O
As the year draws to a close, so does my investigation. I can feel the pieces falling into place. During my dinner with P, it became obvious that the agent was close to Q - the same Q that I knew and loved. This then means that the lines between friend and foe have become further blurred. Could the Organisation and the Agency be - ?
I banished the thought. It was not something I could contemplate and still retain my sanity and sunny disposition.
I then pursued the next logical course of action: I broke into Q's apartment again. As I clambered in through the window, I became immediately entangled in the curtains. Finding myself with little will to continue, I sat there for a spell, in a pile of yellow fabric.
I did not want to know that Q was a traitor, yet it seemed that all clues pointed to that conclusion. In a golden heap of cloth, I sighed deeply, exhaling my greatest worries and fears. It is better to know than to agonize, I told myself.
My dinner with P had reminded me of something I had found to be odd when I last, erm, visited Q's apartment. Though I did not remark upon it at the time, as it seemed of little import, I noticed that Q had a couple stepping stools around her house, the kind that people of little height may employ to reach high cupboards.
At dinner, reminiscing about Q, we both commented on her alarming height and martial arts proficiency. Yet why would such a giant require stepping stools?
For a time, I contemplated it possible that Q had a roommate, but it seemed unlikely. It is tough to keep friends while constantly switching identities, having car chases, and doing super cool secret agent-type things.
So, I dug myself out of the curtains and stared forlornly at the stools. A quick tour of the apartment led me to collect three of them - each wooden and slightly crooked, as if hand-carved by someone going through caffeine withdrawal. They had a strange, curved pattern etched into them - which I supposed was pretty if you were one for topographic maps.
I held my breath as I searched them for clues.
I almost asphyxiated as five minutes of investigation led me to not a single answer.
I turned them upside down. I put them in the fridge. I sniffed them (they were made of pine). Finally, I kicked one in frustration and let out an admittedly high-pitched scream when it shattered into a dozen pieces.
When I examined the pieces, I realized that the stool was not broken but was rather made up of intricate puzzle-like pieces. On each I discovered bits of text, which must have been hidden on the inside of the stools. Quickly, I dismantled the rest of them and sorted the fragmented sentences into a logical order. My heart sank as I read:
"My dearest Q,
It is my hope that you can employ this gift to get to those those high cupboards which you never seem to be able to reach.
I have very important knowledge to impart upon you. The organization of which you are soon to become a part has a very long and detailed history which is frankly quite boring and I will not recount it here (it is extremely tiring for me to engrave so many words into these chunks of cedar). However, this agency has one goal - to do good.
Unfortunately, there are those who would not let us carry out this goal. The world is big and cruel and everyone must have enemies. Yet C had an idea. You know C? That chap we had lunch with last Tuesday (assuming my gift arrives within the week). C proposed this: if everyone must have enemies, why not create them ourselves? Have two opposing forces unwittingly working for the same team?
Brilliant, my C. I expect you'll get along with him quite well.
I hope this finds you soon. Happy eleventh birthday, Q!
Much love,
Your Uncle, O."
I will finally ask it. That question that has haunted me since my first encounter with P.
Are the Agency and the Organization..?
No, impossible. Irrelevant, even! Who cares if they are the same, I will divorce myself from both and dedicate myself entirely to finding Q's murderer. This is undoubtedly the secret, but it matters not. What matters is discovering who has killed Q to hide it.
Pointless wars and secret alliances are of no importance. What matters is Q. Only Q.
- A.M. Ham
