Chapter 5: Ticking Clocks

The Borderton dungeon was a pit of shadow and stench, its damp stone walls swallowing the faint echoes of dripping water and the rustle of straw underfoot. Alan Grey sat against the bars, the cold iron digging into his back through the tattered tunic, his breath fogging in the chill dawn air. The straw beneath him was a rancid, sodden mess, and the knife wound on his thigh pulsed with a steady ache, a grim reminder of the ambush that landed him here. The bell tolled again, its deep clang rolling through the cell, marking the dawn of his second day as faint light crept through the high, fist-sized windows, painting the claw-marked floor in pale streaks. "Day two's breaking," he muttered, rubbing his bruised wrists, the purple rings stark against his skin. "Forty-eight hours till the fire—no badge, no bail, just a medieval countdown." A dry smirk flickered across his scarred face, the kind he'd flashed at perps who thought they'd outsmarted the system.

His profiler mind churned, stitching together the threads from Pete's slips and Alice's parchment. Greenvale's blue flames—fifty feet high, Old Tom's tale—too precise for nature, too staged for dragons. Henry, the sheriff, pinned it with Church knights scouring the ashes at dawn and a cloaked woman whispering "cleansing" at the chapel. "Frame's tight," he mused, tapping his cheek, a tic from late-night case boards. "Knights on the scene, woman pulling strings—Church isn't just backing this, they're driving it." Alice's shaky notes burned in his memory—her blood-flecked courage, her promise to raid Henry's office for the file. "Evidence is king," he growled, resolve hardening. "She's my shot—Pete's my lever."

The iron door screeched open, and Pete's heavy boots thudded closer, his grizzled silhouette looming in the torchlight flickering from the corridor. He carried the battered tray—another slab of bread that could double as a bludgeon, a jug of murky water sloshing at his hip. "Dawn grub, torch-man," Pete rasped, tossing the bread through the bars with a grunt. It thudded into the straw. "Two days till you're ash—eat while you're breathing." Alan caught it mid-air, crust scraping his palm, and leaned against the bars, voice dropping to the low, steady tone he'd used to break cagey suspects. "You're punctual, Pete—dawn, dusk, like clockwork. Henry's got you wound tight, huh? What's he dangling to keep you on this leash?"

Pete's eyes narrowed, hand twitching toward his club, a tell Alan clocked—guilt, fraying at the edges. "Shut your trap, Grey," he snapped, slamming the jug down with a clang that bounced off the stone. "Henry's the law—Church knights say you torched Greenvale. Saw 'em at the ashes yesterday, poking through elf bones with those silver crosses glinting." Alan's profiler instincts flared—yesterday, dawn, confirming Alice's note. "They're securing the scene," he noted silently. "Not just rumor—control."

"Elf bones, huh?" Alan said, tilting his head, casual but sharp. "Knights out there at dawn, sifting cinders? What else they find—dragon claws or just Henry's excuse?" Pete shifted, boots scuffing, his scowl deepening. "Ash and bones—blue flames chewed it all up, hellish stuff. Knights muttered about 'taint,' said it's your doing. Henry's got their word, and that's iron." Alan's smirk widened, thin and knowing. "Taint, huh? Sounds like a script—blue fire's too clean for chaos. Smell anything out there, Pete? Sulfur, maybe—something sharp?"

Pete's hand froze mid-scratch, bloodshot eyes locking onto Alan's for a split second before darting away. "Didn't smell nothing," he growled, voice tight. "Knights rode back to the cathedral at sunup—black cloaks, silver crosses, muttering about cleansing the land. Henry's in deep, Grey—deeper than you can dig." Alan's brain lit up—cathedral again, "cleansing" again, sulfur dodged. "Chemical hint," he thought. "They're purging something—Greenvale's just the start."

"Sulfur's a marker, Pete," Alan pressed, voice low and cutting, the edge that broke liars in the box. "Blue flames don't spark without a kick—ten years cracking cases, I've sniffed out worse. Henry's a pawn, knights are muscle—who's the cloaked woman steering this?" Pete's knuckles whitened on his club, a crack widening—fear bleeding through. "You're a dead man asking, torch-man," he rasped, voice dropping. "Saw her at the chapel last night—dark hood, voice like ice, hands pale as bone. Henry damn near knelt when she spoke—Church owns him, and she owns them." Alan's smirk sharpened—pale hands, ice voice, command confirmed. "She's the apex," he noted. "Not just a whisper—queenpin."

"Owns him, huh?" Alan said, leaning closer, bars pressing into his shoulder. "Sounds like you're caught in the web too, Pete. Henry's coin or her blade—what's got you sweating?" Pete's face darkened, eyes flickering with raw guilt, a man teetering on the edge. "You don't know what you're stirring, Grey," he growled, turning away. "Fire'll shut you up soon enough." Alan's voice sliced through, sharp and urgent. "Pete—Alice. She's at the chapel. Tell me she's still alive."

Pete stopped, half-turning, his scowl softening a crack. "Saw her at dawn—praying, coughing blood into her sleeve. Sickly kid—Martha's coin got her in here yesterday, but she's fading fast." The words hit like a slug to the gut. Alan's grip on the bread tightened, crust biting his palm. He saw her—dusk fading through their shack's cracked window, Alice stitching his cloak, her coughs cutting through a stubborn grin. "For when you're out there," she'd rasped, pride in her fevered eyes. "She's a fighter," he growled, voice low and fierce, chest burning deeper than any scar. "I don't leave fighters behind—not ever."

"She's dying for you," Pete muttered, almost to himself, guilt cracking his gruff shell. Alan seized it, voice dropping to a profiler's plea—calm, piercing. "Then help her, Pete. She's getting that file—Henry's logs—from his office tonight. One more coin from Martha's stash, one more blind eye—get her through the chapel gate at dusk. You owe her that much." Pete's eyes widened, a flicker of panic, then softened—guilt winning. "You're mad, Grey," he rasped, voice low. "But… damn it, one coin—she's in at dusk. That's it." He turned, boots heavy, muttering, "Fire'll take you anyway."

The door slammed, leaving Alan with the echoes and the dawn's faint glow. He sank back, bread clutched, staring at the claw marks—ghosts of the damned. "Two days—forty-eight hours," he calculated, FBI precision locking in. "Day two's rolling—dawn's here." He bit the bread, nearly cracking a tooth, and spat it out with a grimace. "Could brain a perp with this—medieval slop's a crime."

He paced, chains clinking, mind racing. "No panic—work the play. Pete's bent—guilt's my wedge. File's coming—logs, statements, proof." His smirk returned, profiler sharp. "Blue flames—sulfur whiff, knights' 'taint,' her pale hands—this is bigger than Henry. Church wants a purge, Greenvale's the spark." He snorted, sketching profiles—fanatics, power players, or something darker. "Ten years busting killers didn't prep me for clerics, but a thread's a thread." The bell's echo faded, dawn climbing higher. "Forty-eight hours to bust a fantasy rap. Alice, you little warrior—hold on."