So, this came out to about my usual length, but since it's more paragraphs than dialogue, it probably looks shorter and will seem longer. It's 3,333 words exactly according to Microsoft Word, so eh.

Anywho.

Replies:
ThreeBooksInTheFire: Well, that's part of it. But it's hardly going to end at just one person.

Sybil Corvax: Thanks muchly :)

Disclaimers: All the same as for the last story, and to add to that, I also don't own Toyota or Lamborghini. I also do not suggest that you try the lye-and-water trick, and that's for your own safety. Wanna know why? Watch Fight Club. That'll give you a visual aide of what would happen.

Warnings: Let's just say that there's a lot.

Quick-Quote?:
Then again, he still felt as though someone was watching him. Not just cameras. It felt like there was someone else there in the room with him.
Sean was doing one hell of a job of driving him mad, if that’s what he was going for.

Well, he had ditched the Ferrari. Unfortunately by that point in time, an emotional attachment to the car had already been formed and Al drove the Hilux he had found parked near the entrance of a long driveway back to get the Ferrari again. It had only been a couple of miles, so it hadn’t been found by any police yet. All he had done to the truck was hotwired it; it had been locked when he came upon it, but a window was broken, rendering the lock useless. He wasn’t entirely sure why anyone had even bothered. It didn’t matter now, of course. He had once again ditched the Ferrari a few towns before Ballyvaughan, and this time had managed to stop himself from going back to get it. He had switched cars enough times on the way between towns that hopefully the police would lose track of which one he was using at the current time. From the news report he was watching on a small television in his newest motel room, it seemed that they most definitely had.

They still thought he was in the white Lamborghini (another choice based solely on stupidity and recklessness that he really needed to get a hold of before it got him in huge trouble). He had ditched that car in between the last two towns. By the time they figured out what vehicle he was using this time, he would be long gone and in another car. He would have Sean’s next clue by then, and he would be off and out of the county to figure it out. The moment he left the county, he would be considered a national threat, but he would have to manage. Sean was bound to leave County Clare eventually, anyway.

Al jumped at the sound of something and turned his head. It had been like this since he woke up this morning. The feeling of being watched – it kept getting worse, alone here in the motel room, with every passing moment. He had looked it over for bugs and cameras and had found nothing, but the suspicion wouldn’t go away. After looking over and seeing that an expensive-looking vase – one that had probably actually come from a pound shop – had fallen off of one of the nightstands, the feeling grew stronger yet. Nevertheless, he reassured himself that a breeze had simply come in through the window (which he had opened this time around in case any quick getaways were necessary) and knocked it over.

Rather, he would have reassured himself of that if there wasn’t a sheet of paper lying upon the nightstand in the place of the vase.

With the newsreader on the television still babbling about what car to look out for as an alerter to call the police on Alvin McManerberry, he sat up on the bed and reached for the paper, grabbed it, and read the words written in a familiar scroll upon the sheet.

I see you’ve found Ballyvaughan. And I congratulate you. Now
all you need to do is find one Brendan Cavanagh. No worries, I’ll
tell you where he is. I won’t tell you where I am. You took too
long and now you definitely won’t find me this time. Tough luck,
mate.

I suppose you’re probably wondering how I managed to get this
letter into your motel room, or even how I knew where you were
to begin with if I’m already too far away for you to find me. That’s
something that I most definitely will not be answering just yet. You
will know, but not until you find me. I’ll tell you exactly what’s
going on then, if you can manage it. Personally, I think you can.
It will take you a bit of time, but I know what you’re capable of as
well as anyone else in this business. The police also do. Plenty of
pictures of you on file and suddenly they can’t find any of them. I’m
wondering when you pulled that off. Then again, you probably did
that every time you were caught along the way, just in case. You
people. I’m not giving you ideas here; no one you know would be any
more likely to find me than you would be. Besides, I doubt any old
friends would be willing to help you anymore, especially not any in
high places that might have the recourses to find me. No one wants to
be linked to a suspected murderer.

Now, I suppose you need a location. Mr. Cavanagh actually lives quite
near Aillwee Cave. You’ll find that easily enough, it’s the most popular
attraction near Ballyvaughan. Located on the R480 is the Ballyallaban,
the remains of an old Earth fort. Going southbound on the R480, you
come across a road that takes you to the Aillwee Cave just before the
Ballyallaban Ring Fort. Just before that road is the one that Mr.
Cavanaugh lives on. You will turn onto that road, and the first house
you see on the left will be his.

Mr. Cavanagh is a wealthy man and his home shows this. It is the first
house on the road, the very first, and you will see it immediately. I would
suggest driving a short distance past it, leaving your vehicle, and then
walking there.

You have until midnight, as he will be killed then. Mr. Cavanagh lives quite
a ways away from any other people, and you should therefore have a bit
more time to escape than usual. Regardless, I do suggest that you use
your time wisely. You never know when someone could show up and find
you there. There is already enough evidence against you.

I do hope we can meet soon. I’m just dying to tell someone how I am
accomplishing all of this. You should find it quite interesting.
I wish you all the luck. I would rather you didn’t get caught before you
find me, so I assure you that wish is quite sincere.

And a bit of advice for your sake; stay away from the supercars. They’re
fast, but they’re easily recognizable. Again, I don’t want you getting caught
before I have a chance to talk to you, so please try not to. I’m sure I could
handle it if you did, but it would still be a tad bit annoying.

Once again, best of luck to you. Perhaps you’ll find me next time.

He had been gaping at the letter, at the absolute lack of sense that it made for it to be there, until that last line. At that, he had scowled and shoved it into his bag, which had been lying next to where he was sitting upon the bed. It was still inexplicable how the letter had gotten there, how the vase had fallen over behind him. His guard had been on since the incident with the speed trap, and it had been sharper than ever. It had given him a fair bit of paranoia to have it on and tuned to such a high level, but it was necessary. By all means, he should have noticed if someone had entered his motel room, put a letter on an end table, knocked over a vase, and left.

Then again, he still felt as though someone was watching him. Not just cameras. It felt like there was someone else there in the room with him.

Sean was doing one hell of a job of driving him mad, if that’s what he was going for.

He tossed his bag onto the floor and fell back on the bed, hands tucked behind his head as he stared up at the ceiling.

It would be necessary to plan out the night’s events. He knew what road it was already from Sean’s directions. The R476 had turned onto the R480 on the way out of Ennis. The R480 was fairly short, a regional road stretching from Leamaneh – marked solely by the old ruins of a castle – and up to combine with the N67, a national secondary road, which led straight up to Ballyvaughan. That made the R480 merely fifteen kilometers long in and of itself, give or take one or two either way. It might have been fourteen or sixteen. Then only about two kilometers were travelled on the N67 in order to reach Ballyvaughan. The entire drive from Ennis to Ballyvaughn would have taken less than an hour for anyone driving at the speed limit. Therefore it had taken quite a bit less time for Al. He had arrived at Ballyvaughan just after ten at night, had checked into a hotel called Hyland’s Burren – which conveniently had a rather nice bar downstairs – and had stumbled upstairs after around an hour spent at said bar. Because of his tendency to cover his tracks immediately after any mistakes, and also with many thanks to good connections, the police had no available photographs of him. Everyone was going on crumby police artist sketches, and none of them looked anything like him. For now, he was safe to sit in crowded areas and remain unrecognized by most.

But the plans, yes, the plans. It was the morning now, just after ten, so there would be plenty of time to go and investigate exactly where this house would be. The road by Ballyallaban did indeed have another road just after it going northbound, which would be just before it going southbound. That was the road he needed to check. It was no more than five minutes away from the hotel, so it was no big deal. He needed to find the house and find somewhere around it where he could hide out and wait for midnight.

Then he would stop by a local shop, buy a number of useless grocery items to disguise the lye flakes and vinegar he would also purchase that would have quite a bit of use, and he would use the lye to burn off his fingerprints.

Even thinking calmly of the idea, he couldn’t help but flinch a little. Lye, when mixed with water or saliva, would burn at over two hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Water would boil at around two hundred and twelve degrees, so anything near that was definitely rather hot. Al wasn’t looking forward to it in the least bit, but it was going to be necessary. His hands would have to be bandaged for some time, but it was going to be necessary. The police would have evidence that he had been at the scene of the first crime. They wouldn’t have evidence that he had been at this one, or any subsequent ones for that matter. If he had no fingerprints, then it would be impossible for him to clumsily leave any behind. If all they had to go by was that he had been at the first scene of the crime, then they had absolutely nothing on him.

There were two types of people in the world who needed to know these sorts of things, these kinds of laws by heart. One type was those who enforced them. The others, those who broke them. Generally those who broke them didn’t know. Only those who broke them professionally learned them. If anyone was going to make it through this madness without getting chucked into a prison cell, it would be Al. He had been learning all of this for better than ten years now.

It would be better to get an early start on all of this, so Al went ahead and stepped off of the bed, grabbed his bag from next to it, and headed for the door. He glanced over his shoulder as he reached for the doorknob, trying to figure out where his paranoia was coming from. He shook his head at the place one last time before opening the door, grabbing the keycard from a table beside the door, shutting it behind him, and then locking it before walking off.

He didn’t see the Shinigami hover through the door after him, because that wasn’t part of the plan Zerhogie had somehow been managed to get talked into taking part in. If he had seen it, he would have known why he felt he was being watched. It was because he wasn’t just being watched; he was being tailed.

The sink in the bathroom of the little motel room was plugged shut and filled with vinegar, and the bathtub’s faucet was running across the room. Sitting cross-legged in front of the bathtub was Al, reading the label through a pair of large sunglasses on a canister of lye with obvious apprehension. The sunglasses were necessary - it was hard to find any other slightly protective eyewear on short notice, and it protecting the eyes was quite important that working with lye in the presence of water.

This had to be easier to stand than just holding his hand in fire. It was definitely an easier concept to stomach. With the lid of the can pried off, the white flakes didn’t look particularly threatening. Of course he knew as a fact that lye could burn through aluminum cutlery, dissolve wood. It was often used as an agent for unclogging drains, and was definitely a very effective one.

There were plenty of criminals who used it to burn off their fingerprints. Al truly didn’t want to spend the rest of this time chasing Sean with hospital gloves on. It just seemed weird. Not to mention, people asked questions when you bought latex gloves. What are those for? Why do you need them? If you bought lye in the store, you were just unclogging a drain. If you bought vinegar, you were just cooking something. If you bought them together it was suspicious, unless you bought them with a random array of other items regular humans might keep stocked in their house. Al had done this. Rather, someone called Larry Halls had done this. Al just happened to have one of his credit cards on hand. He would have to throw it out soon and get a replacement. It was no rush as he had plenty others he could use in the meantime, but Larry’s was almost at its limit and he would probably have it shut off soon anyway, suspicious of all of the extra spending on it.

Al had no idea who Larry Halls was, but whoever he was, he probably wouldn’t like Al very much when he got his next credit card bill.

From the open doorway of the bathroom, Zerhogie watched interestedly as this human – his name was Mark Alfred Mitchell, but according to Sean, he was the one that the people on the news were calling Alvin McManerberry – ran the fingers of his right hand under the water running from the bathtub’s faucet. He had no idea what the human might be doing, but judging by his hesitation, it was doubtful that whatever it was would be any fun. It might be amusing for Zerhogie, sure, but not at all for this Al character. He would have asked if he could have, but that was most certainly not a part of the plan.

He had accepted because he was interested in all of this, accepted the suggestion that he watch Al. So far, he thought as Al stuck the tips of his wetted fingers into the canister of white flakes, it was proving to be quite interesting.

And the charades began when he swore quite loudly and dropped the canister on the floor, jumping up to a standing position and staring down in a mixture of pain and utter horror at his own hand.

The reasoning for the string of swears was quite obvious. Apparently, the flakes had reacted with the water in some way that made them burn. Head tilted to the side, Zerhogie watched in mild interest and amusement. Why would anyone want to do that? He thought Sean was crazy, but his doings weren’t self destructive. This was absolutely ridiculous, utterly pointless.

“Feckin’ – bloody hell just had to go an’ drop the entire bleedin’ can… fuck!” Al doubled over, holding his hand against his chest, careful not to get any of the foaming solution that the lye flakes and water had become on his shirt, lest it should burn through the material and eat a hole through his chest. This was hell enough.

He dropped to his knees and began scooping the flakes of lye up into his good hand, dropping them back into the can, getting as much of it as he could. Then, befuddling Zerhogie even further, Al ran his other hand under the bathtub’s tap and stuck his fingers into the canister, wincing before they had even touched the white flakes. His hand shot back out, the flakes sticking to the skin where there had been water. He sat back against the wall this time, staring at his hands as steam poured off of the tips of each of his fingers. The foaming solution was dissipating on his right hand; his left was just getting started.

He managed to stand himself up and walk to the sink, and he then plunged his right hand into the vinegar he had earlier poured into it. He held it there for a moment before pulling it back out to examine it. Everywhere there had been lye, skin had come off. Where the lye had been thicker, a thicker layer of it was gone, leaving the bright red flesh beneath exposed, beginning to bleed already. He flipped his hand over to look at the other side. Aside from the throbbing pain coming from his hands, something there felt different. After a moment of staring, he figured out what it was. His fingernails had been burned through.

A steady stream of swears was still coming from him, though they were mostly under his breath now. Now his eyes were clenched shut so he wouldn’t see his left hand, wouldn’t see the flesh searing off of the fingers, wouldn’t see what it had done to the right hand. This, regardless of the benefits it would give him in all of this, was absolutely mad. How anyone could stand it was absolutely inexplicable.

Zerhogie understood quite suddenly what this was.

The police suspected this man because they had found his fingerprints at the first house. Al had then reasoned that burning the skin off of his own fingers would get rid of the fingerprints, and he could therefore go into and out of houses with no suspicion. The police would still suspect him. They seemed stubborn enough. However, what evidence would they have? None at all. For as idiotic as it seemed for him to be doing something so self destructive without any reasoning, the reasoning behind it made it seem much less so. It was brilliant, even. Humans had to worry about these things, so they were bound to come up with ways to bypass them. Shinigami didn’t; Zerhogie could have killed Al right then and there and he wouldn’t ever know what had hit him.

The guy might have been better off dead with what Sean was planning for him.

Zerhogie was supposed to report back with any important information. This definitely seemed important enough. He spread out a pair of brittle, skeletal wings and flew through the wall, past Al and out of the hotel. Though Al wouldn’t realize it until later – he was slightly distracted at that moment by the fact that his skin was burning off – his paranoia also left in that very instant.

After a few more minutes and good bit more swearing, some of it quite loud, the lye was as cleaned off of the bathroom floor as it could be, the sink was drained of vinegar, and the burns were bandaged thoroughly. It wouldn’t look suspicious to wear gloves regular gloves at this time of the year, and he planned to do so until his fingernails started to grow back and the burns were mostly healed over. Healed, the skin would be new, a light pink color without a single accusatory line upon them. No fingerprints. That was one less risk in this game to worry about.

And on that bombshell, methinks I'll go play guitar and pass out on the couch or something and sleep all day tomorrow.

Though the sleep part probably won't happen. Aghinsomnia. I've got L-worthy eyebags right now from it and it shows no signs of stopping.

Speaking of L, he'll appear within the next two or three chapters, possibly within the next four. Woot? I think so.

Oh, and I suggest this to anyone who has a computer. WATCH FIGHT CLUB. You can find it online at freehitmovies . org (just remove the spaces). It's brilliance.