The Riddle (The Story of Edward Craig)

Craig was back in his room again. Watching the television. Strange, he thought, for he cannot move his arms and legs. Beside him was the masked killer, and the man in dazzling white.

On the TV was the news. All the different news. Twisting, flipping its own channels like crazy. Craig was surprised he wasn't scared at all. His murderer was beside him along with his dead religious icon, watching the TV that was flipping its own channels, showing dead men in their homes. Scary, he thought, but he can't feel it. He can't feel anything.

He watches as the TV stops on accounts of death happening all around the state. Why is this happening, he thought. Then the man in white turned at him and said, "You know what is happening, Craig. You know very well what is happening around you. You don't need to be scared. You need to be brave and face it. Proudly." On that last word the man's head and hand expressed a feeling of importance, moving like a master chef kissing his fingers and saying that 'delicious' word in Italian.

Then the masked killer faced him and started to talk in a whispering voice that sounded synthesized.

"These events are connected to my plot to kill you." His voice and statement shook Craig to the core, but again, he cannot show it. He was scared, just inside.

"Watch the TV closely." Craig followed.

Dead men and women popped up. Everywhere. Newspaper firms are closing, most are destroyed by bombing. Churches pray for peace, priests are assassinated. Peace talks are halted. US diplomats are killed. Chaos was on the news.

"Why all this?" Craig asked.
"Think, Craig."

Then his religious icon, much to his surprise, got an ancient handgun out of nowhere (or maybe his pocket; Craig didn't notice), and handed it to Craig. "It's a very old gun, connected more to the flintlock than to your everyday pistol."

He marveled at the gun. It's beauty, it's smooth finish, it's amazing contour. It was almost like it completed his hand when he held it upright. It was the perfect gun. And a small gun, too. This is perfect for assassins, he thought. "Now look at the TV again," the man in white said.

The TV flipped the channel one last time, and revealed a dead man with a striking resemblance to Craig himself. Then he was dumbfounded; it was him, on a stretcher, being carried into an ambulance. And there was Amy, crying as she peered into the ambulance, looking at her dead brother.

"...man in Boston named Edward Craig was shot just a few hours ago, and is critically wounded. You can see here that he is being rushed to the hospital..."

The TV's sound faded away. "Didn't do a pretty good job, didn't I?" He was puzzled to realize his murderer was befriending him. The killer laughed.

He was holding this pistol in his hand. His killer was laughing on the fact that he didn't kill Craig. The man in white laughed with him. It seemed like he was all alone, the sounds of laughter and TV static fading in and out.

He looked on this beautiful pistol he had in his hand. Philadelphia Deringer was engraved. He remembered that this was the gun that Booth used to kill Lincoln. But why did the man in white give it to him?

He remembered those early guns wherein the trigger would hit the gun outside the barrel when fired. Flintlock pistols, they were called. Flintlock... Why was this word in his head now? All these words. Flintlock, Lincoln, Booth, Derringer, dead, disaster... They were floating in his head. He started to think. He unconsciously stood up and paced back and forth. The two men were watching him. Hopeful.

Then the truth struck his head and he drops to the floor. Something hit him. Something loud, like a gun. Like a trigger hitting its gun.