Chapter 6: The Gaoler’s Debt

The Borderton dungeon was a cavern of gloom, its damp stone walls cloaked in shadows that swallowed the faint echoes of dripping water and the rustle of straw underfoot. Alan Grey leaned against the rusted bars, the cold iron pressing into his shoulder through the tattered prisoner's tunic. The straw beneath him was a sodden, rancid mess, and the knife wound on his thigh throbbed with a dull, persistent ache. The bell tolled again, its deep clang reverberating through the cell, marking midday on his second day as the sun climbed high beyond the fist-sized windows, casting harsh light across the claw-marked floor. "Day two's burning down," he muttered, rubbing his bruised wrists, the purple rings stark against his pale skin. "Forty-some hours till the fire—no warrant, no plea, just a medieval endgame ticking away." A dry smirk flickered across his scarred face, the kind he'd flashed at perps who thought they'd dodged the net.

His profiler mind churned, weaving the threads from Pete's cracks and Alice's notes. Greenvale's blue flames—fifty feet high, Old Tom's yarn—too staged for nature, too precise for dragons. Henry, the sheriff, pinned it with Church knights scouring the ashes for "taint" and a cloaked woman with pale hands and an icy voice whispering "cleansing" at the chapel. "Setup's layered," he mused, tapping his cheek, a tic from late-night case boards. "Knights locking the scene, her steering Henry—Church isn't just muscle, it's the engine." Pete's guilt was the wedge, and Alice—his frail, fierce sister—was the lifeline, risking her fading strength for the file tonight. "Evidence breaks cases," he growled, resolve sharpening. "She's my play—Pete's my crack."

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 weapon, a jug of murky water sloshing at his hip. "Midday rations, torch-man," Pete rasped, tossing the bread through the bars with a grunt. It thudded into the straw. "Two days till you're cinders—eat while you can." Alan caught it mid-air, crust scraping his palm, and leaned against the bars, voice dropping to the calm, piercing tone he'd used to unravel cagey suspects. "You're a regular, Pete—dawn, midday, dusk. Henry's got you on a short chain, huh? Or is it that cloaked woman tightening the screws?"

Pete's eyes narrowed, hand twitching toward his club, a tell Alan clocked—guilt teetering on the edge of panic. "Keep your yap shut, 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 again this morning, sniffing around with those silver crosses, muttering about 'cursed ground.'" Alan's profiler instincts flared—new thread: knights back at Greenvale, "cursed ground." "They're doubling down," he noted silently. "Securing evidence—or burying it."

"Cursed ground, huh?" Alan said, tilting his head, casual but razor-sharp. "Knights out there this morning, poking cinders again? What'd they dig up—more elf bones or something sharper?" Pete shifted, boots scuffing, his scowl deepening. "Ash and scorch—blue flames left a stink, sharp like spoiled eggs. Knights said it's 'taint,' your taint—Henry's got their blessing to burn you." Alan's smirk widened, thin and dangerous. "Spoiled eggs—sulfur, Pete. That's no dragon—that's a brew. They mention anything else? Tracks, tools—something to pin this fairy tale?"

Pete's hand froze mid-scratch, bloodshot eyes locking onto Alan's for a heartbeat before darting away. "No tracks—just ash and that stink," he growled, voice tight. "Knights hauled off a charred crate at dawn—wooden, half-melted, stank worse'n the fire. Said it's proof—your proof." Alan's brain lit up—charred crate, sulfur stench, knight cleanup. "Chemical payload," he thought. "They're scrubbing the scene—crate's the key." He pressed, voice low and steady, the edge that broke liars in the box. "A crate, huh? Sulfur and wood don't burn blue without help—ten years cracking cases, I've smelled setups like this. Who's feeding Henry that 'taint' line—the cloaked woman with the pale hands?"

Pete's knuckles whitened on his club, guilt cracking wider—fear bleeding through like a wound. "You're a fool digging, Grey," he rasped, voice dropping. "She was at the chapel last night—hood down, pale as death, hands like claws under her sleeves. Henry damn near pissed himself when she hissed about 'purging the cursed.' Church knights follow her, not him—cathedral's calling this." Alan's smirk sharpened—claws, pale death, "purging." "She's no lackey," he noted. "Top dog—Church is her tool."

"Purging, huh?" Alan said, leaning closer, bars digging into his shoulder. "Sounds like a crusade, not a trial. Henry's her puppet—you stuck in her web too, Pete? What's she got—coin, threats, or those claws at your throat?" Pete's face darkened, eyes flickering with raw, jagged guilt, a man caught in a vise. "You don't know the half, torch-man," he growled, voice low. "She's got eyes—everywhere. Henry's coin keeps me fed, but her word keeps me breathing. You're dead either way." Alan seized the crack, voice dropping to a profiler's plea—calm, cutting. "Then pay a debt, Pete. Alice—Martha's coin got her in yesterday. One more tonight, dusk, chapel gate—she's grabbing Henry's file. You owe her that lifeline."

Pete's eyes widened, panic flashing, then softened—guilt buckling under the weight. "You're mad, Grey," he rasped, voice trembling. "She's half-dead—coughing blood at dawn. But… damn it, one coin, dusk—she's through. Last time." Alan's grip on the bread tightened, a flicker of relief piercing the tension. "Good man, Pete," he said, low and firm. "She's tougher than you know—file's my break." Pete turned, boots dragging, muttering, "Fire'll take you both—mad fools."

The door slammed, leaving Alan with the echoes and the midday glare. He sank back, bread clutched, staring at the claw marks—ghosts of the damned. "Two days—forty-some hours," he calculated, FBI precision locking in. "Day two's half gone—sun's high." He bit the bread, nearly cracking a tooth, and spat it out with a grimace. "Could knock a perp flat—medieval chow's a felony."

He paced, chains clinking, mind racing. "No panic—work the angle. Pete's in—guilt's my hook. File's coming—logs, proof, the crate's trail." His smirk returned, profiler sharp. "Blue flames—sulfur stink, charred crate, 'cursed ground'—this ain't arson, it's a hit. Church wants a purge, Greenvale's the fuse—she's the spark." He snorted, sketching profiles—fanatics with claws, power brokers with hoods. "Ten years busting killers didn't prep me for zealots, but a case is a case." The bell's echo faded, midday sun blazing beyond the windows. "Forty hours to bust a fantasy rap. Alice, you little fighter—bring me the key."