lightning cannon, what did it mean?
He swallowed and tried to relax. Soon, he and Shotgun would be cruising home in his own flyer. He could try to make sense of it all over a cup of tea.
The cruiser bounced gently over drainage dips. It swayed as it followed the curving tunnels through the Halls of Industry.