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Kim's triumphant trot rolled to a stop. In the distance, the grinding of the water-gate sounded less like the cheer of a boisterous crowd, having dulled to something akin to a pained moan, near lost to the wind.
The ice plains rolled out into the horizon, shattered by pitch black zigzags where the sea cut through the frost, uneven yet symmetrical. Up ahead, in the crater of a fallen comet, was a familiar model of motor carriage, albeit with more faded paint and dented chrome than Kim's own charge. Gulls circled above, attracted by the amalgamated stench of engine oil and rotting flesh.
Every few minutes, the carriage would shift near imperceptibly downwards, sinking into the frigid depths below. How it hadn't already sunk was a mystery, though a small part of Kim felt that it- and its passenger, had been waiting for him this whole time; to witness their final moments of glory, embers flickering into darkness.
Kim pulls out his notepad, to begin filling the requisite incident report. He then pauses, suddenly awash with a sense of absurdity, that this investigation had all been pointless. World-weary cop with a substance problem, dropped off the edge of the earth where every cabinet in town held speed or amphetamines or both?
The notepad disappears into a pocket, and Kim takes a knee by the shattered driver's side window. Peering into the space, he took in the scene of the crime, and the face of its perpetrator.
This man's last moments were spent in a terrible anguish. It was evident from how every cord and crease in his face was pulled taut, like fishing line in the mouth of a whale. It was evident from his grip on the steering wheel, so tight that bruises had bloomed across every knuckle and joint. He had died before the carriage hit the ground, and perhaps even some time before he had left it. If he were more of a romantic, Kim would say that Harrier du Bois had been dead the moment he had set foot in Martinaise.