Moon Dragon (16 page)

Chapter Forty-four

I wasn’t sure this would work, but I tried it anyway. I figured if I could teleport—or apparate—with my clothes on and holding a weapon, I figured I could do the same with Elise.

So, I had her hold me tight around the wrist, then summoned the single flame, and finally envisioned the main highway into town, where there was a sign welcoming tourists. I envisioned the spot just behind the sign.

The pop came again...and it worked much better than I had
hoped. When I opened my eyes again, Elise was still holding me tightly, and now we were standing in the shadows of the sign, just a few hundred feet from the town of Arrowhead.

Next, I slipped inside Elise’s mind and removed all her memories of the night. I replaced them with a suggestion that she had been lost for the better part of this day. I told her to count to ten before opening her eyes again, and to head straight into town. I told her to give her marriage another chance and reminded her that her husband loved her deeply.

And then, I was out of her mind and, shortly, amazingly, I teleported myself back inside my minivan, in Gunther’s driveway, not entirely sure I hadn’t dreamed all of this.

I started the van and drove home.

* * *

I headed straight to my sister’s and gathered up my kids.

I bought two Hot N’ Ready pizzas at Little Caesar’s on the way home. One for Anthony and one for Tammy and myself.

Once home, I told them they could watch whatever they wanted, just so long as we watched it together. They looked at me funny. Then again, they usually did.

Tammy’s hangover was mostly gone, and if I ever thought the words “Tammy’s hangover” again, I was going to cry.

In fact, I did cry. With my kids on either side of me, both munching on pizza and with the latest Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie on Netflix, I cried quietly, holding both of their hands, and not releasing them.

Tammy looked at me at some point, obviously wondering what had gotten into her mother, then her eyes widened in horror at what she must have seen in my thoughts. I shook my head slightly and motioned toward the TV.

She set her pizza slice down and curled up next to me, holding my hand tightly.

We would deal with her drinking later. But we would deal with it with love. All the love I have...and then some.

The End

Samantha Moon returns in:

Moon Shadow

Vampire for Hire #11

coming soon!

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Mercy’s Magic

by P.J. Day and

Elizabeth Basque

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The Witch and the Gentleman

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And look for Kingsley in:

Hungry Like the Werewolf

A Wolf Pack Novel #1

by J.R. Rain and

H.T. Night

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Coming soon:

The Dead Detective

An Open Heart Novel #1

by J.R. Rain and

Rod Kierkegaard Jr

(read on for a sample)

1.

You know you’ve had a really bad night when you wake up inside a chalk outline.

That’s my first big clue. That and all the colored police flashers silently strobing outside through the dirty windows. It takes a few minutes for the fog inside my head to clear, but I finally figure it out: I’ve been dumped at a crime scene. I’d probably gone out drinking with some of the guys and passed out—then they’d brought me here and carefully arranged me for a gag. “Presenting”, we call this in Homicide when we see it in a murder.

At least I
hope
that’s what’s happened. I don’t like to think they’d slipped me a roofie or something. Or to consider any other possible alternatives. At least my clothes are still on. Always a good sign in a situation like this—though admittedly there haven’t been that many for me, you know, where I blacked out totally. Not since college, anyway.

In fact, I don’t usually go out drinking at all. I’ve been “working to save my marriage” lately, which means going home whenever a shift ends and not spending much of my downtime socializing with other police. And it means going to couples counseling twice a week. That had been my husband’s idea. Anyway, I’d better come up with a good excuse for tonight.

Next, I sit up. This sucks. The big one. Then I try to stand. Both of these take some doing; my limbs feel like they’ve had lead poured into them. This place sure looks like a murder scene. It’s some kind of warehouse or big shipping garage—cement floors,  grey brick walls and two-story high bare ceiling. And a row of tall, sooty windows, some with boarded panes and bars, through which the red and blue and white police lights flash. There is a small pool of blood on the filthy concrete next to the chalked outline of a sprawling human figure—me—that’s already soaked into the floor. Blood…or maybe fruit juice, just to make the punking look realistic. A little ways off from my right hand, is a second, much smaller cartoon-like outline, that of my handgun. I realize my back is probably covered in crap from the floor, and now I’ll have to get my suit dry-cleaned. Again.

The outline of the gun is there—but my department-issue Glock .9 isn’t. It isn’t in my shoulder holster, either. Crap. If the bastards are really going for realism, my side arm’s probably already back at the stationhouse on somebody’s desk. The “Chalk Fairy’s” already been at work drawing the outline; cops love to do that to victims they have a grudge against, even though it’s the ME’s job.

So now whoever did this to me is pretending that SID—forensics—has already been in and mocked everything up, and they probably took photos of me for prominent display in the muster room or kitchen while I lay passed out. Now they’re waiting around outside for the ERV to show up and take me to the city morgue. The plan is obviously for me not to fully come to until I’m in the ambulance or even strapped in the gurney down at the morgue. So I’ll screw with them. I’ve never seen this warehouse before, but I bet there’s another way out.

There is. A back entrance down a hallway past a dark and empty locked office. So I don’t hang around. I am so out of there. Once out on the sidewalk, I start walking toward the city center. I have no idea what time it is; I don’t wear a watch, and my cell phone is gone, probably in an evidence bag. I stop and check my pockets. Damn! No wallet. No badge; I’ve got nothing to wave at a cabbie except lint. If I can even find a cab this time of night. Even for a woman.

That’s when I notice they’ve even taken my wedding ring. OK, that’s taking a joke too damn far—and despite my hangover, I finally lose it. For real.
Somebody
is going to pay for this…

If I’m honest, the real reason I’m so pissed is because losing the ring seems like a bad omen. For my already-shaky marriage, I mean.

Did I say “hangover”? That’s an understatement. This is the mother of all hangovers; I feel it in my gut, in my eye sockets, even in my joints and the roots of my teeth. All over. And there’s something badly wrong with my vision, too. Everything is thermally haloed, like in a video game or one of those ghost-hunter reality shows on TV filmed with a night-vision scope. There seem to be motion trails around the street-lights and what look like the transparent shells of old buildings and advertising signs superimposed over the real ones. Which is an improvement, considering the part of town they dumped me in—it’s a hell of a long walk back to the stationhouse, and my regulation boots are already pinching my feet. My hands and feet both feel swollen. Maybe it was some kind of drug, after all. I’d been put on an SSRI when the D-word had first been mentioned at one of our counseling sessions; could antidepressants cause me to forget? Or have blackouts?

I can’t find a pen or my notepad in my jacket pockets, either, so I can’t jot the questions down for later.

A car passes by on the broad cross-street ahead, followed by the outlines of a second, greenish and ghostly, that looks like it’s been boosted from a museum or antique car show. It makes a faint putt-putting noise. Great. Now I’m hallucinating. And not just cars, either; more buildings that aren’t there, blinking neon signs, an old movie theater, even pedestrians, all pale green and ghostly and looking like something out of an old flick. Leaving vapor trails behind them. And walking through things.

Yes,
through
things. And by things, I mean walls and doors and buildings.

Luckily, there aren’t many real ones around tonight; real pedestrians, I mean. Just the imaginary ones. Anyway, in this part of town, there are plenty of thugs and gangbangers who would’ve been happy to settle old scores if they’d spotted me out alone and unarmed. So it must be even later than I thought if the hookers and the drug-dealers have all gone home for the night.

By the time I finally get back to the stationhouse, I’m feeling radioactive, like I’ve been swimming in heavy water all night. I can barely stand to keep my eyes open. Hell, I can barely stand at all. All I want to do is find a couch or empty desk somewhere and rack an hour or two of sleep. Or wait until I wake up, since I was no doubt dreaming this whole damn mess. But on the off chance that I was awake—and this was the world’s worst hangover—I figure that I better retrieve my personal effects. And then phone home with my apologies.

Me groveling is all that’s keeping us together at this point, pretty much.

What I can’t figure out is exactly how I turned into the bad guy in my marriage. The bad wife. Sure, I keep lousy hours and worked crazy shifts. Sure I’m married to the job—that’s what cops call the Police Department: “The Job”. But I haven’t cheated; in fact, I’ve been totally faithful. I don’t even do drugs or drink.

Well, unless you count tonight.

But I still don’t know exactly what went down tonight, do I? Maybe I wasn’t drunk or stoned or in the middle of a nightmare—maybe I’m  just going crazy. I prefer the first explanation, and that’s the story I’m sticking to. A few beers with some buddies, then maybe a drug interaction and a particularly tasteless practical joke.

Then it occurs to me that maybe I should cover my lily-white ass by writing it up, like I would a case-file or an IAD report. Because whatever just happened, it isn’t going to look real good on my permanent record—my jacket, as we call it.

Finding my wallet and police shield is a piece of cake; just as I suspected, all my personal shit is sitting inside a bag on Ayon’s, my partner’s, empty desk in the detective bureau, the one right across from mine. No Glock, though—maybe it’s in her locker. The big room is deserted. I’ve probably come in between shifts. I don’t even remember seeing a desk sergeant on duty downstairs. In fact, nobody buzzed me through the front doors; I must have followed the cleaning crew in. Not being able to remember this is
not
a good thing; maybe I’m having mini-blackouts again. Glancing up at the big Westclox on the wall, I see it’s five past five; everybody must still be downstairs getting coffee.

And laughing at those crime scene photos of me, probably. I guess I should go down there now and take my licks. No, what I should really do is call home and face the music. But I notice there’s a light on in the boss’ office across the hall. Captain Ed Quirk. He’s been sleeping on the broken-down couch in there all week because his wife just threw him out of the house again. And deservedly so—
he
cheats. And drinks. And God knows what else. But in a police station, the captain is God.

So after I finish typing my notes into the Dell, I get up and go knock on his door. His office walls are glass from halfway up but covered by closed blinds.

“Come,” he yells.

I go inside—and find him staring at me like he’s having a heart attack; purple-faced, open-mouthed, eyes bugging out of his head.

Like he’s just seen a ghost.

2.

Cappy is not in the best of shape.

But he’s a pretty decent guy, and nobody at the stationhouse wants a strange new boss appointed over our heads, believe me. Not while there are budget cuts going on. So naturally, my first thought is CPR. I’ve already cleared his desk and am reaching out to loosen his shirt-collar—he’s got no tie or jacket on—when I notice he’s shrinking away from me. Cowering, actually. Like he thinks I’ve got MRSA or something.

“What the hell, Cap?”

“Jesus Mary mother of Christ, detective! You’re
dead
,” he says in a stricken voice, and we just stand there staring at each other for a minute.

“Screw you.”

“No, seriously, Richelle. You’re dead. Definitely dead. I promise you. I just came from the crime scene. Shit, just look at yourself! You’ve got an entry wound just over your—” And he makes a trembling gesture in the direction of my left breast.

I look down. The front of my shirt is soaked in bright red blood, a lot of it, around a hole in the front of my blue shirt. I almost faint dead away at the sight of it before I realize that I’m not still bleeding out. There’s no starburst, so I wasn’t shot too close up, but the rim of the red bloodstain is scorched brown-black, so…maybe from a few yards away. I note these details automatically, like any good police detective would, while a part of my mind follows the trajectory of the bullet hole to its logical conclusion: 
I’ve been shot through the heart.

Why the fuck am I not dead? Or am I? Suddenly, I
really
don’t feel so good…

“Better sit down,” he says. The purple look on his face has receded to its customary beefy red, the terror to something that looks almost like concern. The Cap is an ex-jock run to fat, with prematurely white hair. Now he gets up and approaches me cautiously as I sit down on the broke-back vinyl couch against the wall opposite his desk. It’s a soft landing—it’s still covered with his bedding.

“I should check your pulse. Hey, you never know—maybe everybody got it wrong about you. How you feeling, anyway?”

“Like shit.” Nothing brings you down faster than knowing you’ve got a bullet in your heart. Now I know it’s there, I can actually
feel
it…a cold ache in my breast like a little heavy metal tumor. I can
taste
the lead.

Meanwhile, he’s standing there sort of poking his hands out awkwardly at me and looking embarrassed. It takes me a minute or two to realize why. Quirk is not the greatest boss in the world—he plays favorites, has a nasty hooker habit, and there are rumors he usually gets his cut from impounds or drug stash seizures—but he’s never been, you know, funny with the women cops. At least not with me. He’s always looked me in the eye and kept his hands to himself. Except right now, obviously.

“Don’t worry, Cap,” I tell him, joking weakly. “I won’t file charges.”

So he puts a couple of his big sausage fingers on my throat over my jugular and presses, trying to find a pulse. They feel almost uncomfortably hot against my skin. My cold, cold skin.

“Nada. And, man, your skin is like ice.” He tries my wrist next. “No heartbeat. But I can see you’re breathing.” He stares at my chest, then shakes his head slowly in bewilderment. “This makes absolutely no fuckin’ sense,” he mutters, letting my arm go. Then, “Is there any lividity?”

Lividity is the pooling of the blood in the body that occurs after death. It’s the result of gravity—I’d been lying on my back, so if I’d been dead for a while before I woke up, my face and the front of my body should be a deathly white and my back and butt anything from a rashy pink to a deep purple. I roll up a sleeve and have a look, but I don’t see anything.

“Want me to have a look?” he asks.

He means the entry wound. “No. I’ll take a look for myself in the bathroom mirror.” The feeling from the bullet isn’t pain, exactly, more like an itch. A helluva itch. I also have an overwhelming urge to dig the bullet out. Right there in his damn office. There is a pair of tweezers in my handbag.

“Look, Richelle—we gotta go down there so we can show them your face, and we need to do it like right now. Half the department is out looking for a cop-killer. We’ll have to do a recall, tell everybody…I dunno what. That it was all a big mistake, I guess. That the first-response team screwed up.”