You pass most of the morning walking up and down Broadway, the main street in town, poking your head into every tack and feed store, leather goods shop, and army surplus store. You also check the library for Heaney. Nothing—at least nothing relevant.
But, standing in the vestibule of the little library, you remember that receipt. A quick search on a library computer reveals that Banicki Gunworks closed down last year, and you can't get more information about it. But that very silence is interesting. Maybe that's something.
You're just stepping out of the library, wondering why your nice new hoodie has so many burn marks around the sleeves, when a familiar yellow van screams to a halt in the brick turnaround. Scarper bounces off a curb and shouts, "Where the fuck have you been? Why didn't you call?" out the half-open window. A few people turn and stare.
"I—" you start to explain.
"'I, I, I!'" Scarper mocks, perfectly mimicking your tone of voice and yet adding a tone of absurdity to it. "I'm so sick of your voice. 'There are more enemies than just this Bane!'" You scowl at your words coming from Scarper's mouth.
"I don't have a phone, Scarper. Stop yelling." The locals don't want to listen to a public argument.
"Trying to learn more about that horseman. I've only turned up one interesting lead, though." I'm worried I'm not getting anywhere.
"I've got my own business to attend to, Scarper." This "elder" doesn't deserve my respect or explanations.
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