Dead End and the Giant Hand

To understand how I ended up being chased through a theme park by a serial killer, we need to rewind about thirty minutes.

Twinkle.

I pushed open the shop door and stepped outside, looking down at the five parchment notes in my hand.

Huh. Fair point.

I'd come in with every intention of taking the attractions at a leisurely pace, and somehow it had turned into this. Maybe it was because so much of it mirrored the original movie, but I hadn't hit a single snag in the hunt for clues.

Let's see — I'd only been inside for twenty minutes.

And they said it normally took about an hour to collect all six final hints….

Which made this a speed run of frankly ridiculous proportions.

"One more hint, and I'll have everything I need on the culprit."

As I walked, I spread the notes out one by one.

At a glance, you'd have no idea what they were trying to say.

"They're giving away way too much."

"Yeah."

I lifted the notes and tilted them toward Nabi.

At some point during our tour of the theme park, she had decided against riding in the back of my bag and taken up residence inside my hood instead.

Apparently the view was better that way.

Through the edge of my vision, a white, stubby plush hand reached out toward the notes.

"Well…."

The axe and the scissors were most likely the weapons the culprit had used, while the barbershop and the newspaper were clues for deducing their profession.

And then there was time lag (bonus).

"My guess is it has something to do with the culprit's movements."

I'd have to visit the murder scene itself to confirm that, of course.

I briefly studied the map laying out the theme park's layout. On it, only two places had anything to do with both the newspaper and the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠barbershop. Searching just those should be more than enough to pin down the culprit.

And as luck would have it, we were already close to one of the two.

Maybe I'll set the last hint aside and check here first.

Just before stepping into what looked like a fairly tidy commercial district, my eye caught the street sign fixed to a lamppost.

Right, they said there's a newspaper office on this street.

I strode straight in.

Staff members dressed as nineteenth-century London newsboys and newsgirls bustled about, arms laden with stacks of papers.

"Excuse me…."

Arranging my face into a suitably pleasant smile, I approached a passing girl (well, a staff member in costume) holding a newspaper.

A bright smile ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and a youthful voice answered me.

"Oh! Hello, sir. Would you like a newspaper?"

Truly impeccable work ethic….

No, wait, that's not the point. I nodded quickly, lest I embarrass her further.

"Yes, I'd appreciate one, thank you."

"Here you go!"

The paper she handed me really was the gray stock of actual newsprint — A4-sized, one entire side packed wall to wall with type.

Three days ago, an incident had occurred — a murder in the alley at NO. 42….

Skimming it, the gist seemed to be that the perpetrator of the murder from three days prior was likely the same person behind the recent string of serial killings….

I'd need to sit down somewhere and read it properly.

The moment I turned to go look for a bench, though, a voice from behind swung my head back around.

"Um… sir!"

"…Y-yes?"

"Um… are you, by any chance, a detective?"

"……."

That I am.

So why wouldn't my mouth open?

For her part, having asked so boldly, she couldn't quite bring herself to say what came next. The eyes flickering between bewilderment and embarrassment sank slowly, as if giving up.

"……."

"……."

Then her face flared so red I thought it might burst, and I finally swallowed my pride and nodded.

"…Yes. I'm a detective."

What followed was a whisper, barely audible….

"Thank you. I usually just sell churros, so this is a bit beyond me…."

The tearful circumstances of a working adult.

Ah, I could cry.

After that, the two of us resumed our conversation with the inexplicable eyes of comrades-in-arms.

"Detective, if you're headed to the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crime scene now, shall I walk you there?"

She said it, letting her gaze flick briefly to the newspaper in my hand.

…I did need to see the scene, after all.

I had to find out what that time lag note meant. Honestly, I'd been planning to visit the newspaper office first, but reading the paper just now had changed my mind. Besides, the crime scene was closer than the newspaper office anyway.

Considering all that, there was no reason to refuse the offer.

I agreed easily.

"Sounds good. I'd appreciate that."

The two of us entered a certain alley without a word.

It was too narrow for two adults to walk side by side.

I followed behind her and asked, "It's further in than I expected."

"Oh, right? I suppose they wanted it to be hard to find— I mean, the police rarely patrol alleys this deep, so it's perfect for committing crimes."

Your slip-ups are on the house, ma'am.

"We turn just up here…."

As we rounded the left-hand bend, I naturally ended up swapping places with her.

"Keep going straight and you'll see it right away."

"Right."

I walked on as directed, and before long, a place dressed up as a murder scene came into view.

Between two alleys, a circular space with a single lamppost at its center — and around it, yellow caution tape.

I crouched in front of the tape and set about examining the scene in earnest.

Yeah, there's a whole bowl of it.

Blood had sprayed in every direction, pooled and clotted along the base of the walls in dark puddles. Sure enough, it was a high-production-value murder scene staged entirely in red paint.

If it weren't for the paint smell, you could genuinely mistake it for the real thing.

The color of the blood was a work of art — had they mobilized an actual movie art department for this?

Alternating between admiration and nausea, I combed the scene carefully. And I think I've got an idea what time lag is supposed to mean….

Which would mean, in the end, that's how it is, huh?

Having more or less tied off my deduction, I was about to rise to my feet.

And then—

Whoosh— Something grazed toward the back of my head, missing it by a hair…!

"What are you doing…?"

She had caught the thing that had swept through my hair by a margin of millimeters, and now she loomed over me from the other side.

Why… why are you making that face?

Head bowed low, the staff member spoke in a voice shrunk small with dejection.

"You have good reflexes…."

That's because I'm a kindergarten teacher, you see— no, wait, that's not it.

"I would really prefer it if that's not what you were thinking."

Frankly, I'd had my suspicions even while combing the scene. The evidence, the setting, the circumstances — everything had been screaming it.

That staff member is the killer!

"That's right… ah…."

As she lamented, rubbing her face with her palm, I despaired.

That thing in her hand is a stamp, isn't it?

Pushing myself up off the ground bit by bit, I pointed at the stamp with my index finger. The employee at the entrance had made it very clear.

"Ah, and one more thing — if the killer catches you and marks you with a stamp shaped like this, your tour is over the moment it touches you."

"Running away is fine, but no hitting and no verbal abuse! Enjoy a safe visit~"

…Or so they'd said.

And the stamp she was showing me head-on matched that description exactly — a small stamp engraved with an axe or a pair of scissors.

This one's the axe, then.

Which meant….

Run.

The instant the conclusion formed, I bolted down the opposite alley.

Before long, the rhythmic clatter of pursuing heels rang out behind me.

"N-Nabi, do we really need to keep looking around here?"

That was true, technically.

Blowing the whistle only worked if you did it before the killer caught on to you.

Which left exactly one option: keep running like this, snatch the first police officer I saw, and beg for help.

Ugh.

Gritting my teeth, I shouted back at the woman hot on my heels.

"Could you please just give up on me?!"

"Detective!"

My shout lit her face up like sunrise.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Why? Are you letting me go?

"I can't give up! This counts toward my quota!"

Excuse me?

"What's so great about racking up quota anyway?!"

"*Huff*! Paid vacation! And bonuses!"

Ah. Then I suppose she has to catch me.

But my legs kept moving, indifferent to my feelings. Fair enough — I was desperate too.

Because just moments ago, I'd gotten a very firm answer from my little monster of a friend.

This is the funnest part.

Imagine getting caught and booted out mid-spectacle, right when things were at their most entertaining. I wanted absolutely no part of the fallout.

In the end, I had no choice but to run myself half to death.

…And for all that running, I rounded a corner and found a dead end.

"*Huff, huff.*"

"……."

Screwed.

Pressing my back flat against the wall, I turned around. Drenched in sweat as I was, there she stood, positively radiant.

Judging by her expression alone, the paid vacation and bonus were already in the bank.

Gulp.

There was no way out anymore.

Desperate to pry open some crack to escape through, I spoke first.

"So it was you — the killer from the murder three days ago, the one in the newspaper."

Poring over the paper in snatches as we moved between locations had taught me one thing. In the murder three days ago, the detectives' profile ran: tall, thin and slight of build, and — given the use of an axe — presumably a strong man.

I stared straight at the woman in front of me.

Tall. Thin and slight of build.

But not a strong man.

Unequivocally a woman.

So it's impossible, then?

No, not necessarily.

What if she attacked from behind, as an ambush?

That would change everything. The blood spattered on the wall had looked exactly like that — like a blow delivered from behind.

They should've gotten the forensics right.

Granted, I didn't think this was the whole of the evidence. There were supposedly six decisive hints, and upwards of ten minor bonus ones besides — I might have needed to find more to truly confirm the culprit.

"…Mm, yes. Honestly, I figured you'd catch on while I was chasing you. So you really did suspect me all along."

Please, deny it. Deny it at least once….

Who on earth assigned an actress this terrible to the crucial role of "murderer"? That greeting she'd given me at our first meeting must have been her absolute best line delivery.

And frankly, luring me all the way here already seems like tremendous effort on her part.

And yet, somehow, that clumsy earnestness sent a strange chill down my spine.

It was like watching a psycho killer who'd missed his calling.

Forcing the corners of my mouth upward, I raised both palms where she could see them.

"Oh no, your acting was so good I only barely figured it out just now."

Total fabrication.

It was the scene itself that had clinched it — her performance had never fooled me for a second. But if I wanted to survive, flattery was the price of admission, wasn't it?

"Huh? Oh… r-really?"

She scratched her head sheepishly and asked again.

"Of course."

Palms still showing, I stretched both arms out to buy myself some space, all while keeping my eyes locked on that stamp, edging backward one careful step at a time….

"But, you see."

I stopped, my breath catching.

"Yes?"

She lifted the hand holding the stamp and smiled, helpless and apologetic.

"What can I say. It's time for you to go now…."

That's scarier! I wanted to scream. At least an open lunge would've been kinder.

Her eyes squeezed gently shut as she murmured her apology and closed the distance.

If I run from here, all that changes is that both of us get hurt.

Maybe the safer play really was to just leave this theme park and go placate Nabi—

That was when it happened.

"Uh, uh…? KYAAAAAAAAAH!"

—KYAAAAAAAAAH!

A scream from the speakers rang out, doubled by a piercing shriek right beside me — right there, at arm's reach.

My eyes snapped open.

Then snapped shut again.

Did I see that wrong?

And if I didn't — no, please, let this at least be my eyes playing tricks.

At that bone-chilling voice, I jerked upright, eyes flying wide open, and lunged forward on pure reflex.

Who knew when she'd popped out of the plush doll — Nabi was hovering the unconscious employee's body high in the air with a massive shadowy limb!

"Nabi! Put—put her down! Put her down right now!"

Quickly! You little menace!

Why do you keep suddenly growing huge, huh? Was size something you could just adjust whenever you felt like it?!

But you know what they say — bad things come all at once.

"Teacher? Whoa! It's our teacher!"

practically clinging to the black forearm, I could barely twist my head around.

That familiar… voice. That welcome face.

At the mouth of the alley, a small child with a kindergarten backpack waved at me.

…Noah?

"Huh? What's that? A giant hand is holding a person…."

My heart plummeted.

I stared blankly between Nabi and Noah….

No. No, no.

In the end, Noah had laid eyes on Nabi.

And at the worst possible timing of all.

"Teacher! Is that big sister dead?"