"So how is this partnership suppose to work? Am I just suppose to stay silent the whole time and let Clyde talk with his...apparition?"
"You've already received your orders through the private case notes, and I expect you to follow them to the letter. Clyde Barker is to operate on his own, and you are to observe his behavior and take notes of his newfound methods. If you feel like you're paddling in circles, then interfere with your own voice."
"I don't want to feel useless the whole time. Give me something to do while he goes out and does our job by himself."
"Alright, alright already! Here, take this company card and do some shopping. I'm sure you'll find the right disguise for this occasion."
"Oh goody, a shopping spree! That oughta take my mind off of my best friend's state of sanity slowly deteriorating! Sometimes you can be so insensitive, Carlotta, you weren't always like this."
"I could do without the sarcasm, Troy. Now get going, Barry's already waiting for you two."
Devils Lake, North Dakota
Ah, Devils Lake! It just sounds evil, doesn't it? Actually, it's a pretty nice, quiet place with friendly people and a wholesome community, but you know that's not why we were called here. It's always the small towns that get the weirdest calls. As I've stated already, the people here have hearts of gold, always packing the purest of intentions, so when these good people have decided to go on a recent rampage of felony crimes, it raises something much hotter than a red flag.
Our unit has seen something like this a long time ago, so I've got a few theories in my head about the matter already; my strongest one being a chemical imbalance in the brain or brainwashing as others call it, but we're not paid to make educated guesses. On the flight over here, I was still able to talk to Clyde. I pitched him my ideas, and surprisingly he didn't shoot 'em down and call me an idiot. I want to follow my own leads, considering the special circumstances Clyde was unknowingly put under, but it's best for me to just make sure he's safe and record his status. I want to be able to do something if he starts to experience signs of pain or discomfort.
"Alright," I say to the devilishly handsome fox in the mirror, "we're gonna let Clyde go, and we're not going to worry about him either." I finish up with my casual winter wear, only needing good snow boots to fully complete my new outfit.
"Hey, that's not a bad place to start looking," Clyde says suddenly. There's no context to that sentence, meaning that Fake Troy must've given him a clue. I look at him through the mirror's reflection as he stands up from the motel bed and checks his watch. "We can check in on the place right now, but they close early on Sunday. We have to move!"
I lightly stroke my hair with my fingers, going for a specific style for my bangs, but Clyde's massive fist wraps around my wrist and tugs me away from the mirror. He wastes no time throwing the door open and pulling me down the cold metal stairs that lead to the motel parking lot.
"Whoa," I cry, "heel boy! You're taking me out barefoot in 7-degree weather!"
"You should've already been fully dressed by now! Live with it!" The ground's pointy rocks jab at the bottom of my soles, and the freezing temperatures cause me to lose feeling in my toes. We're already off to a bad start, Clyde isn't supposed to force me to join him.
"At least let me get a piggyback ride!" He ignores me. We locate the company car and he hops into the driver's seat while I awkwardly walk around to the passenger side. The inside of the car wasn't much warmer, but Clyde was nice enough to turn the heater up and direct it to the bottom, warming my frozen flesh back to a healthy temperature.
"Was leaving my boots really necessary?" I ask.
"Hey, your fault. You should've been ready."
"You do realize all the pampering I did to them is gonna go to waste!"
He laughs, "You try too hard, Troy."
*** *** ***
Devils Lake Printing Press
The newspaper press? How in the world is this a good place to start looking!? I want to ask so badly, but that would compromise Clyde's condition. He pulls the car into the visitor's parking lot and turns off the engine. The sweet wrappings of hot air leave my feet, and I'm left with the harsh cold as I accompanied Clyde to the front door.
"At least some socks would've been nice," I mumble to myself. He doesn't hear me as he walks to the glass doors of the building and pulls it open for me.
"Ladies first," he says, prompting me to switch to my woman's voice for this engagement of contacts.
I clear my throat as we approach a single oakwood desk covered in neat, organized files and paperwork. A small woman was sitting behind the colossal stacks, jotting things down on one paper, and stamping another. She's an elderly human somewhere around the ages of late fifties.
I'm not entirely sure what Clyde wants me to say, so I keep dropping hints on him that he should do the talking. He never picks them up, leaving me to smile shyly at her and rack my brain for a topic.
"Hi," I say, my pearly-whites shining sweetly, "are you the one to talk to about...?" Okay, I'm stuck!
"Yes, sweetie?" she asks with profound kindness, pushing her thick glasses upward on the bridge of her nose.
I look at Clyde, hoping for an impromptu save here, but no such luck. He stares intently at the old woman, waiting for me to say the right things and get the proper information. He suddenly pulls out a notepad from his back pocket and begins writing down something. I guess in his mind, this conversation has already begun.
Finally, an idea popped into my head, "Oh, I'm sorry. I wanted to ask about who the journalist that are reporting these recent crime sprees are. Would you be the one I talk to for that?"
"Oh yes, they'll sign their name under their reports and I'll file them properly."
"Great! Is it possible that we could take a look at these names?"
She gives a worried frown, "I don't know, we really can't just hand out names like that. Privacy policies, you see." Adams was so eager to put Clyde's new ability to the test that she forgot to prepare the gadgets and equipment that we need for this case. No fake identification cards could bypass privacy laws today.
"Oh, of course, I completely understand! Sorry for this awkward intrusion, you have a nice day, ma'am!" I turn to leave, looking at Clyde scribbling away on his notepad. I pat him on the shoulder, prompting him to start walking.
"Oh, honey," the woman calls, "It's awfully cold outside, put some shoes on!"
And with one incredibly sheepish smile from me as people begin to stare at my feet, we depart the building empty-handed. Things usually go our way, but that's when BOTH agents are filled in with the same information. Don't blame me for flunking out on the charismatic interrogation, that just wasn't fair.
"Great job, Troy! We got the names, now we need to do a little research," says Clyde.
How in the world could he have gotten the names!? Is this what the doc meant about "third-party knowledge"? He just...jumps into a different reality where the conversation went our way and we managed to talk her into giving us the names? Admittedly, that's quite remarkable. Absolutely astonishing, but also completely scary. This isn't right, this isn't natural!
"Yeah," I say, "I'm just smooth like that."
*** *** ***
I know I'm supposed to be using the car's built-in computer to research the names that Clyde gave me, but I figured that Fake Troy would do the research for us instead. Instead, a shopping catalog is on screen, the digital cart in the corner continuously fills up with expensive clothing and gorgeous shoes. Is it for work? Yes, yes it is. Clyde drives through a residential street and slows the car down as he scans the addresses of each house. He stops at 1408 Maple St. and parks the car.
"That's 1408! You're sure that Herbert Dorsett lives here?" he asks me.
I shamelessly nod my head and agree with the lie, "Yup, that's what the databank pulled up."
He gets out of the car and I follow. The mailman has just pulled up and got out of his truck to stuff Herbert's letters in his mailbox. I hear Clyde squeeze out a small growl as he watches him casually stroll back to his truck, whistling a tune.
"Hey!" Clyde yells at him, "You! Get out of here! Move it!" The poor guy hears Clyde barking at him, and upon looking at his heckler's barbarian size, his good mood gets replaced with adrenaline and fear. Clyde takes a few steps towards him, but I throw my body in front.
"Hey, what the hell's the matter with you!? It's just the mailman!"
Clyde moves left, I move left. He moves right, I move right. He pushes me on my chest, I go down. He hurdles over me and attempts a chase on the mailman. Luckily, the mailman has already climbed into his truck and peeled out down the street, most likely disregarding the other deliveries he might have had on this block. I stand back up and spin around to see Clyde running after the smoke trail the squealing tires made, yelling obscenities at the top of his lungs. He eventually slows to a stop and growls one more time while watching the postal truck round the corner.
"Goddammit, Clyde! What the hell was that!?"
He returns to me panting with his tongue out, "Trust me, mailmen aren't nice people!"
"What? Why would you say that?"
"I don't exactly know, it's more of an instinct rather than a reason."
I can't wrap my mind over this stereotype and laugh, "You're kidding, right? Do all dogs hate the mailman?"
"Hey," he says angrily, "dogs can sense bad motives! That guy was probably going to strangle Herbert if we hadn't shown up!
"Jesus, how do you even get your mail at all?"
He looks at me with a serious face, "My mailman launches it at me with a custom-built cannon while driving at 55 mph."
Right...must be a dog thing. We settle down and approach the front door of 1408 to meet this Herbert Dorsett. I knock politely while Clyde stands behind me, looking over his shoulder constantly. The door swings open to reveal an anthro lion who was on the portly side of physique. Thick glasses sit on top of his snout, and his big smile shows off his well-treated white teeth. Such a nice mane, too!
"Hello, can I help you?" he asks, a proper accent apparent.
I clear my throat, engaging my special voice again, "Herbert Dorsett?"
"Yes, that's me. May I ask who's asking?"
I put on my best smile and extended my hand, "Hi! I'm Delilah and this is David. We're huge fans of your articles! They're so well written and expertly articulated."
He shakes my hand as his smile somehow grows even wider, "Oh, wow! Thank you! It's always nice to meet a fan, though admittedly I don't meet very many."
"I find that hard to believe, Mr. Dorsett," I say. "Now, I hope I don't sound like a stalker, but could we ask you a few questions about your recent columns on the crime sprees? Perhaps some information that didn't make it into the final cut?"
His eyes narrow down and his smile turns into pursed lips, "Hmm...sure, but I should say that there really isn't much to tell that's not already in the articles."
"Oh thank you! We promise that we won't be long."
"Yes, just remove your shoes before entering." He looks down at my bare feet, "Oh, well I see you've come prepared."