2019-05-21 - Paying My Disrespect

Those who know Byron Thorne are used to seeing him professionally dressed in a suit and tie get-up and in Gray Harbor's dreary weather, he dons a heavy coat to ward off both the chill and the light ongoing drizzle that seems to plague the town. He doesn't come to the cemetery often, only on rare occasions. This is one of those days. Carrying a bouquet of white flowers, he steps through on the wet grass with his Italian leather shoes. Unlike Alexander, he looks to be paying his respects to the deceased. See, this is the anniversary of his father's death. He comes here every year since he returned back to town.

As he makes his way pass gravestone after gravestone, he notices another figure in the distance. The recognition makes him arch a brow. Strangely, the pair cross paths right at Stephen Thorne's grave. "I don't think my father liked you very much. if you're here to pay your respects." He states in a somewhat flat, but humored tone.

Alexander jumps, visibly, at the address, his eyes yanking up from the notebook he was studying. He stares blankly at Byron. Then frowns, and looks down at the grave he's almost on top of. "Mister Thorne." A pause. "I had forgotten that your father was buried here. And he did not like me very much. I did not like him very much, either, so at least their was parity." He's manifestly not very good at the whole 'paying respects' thing. Although he does take a step back so that there's no chance of obstructing Byron's path to the grave. He studies the stone for another long moment, before turning his eyes to the younger and still living Thorne. "Leaving Gray Harbor seems to have done you well, Mister Thorne. I'm somewhat surprised to see you back."

If Byron had noticed that Alexander nearly stepped on his father's grave, it doesn't seem to bother him. Instead, he continues on with this ritual, taking a step forward to crouch down and set the bouquet carefully atop his father's resting place. With piercing dark eyes, he quietly reads the name on the headstone, followed by the date and the praise etched into it, words spoken by one of Stephen Thorne's colleagues no doubt. It reads: Keep Fighting For That Noble Cause.

Without rising just yet, he turns towards Alexander, his chin lifted to regard the notepad. "Is the police force on a case that you're trying to sabotage? Out of curiosity." His gaze then returns to face forward once more, "Thanks. And, my mother still resides here, so I thought that I'd help set her free from the chains that my father's debts had bound her in."

Alexander quiets for Byron's ritual. He doesn't bow his head or pray, but neither does he seem impatient. The dead, after all, will not get any more so while he waits. The question brings a twist to his lips, a short, sharp motion of his head as if he's taken aback. "I have never sabotaged a case," he says, quietly. "Generally, the small vision of the local police do that for themselves. Contributing to it seems excessive." He looks down at his notebook. "I am looking for a grave that is not here. Graves that are not here. It's unusual. Only criminal perhaps by implication, and the implication is...hazy. At the moment." He frowns. "Do you know of the Baxters?" Gray Harbor History Pop Quiz!

Byron doesn't look to be praying either. He looks to be thinking more than mourning and there's a spark of intensity within his eyes when he looks down at his old man's grave one last time before rising. Then, an odd smile plays on his lips, "That's the story my father told me about you." His shoulders then lift, "But you're probably somewhat right about this small vision, but who am I to say?" He'd always thought of Alexander as an odd one, so he doesn't look surprised, at first, at this mention of missing graves.

And then the Baxter name is brought up. "Of course, I do. Addington Park is plagued by ghost stories and urban legends because of a Baxter."

Alexander gives the grave a look. "Your father had a great many things to say," is his only reply, though, and the tone is Alexander's usual flat monotone. "And you were a smart young man, last I remember. Gives you the right to say, I think." He echoes shrug with shrug. There's a brightening about him when Byron answers. "Supposedly, that was no relation to the Baxters I speak of. Supposedly. But I was allowed to temporarily purchase the most /interesting/ book about the many tragedies of our town, and found some interesting coincidences. I was hoping to find Baxter graves, or graves of those who may have married out of the family, to do some further research." A pause. "But, curiously, none exist."

That smile broadens oh so slightly when Byron is reminded of all the things his father had to say, but that soon fades to something more neutral. He can only nod when told that the Addington murderer was of no relation to those Baxters from what little he'd read about in history books regarding their quaint town. "Rumors then. Makes sense." Then something odd pricks at Byron's ears, his brow furrowing in thought when he asks, "Temporarily purchase? Is this some sort of pay to own deal?" There's sarcasm in his tone, but what follows just gets a lift of a single brow, "Maybe they were buried somewhere else. I'd never thought of it. Or looked into it, but maybe they had land of their own that has been converted to something else, a business, another home, over the years?"

"I bought the book. I will sell it back to the person who I bought it from when I am done with it. Temporarily purchase seems the most accurate description of the situation," Alexander says, although there's a quick, dismissive wave. "Not important. The Baxters were bought out of Gray Harbor land by the Addingtons very early on, and then they rather disappear. Except they don't." He's more visibly agitated now, his hands moving in brief, sharp gestures. "Or not entirely. But there is a perceptible pattern, Mister Thorne, of people linked to the Baxters who remain around Gray Harbor being part of tragedy. Gray Harbor has more deadly accidents and incidents than most towns its size. And, peculiarly, many of them seem to involve some distant connect with a family that was not only pushed out town before it WAS a town, but then seems to have disappeared entirely." He grins a fierce, bright grin at Byron. "Isn't that interesting?"

"You should've just borrowed it then." Byron is quick to add, but seems eager to move on from the topic of this book and dig further into what it all means. "I must admit that I didn't do further research on the subject of the Baxters when their name came up briefly in fourth grade history." Shifting his idle stance, his leather gloved hands clasping where they hang , before him, he ponders on the information given him. "While I can't say that I, personally, know anyone of Baxter blood in town, assuming they aren't going by that surname... you were there on the tour." Though he didn't acknowledge the other man, he'd seen Alexander on the boat, "There's obviously crazy reasons on why there are so many incidents in this town."

"Borrowing something that someone expects you to pay for is, I believe, called stealing, Mister Thorne, and I have enough problems without adding deliberate criminality to them," Alexander mutters, although there's just the dryest edge of humor to it, too. His expression goes blank at the mention of the tour. "Yes. We were both there. And Gray Harbor is a terrible place. But. I have always wondered. If there were reasons why it was terrible, or if God just tossed a cosmic dart board at the universe and said, 'There! That is where I will fuck with people when I need to blow off steam.'" Then, he clears his throat. "Pardon my language." Hey, he remembers a much younger Byron.

To this topic now of borrowing versus stealing, Byron does have to grin. "Touche." He's not trying to give the other man a difficult time, but at this moment, he cannot help it. Realizing that they both are still looming over his father's grave, he gestures along the path that Alexander would have taken if not for this chance meeting, "I think I'd prefer walking while we continue this discussion. Unless you want my father overhearing everything that we're saying." He's sure that his father's turning over in his grave right now, seeing the pair of them talking right in front of him.

"And uh, no apologies necessary." Byron says with amusement, before asking, "Do you think that the reason the Baxters were run out of town is what caused all of this? The... darkness." While he's uncertain as to how much Alexander knows of everything, what he knows of Alexander gives him this feeling that the nosy investigator probably possesses more information than he does. I mean, he has that book.

Alexander jerks his head in a nod at the suggestion of walking. He gives the grave another look, the corners of his mouth tilted downward, but then starts walking. And scanning the other headstones they pass, checking them against a meticulous list of names he seems to have compiled. "I don't know." He sounds excited to admit it. "I don't see HOW. How some bizarre little feud between two families could twist the local sense of reality like a wet dishrag and lash out again and again to steal lives and sanity from the residents of the town. But it bears research. I think." He kicks a stone, watches it bounce off of a nearby headstone. "How are you handling the boat tour? Are you all right?"

As they start their slow trek pass various headstones, Byron pays no more attention to the one they'd just left behind. He's done his duty for the year. There is a witness to his sorrow as well.

No, Byron is nowhere near as excited as Alexander is to all of this, though as they themselves along, he'll half-turn to regard the man with inquisitive dark eyes. "And I'll assume that speaking to the Addingtons about this is out of the question? Perhaps the curator for their estate would have an inkling of knowledge. Other than that, how do we know that this," he gestures randomly with one gloved hand, "wasn't here before all of that? That it didn't cause that kind of rift?"

The trajectory of the kicked stone gets a brief look, though it's the headstone that was struck that draws more of his attention. It doesn't hold it, but it's curious to see who else Alexander is bothering this fine afternoon. At the mention of the boat tour, Byron cranes his neck to the side, releasing the tension there, perhaps? "Besides still feeling battered and bruised by that whole ordeal?" There's a pause as he licks at his lips, "I can't say that I'm handling it well. Not after something I'd heard just after the incident."

The poor, assaulted tombstone was one Garrett Meadows, dead now for forty years. "I am not the sort of Gray Harbor citizen who typically /talks/ to /Addingtons/. And I am content with my current state of town pariah, instead of being actively run /out/ of town by the city's most powerful family." Alexander's voice is bland. A thoughtful look. "But perhaps when I have more evidence. And a theory. Right now all I have is...conjecture. And no credibility." His frown deepens. "I'm sorry. It's difficult to get lost, Mister Thorne. What did you hear?"

Despite knowing of Alexander for most of his adolescence, Byron didn't really know him, outside of just his oddities. So there is careful thought given before he proceeds to respond to the question asked of him. Then, there's a moment where he stops, his gaze still staring out ahead of him even as he reaches into his suit jacket pocket to retrieve a card within his gloved hand. This he offers the investigator. "I'm not sure if you've heard about this or not, but I think we've got visitors." He then starts up again, though this time pulling away into a different direction from where the Alexander is heading, "Send me a message if you're curious. Right now, I have a business call to make."