A Confession For Persephone 04

Now Herstal was a little suspicious that they might have underestimated Martin Jones a little from the beginning. After all, he had at least raised a daughter who could rob a bank; he himself was probably not far behind.

He followed Jones's direction and changed the location of the transaction. The car drove all the way to a more remote stretch of road – Hardy's officers must still be following him, but this might cause them to panic[1].

[1] 手忙脚乱, idiom, lit. hands are busy and legs are messy. Panicked, unorganized.

The blurred river of lights outside the car window gradually morphed into darker colors. Under Jones' instructions, he drove to a dark, narrow alley, dimly lit by the streetlamps; only the vague shadow of the building before him was visible.

Herstal surveyed the dimness, feeling a sense of foreboding. Then, Jones said over the phone, "Drive the car into there, jump out the sunroof and keep walking forward."

– Quite a smart move, as this was likely the only driveway to Jones' chosen location; the police cars that followed him after he drove into there were all stuck outside the alley. The alley was dark, so it was unclear how many buildings there were. If he entered one of them, Hardy and his officers would have to spend a lot of time searching for him.

Not to mention the fact that the man had just instructed him to throw away his tracker; damn it.

Herstal sighed silently in his mind, and did as instructed to drive the car into the narrow alley. Jones had quite the accurate estimation; after driving the car into the alley, the rest of the space surrounding it was too narrow to open the doors. Fortunately, he was driving the car provided by the police department, rather than his own car; his own car didn't even have a sunroof.

Whatever Herstal was thinking in his mind, it didn't show on his face. He dragged the backpack with the money from the back seat of the car, which contained old banknotes with no serial numbers. This seemed so much like a Hollywood old style kidnapping case; of course he scoffed[2] at that.

[2] 嗤之以鼻, to turn up one's nose at something, feeling disdain towards something.

He climbed out of the sunroof with the backpack in tow, stepped on the car hood and jumped out of the car. The hollow sound echoed disturbingly in the silence; somewhere in the darkness, perhaps a predator of the common definition was lurking. Towards the darkness, he lifted the corner of his mouth, revealing a razor-sharp smile.

His figure was quickly swallowed by the darkness.

When Albarino pulled up, this was what he saw:

The police cars all blocked the entrance to the alley, allowing the red and blue police lights to flash like crazy. Officer Hardy was standing in front of a car, with a map on top of its trunk, looking at it and using the radio to command the teams to surround the area.

Hardy's voice was agitated and exasperated[3]. As Albarino went over, Hardy looked up at him like a wary carnivore, then suddenly asked, "Did you just drink and drive?"

[3]气急败坏, lit. losing composure, out of breath; to describe someone being battered in a difficult situation due to panic.

Yes, Herstal must have mentioned that he was at the bar named "I quit" with Albarino and Olga before he went to the police station. Albarino smiled at Hardy without feeling any mental pressure at all: "That's not the most important thing now, is it? Or do you want to give me a ticket now?"

Hardy let out an angry sound from his nose. It seemed that although he was reluctant, he had to admit that Albarino was actually right.

However, he did not know that, actually, the most important thing wasn't whether Albarino did or did not drink and drive. The most important thing was actually a body wrapped in plastic in the trunk of Albarino's car, who was the assistant of the murder victim that caused him trouble some time ago. The man's throat was slit cleanly, blood slowly dripping on top of the plastic sheet. No one had the ability to see things from such a big picture; after all, they were not God himself.

If Officer Hardy had known, many things would not have developed as they did in the end.

"You guys can't find him? He has a tracker on him, right?" Albarino asked, "Please tell me he does have a tracker on him."

Hardy seemed to be boiling with anger[4]: "We did have a tracker on him, but he threw it away following the instructions of that bastard Jones. It was due to the group of officers in charge of tailing him that we were able to even follow him here. As for where the hell he went–" he pointed deep into the dark alley, where there was a large expanse of buildings, "we'll have to search one by one now."

[4] 怒发冲冠, idiom lit. hair standing up in anger, tips off one's hat, meaning seething in anger

"Really good counter-surveillance skills." Albarino commented without emotion.

He watched Hardy, as he irritably sent all the teams out to search for them. They all understood that time was ticking down; for every second passed, lives could be lost. They stood in the darkness for a long time, and then–

They heard a sharp sound pierce the darkness.

Hardy jerked upright and looked in that direction, frightened: "Was that a gunshot?"

A few minutes earlier.

Herstal was sure he had entered an abandoned factory: the floor was covered with dust and many unknown coarse particles, probably the remains of rust. As far as the eye could see, there were rusted pipes crossed over each other, piles of apparatus for unknown purposes, and dusty old newspapers and plastics.

When he stepped across the floor, he heard the sound of some small animal running over to the corner. Martin Jones stood in the middle of the darkness; he could only see the vague outline of his figure by the light of the street lamp leaking in from outside.

He held the gun in his hand, alertly facing against Herstal, his fingers trembling from heavy drinking or excessive nervousness.

"Put your hands up." The man said, his voice coarse and shaky.

Herstal had no choice. He released his grasp, the backpack in his hand falling heavily to the ground, stirring up a layer of dust. The movement of the hem of his shirt as he raised his hand was enough to prove to the other man that he was not carrying a pistol. Herstal's gaze went past the man's body to see the little girl indeed: tied to a rusty length of pipe, face covered in tears, but she did appear to be alive.

He wasn't sure if he should act like he had breathed out a sigh of relief; it was probably human nature to have this kind of reaction at this kind of moment.

"I would advise you not to do that," Herstal spoke in a deep voice, with the tone he used to deal with the most stubborn of clients, "your choice is irrational."

"Ha?!" Jones made such a shrill sound, the gun still shaking and pointing at his chest, "Then, what do you think is rational?"

"That car won't stop the police for long. Even if I drop the tracker, they'll come soon enough. You are well aware of this," Herstal said, still holding his hands up steadily, his back straight, looking graceful even as he made the gesture. Yet, the darkness blurred his expression, or Jones would have inevitably seen the unavoidable flicker of disdain on his face. "If you took this ransom and escaped, things would have been even more troublesome– Davis is only seriously wounded, but not yet dead. Yet, if you flee with the money, or even killed me before escaping, you would have to face more than just the same kind of charges as before."

He gazed into the other man's eyes, which were still crazy, timid eyes that made him feel insipid.

"Martin," Herstal laced his voice with the right amount of enticement, "You can plead not guilty by discontinuing your crimes."

"Do you think I can turn back!" Jones shouted, "What else could I get?! My daughter is dead!"

– Herstal suspected that if that was what Jones actually thought, he would have just killed Davis' daughter instead of trying to trade the girl for ransom. Bluntly put, he still wanted the money.

But reason told Herstal that pointing this out now would not benefit his life at all, so he just watched the other man calmly in the dark. He said tentatively, "Jones ..."

"You don't have to say anything," the other man's voice went cold, "it's over. Kick that backpack over here."

Thus, Herstal's fate was probably sealed: he had no doubt that after he kicked the backpack over, this man would check the money inside to see if there was any problem with it, then kill him and the girl without hesitation. If they were fortunate, Hardy and the others would arrive before that happened; if they were unfortunate, they would only see his dead corpse slowly cooling on the ground.

Herstal was silent for two seconds, then obediently kicked his backpack in Jones' direction. But, perhaps it was because the ground was dusty and too rough, or because Herstal had misjudged the weight of the backpack; instead of being kicked to near Jones' feet, it came to an embarrassing stop between the two of them.

Jones was silent for two seconds, then he cursed under his breath.

He could only point his gun at Herstal with one hand, and slowly walked up to grab the backpack. His experience in committing crime was probably less than that of his daughter who robbed a bank, but the insatiable greed down to their bones was probably the same.

Herstal watched calmly as he slowly, slowly bent down to flip the backpack to the right angle, his trembling fingers unzipped it; the backpack was filled with banknotes without serial numbers. He had the patience to wait for that one and only moment – the moment when Jones had no option but to lower his head to check the bills.

Before Jones ensured that the money had no problem, he wouldn't kill Herstal; this was his weakness.

The gun was still pointed straight ahead, Jones lowered his head –

Herstal lunged forward like a panther; the other man looked up the moment he heard the sound, with panic and anger in his eyes, one hand still on the zipper of his backpack.

A gunshot rang out.

Frantic muttering spilled out from Hardy's lips; it was probably all inappropriate cursing. He used the radio to allocate the officers to rush over to the location where the gun went off, while he himself jumped over the car blocking the alley, then jumped to the other side of the alley using the roof of the car.

Then he turned back to Albarino and shouted, "Al, you just wait here along with the other officers. Don't run around all over the place!"

He spoke like he was talking to a primary school student on his first trip to the supermarket, but he couldn't be fully blamed.

Albarino – with his warm[5] smile and flirtatious tone, and his less than disciplined demeanor, in some ways seemed like a likeable, novice[6] college graduate; the type who would be cheated out of his entire fortune by a young bimbo in an alleyway.

[5]热情洋溢, idiom, lit. overflowing with enthusiasm, meaning full of warmth

[6]初出茅庐, idiom, lit. venturing from the hut for the first time, meaning young and inexperienced

So some of the older officers in the police department would unavoidably switch to this worried tone when they were at the scene of a dangerous crime with him; Officer Hardy was no exception.

Albarino returned a warm, but not unworried smile to the other man, watching his figure dive headlong into the unknown darkness.

Now, there were several police cars behind Albarino, and the tense officers were stationed there; unnecessarily, as if they were really worried that Jones might emerge from this alleyway entrance. In fact, Albarino had also looked at the map, and this road was the only driveway into the abandoned factory area behind them; if he were Jones, he would also choose to leave on foot.

In short, the officers were either waiting for an opportunity or listening intently to their radios, and none of them paid too much attention to Albarino. He retreated silently into the long darkness cast by the fence, then quickly headed in the direction of the gunshot– he could definitely find another door into the factory area, as he had pretty much memorized the contents of that map.

He definitely had to see if Herstal Armalight would be killed by the tasteless amateur kidnapper or not; that was the part which mattered the most to him now.

The muzzle of Jones' gun fiercely shook due to shock, so that the bullet didn't hit Herstal's torso. Herstal felt a scorching wind graze his thigh, then a burst of flaming pain, advantageously dulled by adrenaline – the bullet grazed his left leg, leaving a slash wound which wasn't too deep. There wasn't much pain now, but later it would hurt like hell.

Of course, provided that he can survive till "later".

In the meantime, he had already rushed in front of Jones, knocking him violently to the ground.

The other swore out loud. At the same time, the backpack full of banknotes was knocked over; he could feel the money fall to the ground, slipping up those who stepped on it. The two of them landed into a heap, his hand forcefully grasping Jones' wrist, twisting the muzzle of the gun as far as he could in the other direction–

Bang! Another gunshot rang out.

The bullet missed and flew up to the ceiling; Herstal's head was ringing from the loud shock. The good thing was that at least Hardy's men would surely be able to follow the sound of the gunshot and find where they were soon.

This, too, was the downside: there was little room left for him to do as he pleased.

He knocked the gun out of his opponent's hand ferociously, kicking it away with his uninjured leg during the scuffle, until he heard the clear sound of it hitting something metal. Jones let out a desperate cry of rage; this was completely useless.

His blood was boiling beneath his skin, wrecking havoc with an extremely strong desire to stab the man in front of him through the throat. Herstal's hands were clenched so strongly around Jones' neck that he could hear low, hissing gasps emitting from his throat. This idiot's eyes finally widened in fear, as if realizing what kind of predator he was facing against only in hindsight.

For Herstal, he was imagining the touch of the knife in his mind, the faint sound of blood gurgling out as the sharp blade stabbed into the abdomen and churned up the innards. Beneath the scalding mask, gradually being torn apart, he almost calmly tightened his fingers, controlling the strength and counting the time. Sooner or later Hardy would arrive, and until he did, he could enjoy himself for as long as he could still tolerate.

Because they were wrestling in defense of their respective lives – no one could blame them for that.

Herstal listened as the sound of the airflow entering into the other's windpipe grew fainter and fainter, the other's pulse pounding frantically and recklessly between his fingers. If he pushed hard enough or fast enough, the other man would soon go into shock, but alas, it couldn't be today.

"WLPD! Hands in the air!!!"

Herstal abruptly released his hands, the corners of his mouth lifting up madly and coldly in the darkness.

Jones, who had managed to catch his breath with great difficulty, tremblingly shoved him off his body; of course Herstal complied. A large group of officers rushed past him and ran to Jones who staggered to his feet, still trying to escape despite being dazed from lack of oxygen. At the same time, another group went to rescue the little girl who was crying her eyes out until she was almost out of breath.

Herstal stood up, stumbling due to the gradual return of pain in his legs. The officer beside him noticed; he absentmindedly listened to the other say something like "wounded" "ambulance" and didn't pay much attention – he looked in front of him; Jones was handcuffed by some officers on the ground, but his eyes were still fixed on his direction. In the man's eyes, there was a kind of faint, unbelievable horror. At times, he felt satisfied by such expressions in the eyes of the victims.

At the same moment, a hand grabbed his elbow.

Herstal turned back and said in an unshocked tone, "Albarino."

The forensic pathologist looked at him with a smile. He told the other officers, "I'll take him to the ambulance", while half lending an arm to support him, half forcing him to walk forward. The young man whispered in his ear: "Bart won't let me in. I snuck in; better get out before he finds out I'm at the scene."

At that moment, Hardy was standing in the distance near the little girl, one arm half-circling protectively around the little girl's shoulders, apparently calling Davis's wife. Herstal also had no intention of getting involved over there, so he just followed Albarino's lead forward, leaving a trail of dripping blood on the ground.

Indeed, Albarino was a guy who surpassed his expectations at all times, because as soon as they both left, the other skillfully made a move with his hands and slammed him against the rough factory wall.

Had Herstal's leg pain not finally returned slowly when the adrenaline gradually subsided, he wouldn't have humiliatingly succumbed after just one stumble. Albarino looked at him in the dim darkness with a strange smile on his face as he said, in a tone that seemed genuinely pleased, "You're hurt."

"Your powers of observation are truly remarkable, Dr. Bacchus." Herstal replied mockingly.

Albarino blinked, the grin on his face widened, and then – finally, to Herstal's surprise – the lunatic let go of his shoulder, moved one step back, and knelt before him.

Albarino's fingers were cold, landing with a kind of pure curiosity onto the wound in his leg; his index finger rubbing testingly over the bullet-torn edges, the other fingers steadily landing onto his suit pants.

Herstal gave out a low hiss.

"You're really bleeding." Albarino said in a contemplative tone of statement.

"As much as it may disappoint you, I'm a human." Herstal replied pointedly, aware of the rumor that some notorious mob lawyer, after peeling back his human skin, was actually a programmed robot or something.

Albarino let out a low chuckle as he looked up at Herstal, his eyes a bright green, just like the light of fireflies. "You're so boring, Herstal. Would you be a little more surprised if I unzipped your pant zippers with my teeth right now?"

"Then we'll have to get back to the issue of interpersonal distance. I thought you didn't like that subject," was Herstal's reply.

Albarino still smiled, his fingers brushing gently over the edge of the wound, bringing a searing, needle-like pain. This must have violated some kind of medical guideline.

Albraino still took his time[7]. The factory was a complete mess inside, so the officers weren't coming out any time soon, but Herstal still felt irritable.

[7]不慌不忙, calm and unhurried

He frowned and said, "Dr. Bacchus–"

"Did you want to choke him to death just now?" Albarino suddenly asked.

"What?"

The young man's thick, curled eyelashes hung down for a moment, then his eyes lifted again, infused with a little too deliberate feeling of enticement. Yet he didn't seem to be enticing a possible lover, but a gigantic monster of some sort.

His voice was softer again: "When your fingers were choking him – you deliberately went easy on the pressure so that you could unnecessarily stretch it out; very subtle calculation. When you were doing so, I could see a sort of desire in you – at that moment, were you imagining choking him to death?"

"The police wouldn't think so." Herstal replied, his face seemingly covered in a seamlessly woven mask. His expression had gotten colder; was it because this question had offended him?

"Indeed, they would say it was self-defense. Besides, Jones isn't dead." Albarino said absentmindedly, his index finger pressed against the edge of the wound and poked in slightly as if by accident. Blood began to trickle down his finger; it must have hurt like hell, but Herstal just tensed his muscles under Albraino's finger, not making a sound.

Albarino let go of his leg, brushing his thumb slightly over the bit of blood on his index finger. His voice was still unconcerned, his words drowning in excessive amusement: "When you imagine killing him, do you get hard?"

"That's rude, Dr. Bacchus." Herstal answered coldly and stiffly.

"Indeed." Albarino agreed, lightly grasping Herstal's left ankle, fingers feeling around to touch something hard hidden under the cover of his suit pant leg. Then he let go at once, standing up immediately.

Herstal glared at him with something in his eyes which could almost be depicted as anger.

"Sure enough, you would tie a scabbard to your left foot." Albarino said, not looking up, still surveying the smear of blood that was drying on his fingertips. "You're left-handed, right?"

Herstal's face was submerged in darkness; all of a sudden, his expression could nearly be seen as terrifying. He said quietly, "Albarino."

"All right, all right. Let's go dress the wound." Albarino replied lightly. Oddly, the way he said that didn't make it sound like a compromise. "It exposes too much of oneself."

Author's notes

1. Renunciation (T/N: discontinuance of a crime)

Per U.S. Model Penal Code 5.01(4): "Renunciation of Criminal Purpose. When the actor's conduct would otherwise constitute an attempt under Subsection (1)(b) or (1)(c) of this Section, it is an affirmative defense that he abandoned his effort to commit the crime or otherwise prevented its commission, under circumstances manifesting a complete and voluntary renunciation of his criminal purpose. The establishment of such defense does not, however, affect the liability of an accomplice who did not join in such abandonment or prevention."

However, in common law, there is a wide range of opinions as to whether or not renunciation is a defense. If the legislation does not specify whether or not renunciation is a defense, a defense of renunciation is rarely successful.

In short, although some states do put the criminal suspension in the exoneration section to discuss (for example, New York State), in practice it is very difficult to be successful in winning the case. In addition, even if the kidnapping part can barely be considered renunciation, Jones also actually shot Davis.

Therefore, to put it simply, Herstal was lying to Jones.