Second Sun

>I think we should be looking at this case as a result of the Hermes in addition to him being a deserter
>The other option is that the killing was an operation by foreign intelligence that discovered Keating before we did, and assumed the former outcome. The killings were done in an execution style, and the nails were removed in a torturous fashion. The outcome there is that Keating escaped with his daughter and friend alive
>I also have a theory regarding similar from him having been onboard the Hermes, that the nail plucking is related to HUPs, but given the probabilities I agree with you that we're missing too much information
>Another theory was that Keating thought he was close to being discovered, and he executed his family to prevent them from having to live through interrogation while also making it look like they'd been tortured.
>I'd like to see the toxicology report at some point to see if there's any credence to this, but that's the closest I can get to a motive on Keating. Paranoia induced killing in fear, HUP related episode that had lied dormant, or foreign intelligence trying to get us to flush Keating out

Hrm.
The motive might be a misguided sense of mercy. Seeing something horrific or outright apocalyptic with little chance of prevention, if any, could be enough.
But, that leaves two questions. Why now of all times, and what does it have to do with the nails?
Feels like I'm missing something here...

This is a bit of a wild concept, but who all else was marked as MIA on the Hermes? What if everyone on the ship just ended up, scattered through time in various places, and Keating's the only one who landed in the present day?

His motives almost certainly tie to what happened on that ship, so figuring out what happened to it is as good a course of action as any to understand Keating (though finding the missing girl and making sure she's safe obviously has a more practical priority)

Mind being more specific about which Distant Shores Hermes went to? Ulterior Time does go backwards, after all. It'd be insane, but the notion of coming back from not that far into the past isn't unthinkable.
Though it would be strange to not send the Hermes the furthest, given that it's the only one named after a god of travelers.

"There's too many unknowns at this point," you say. "It's difficult to say anything with certainty. However, I think we should be treating this as related to the Hermes loss, at the very least."

"You don't think this could be something like a monetary dispute, or an affair?"

"Mm, possible, but I don't think so. The execution style, the nails, too many uncharacteristic pieces to this. It's possible Keating didn't even do it - maybe he escaped with his daughter."

"True, that's possible. Either way we need to find Keating."

"Yes. This is a longshot, and I'm not privy to the underlying mechanics of Ulterior Time, but is it possible that something's come back from the past? Maybe even a past version of Keating?"

"That would be outside of our current understanding of how Ulterior Time works. Quantum foam only opens up paths to possible futures, branching out of our present. The past and the present are set in stone, for better or worse. We can't move backwards."

"Okay. Can we get a crew list for the Hermes? I have a theory that something went wrong with the voyage and we may be able to find evidence of other crew members cropping up. If Keating's here, there may be more."

"Already working on pulling everything we can on that. I'll get the information to you as soon as I can."

"Including details on their destination, nature of the voyage, et cetera?"

"You got it."

"Thanks, Thurman. By the way, you should know that the missing girl's a looker."

"Yeah, I saw the Amber Alert."

"So I'm only expecting media interest to grow once Nicole's picture makes the rounds," you say, knowing media scrutiny is the last thing that NSC wants. "Won't be too long before someone starts asking about Keating, who he is."

"We're already on it," says Thurman. "The RCMP has been cooperative. Our directors have been talking, and we have a memorandum of agreement on this investigation. They have the manpower to handle the media inquiries, lead the search for Nicole."

"They're having a press conference right now," you say, thinking that your mother might very well be watching. Damn, you think - your mother's a gossipy hawk for local misery, news stories of maimed animals, fires, familicides. I should call her. Your mom will remember Colyer Road - all those afternoons dropping her daughter off at her best friend's house.

After you hang up with Thurman, you dial your mom's number. It rings twice before clicking to the answering machine.

"Mom, this is Jean," you say. "Mom, if you're there, pick up. I'll swing by the house tonight. Don't worry about the news. We'll talk soon."

Whicker opens the office door with a soft tap. "Let's go," he says.

"Where are we going?" you ask.

"We have the truck," he says. "OPP patrol car just called it in. Come with me."

---

The red truck belongs to Leon Resnick, expired license, expired plates, an address somewhere off Highway 11 in the Muskokas. Local cops seem to know him, a belligerent drunk they've had to chase away from bars, but no arrests - a veteran, an unlicensed electrician who works odd jobs for cash.

Whicker drives you in an RCMP Suburban, skimming past slower traffic on the highway. It's over an hour's drive, and discussion of Rodney Keating shifts to personal chatter. Whicker is from southwestern Ontario, grew up poor; a freelance photographer for a few years before he fell into fingerprint and crime-scene work with the Calgary police department, he came back to Ontario when his father was dying. You're circumspect in everything you offer of yourself. You feel drawn to share with Whicker, an attentive listener, but you know how easily the covers for your life and career can fray. "I guess I'm not much of a talker," you say.

"You're guarded," says Whicker. "I respect that."

You come up to the turnoff from Highway 11 and seem to leave the world behind, swallowed by woodland. The road tapers as you drive, the tree line butting against the road, thin trunks, a canopy of branches that chokes out the light. You peer through the veil of woods to houses built far from the road - distant, isolated places. You pass a series of houses propped up on cinder blocks - siding faded and streaked with water damage from rusty gutters. Yards that look like garbage dumps. You wonder what all those trees sound like as they sway.

By the time you cross a wood-plank bridge over a dry creek bed, the road is little more than a mud path. Whicker turns down a track that splits away from the current path - just two strips of dirt through the undergrowth.

"I can't really see where I'm going," he says. You feel the SUV's tires bouncing off large stones and knots of growth, feel it correct back to the furrows of the path. Branches reach across and slap at the windows. "Wait wait wait. Here we are."

A flash of red as Whicker brings you into a clearing - the rear hatch of the truck. An older model Dodge Ram, something from the eighties, but it fits the description, bright cherry except for where rust has chewed at the doors. It's covered in dozens of worn and half-peeled stickers. THE SOUTH WILL RISE. A sticker of Calvin pissing on a Ford logo. THIS VEHICLE IS PROTECTED BY: SMITH & WESSON. There's a gun rack in the truck bed, a thing handmade from lumber nailed together. No guns in it, but well worn.

The house beyond the truck is ramshackle, the roof sagging in like the place is melting.

"Look at that," says Whicker. "What is that?"

You follow where Whicker's pointing. "What the fuck," you say, climbing out of the SUV, spotting the skeletons in the woods.

Sculptures. Stag skeletons, taken apart and rebuilt with wire so they look like men with antlers, veined with copper. Four of them hang from the trees by their ankles, arms spread wide... upside-down crucifixions.

The bright stench of rot hits both you and Whicker like a wave - death.

How do you proceed?