Night Vision

by Maggie Shayne

  “I woke up before he was all the way strangled. Might’ve had to bash his head in with a rock or something to get the job done, for all I know.”

  He swore softly, sinking onto the edge of my bowl chair, no easy feat. “You okay?”

  “It was pretty vivid. He spun around and punched me in the jaw, and I swear it actually aches this morning.” I tested my mouth-hinges experimentally, and sure as shit, the right one felt tender. “Then I was kneeling on his back, choking the life out of him with some kind of homemade garrote.”

  “Do you want to come along?” he asked.

  “I don’t want to leave Josh home alone.”

  “He’s thirteen.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know what this is yet. So–”

  “You saying it feels dangerous to you?”

  “It feels…personal. Close.” I rubbed my arms, set down my coffee and used his shoulders to pull myself up out of my comfy nest. “I need to shower. Like, now.”

  “So do I. Let me call in.”

  I went in to start without him.

  The clay-tiled shower was double sized, with multiple heads. I adjusted the water, stepped in and let the hot spray blast the remnants of that dream away. The last time a killer had been close enough for me to do mental ride-alongs, it had been Mason’s dead, serial-killer brother. Long story, but suffice it to say I got a little something extra from Eric Conroy Brown, along with his donated corneal tissue.

  Was his consciousness waking up inside me again, linking me, somehow, to murderers like him? Or was this some other aspect of my stuff? I knew things, felt things. I called it NFP for Not Fucking Psychic because I don’t believe in psychics.

  Mason stepped into the tiled shower. He moved into the spray beside me, turned around and scrubbed his hair. I watched him until he opened his eyes and looked back at me. And then he pushed my wet hair off my face, and tucked it behind my ear, and gave me that look that said everything I needed to hear. And I forgot what I’d been so upset about.

  Mason was worried about Rachel. She’d been shaken by her dream. It had taken minutes for the fear to leave her eyes.

  He parked where there was room, got out of his restored (by him) ’74 Monte Carlo, and headed down Binghamton’s popular walking trail. It ran alongside the Susquehanna River. Pleasant, usually. Not so much, now. Uniforms, forensics people, and his partner Rosie stood around a pile of freshly turned black earth, and a burlap shroud that wasn’t quite big enough. A pale, dead arm stuck out from elbow to fingertips. Looked like the corpse was waving hello.

  He walked closer. The murmur of the river drowned out the sounds of singing birds. The body was in a hole, sort of.

  “Not even deep enough to cover the poor SOB,” Rosie said. He had lost twenty pounds on his latest diet, which showed exactly nowhere. He was a big guy, his Rosie. They’d been partners since their rookie days. “Jogger spotted his hand, just sticking up outta the dirt. Can you imagine?”

  “It’ll make a great story, I guess.”

  “Yeah, eventually.”

  “Why the burlap? Why not just bury him?” Mason walked around the shallow grave to the bag’s opening, picked up an edge with a pencil, and peered inside. “Flashlight?” he asked, hand out. Someone gave him one, cold steel cylinder in his palm, and he aimed it. “Ligature marks. Looks like he was strangled.” Or mostly strangled. Something tickled up his spine. He shrugged it away.

  “Anyone find an ID on him?” he asked.

  “We’re not patting him down for a wallet until we get him home where we can do it right.” That was spoken with authority from a redhead with an ultra-short haircut. “Bag him up, burlap and all,” she ordered. “Move him as little as possible. Don’t shake off trace evidence.”

  As the team scrambled, she grinned at Mason. It was probably disrespectful to think she looked just like a Christmas elf. She had dimples, pink cheeks, intelligent green eyes, and a hairline that made her ears look ever so slightly pointed.

  And she had her hand out, he finally noticed.

  “Billie Carmichael. I’m the new forensic pathologist.”

  Thinking she looked about fourteen probably proved that he was getting old. “Mason Brown,” he said.

  “I know who you are, Detective Brown. I know your wife, too. I’m a huge fan.”

  “She’s not my–”

  “Careful!” The techs had dropped the body onto the gurney a little too hard, and the burlap came open.

  Mason glimpsed the guy’s face, either pudgy or starting to swell. His hair was mostly a pale orangey-gray. He looked back at the redhead. “What’s an FP doing at a crime scene?”

  “It’s my first case. I couldn’t wait.” She said it with a grin, then forced a more serious expression.

  “Since he’s already bagged, you want to give me the rundown?” he asked. He was trying to remember ever being that happy to be at work, and failing.

  “Male, mid-fifties, maybe a drinker. He was probably dumped last night,” Billie Carmichael said. He liked her confident tone. “There’s a car back by the trail head. Nobody else around. Might be his.”

  Rosie met Mason’s eyes, brows raised, clearly impressed.

  “What kind of car?” Mason asked.

  “Jag,” the new FP replied. “Nice one. Man I’d hate to die and leave a ride like that behind.”

  “Shit,” Mason shook his head. “Shit.”

  His phone buzzed. It would be Rachel, asking about all this. He wished he didn’t have to tell her, but knew he did. They didn’t keep stuff from each other.

  He walked a little bit away before looking at the text.

  “Don’t forget, BBQ at noon. Wayward nephew and all.”

  He got a good feeling from that message. He looked at Billie, and said, “You gonna be a while with the unboxing?”

  “The unboxing. That’s funny.” Mason didn’t smile, and she turned all business again. “I’m gonna work straight through the day on this guy.”

  “Good. I need to go home after I finish up here. Will you call me when I can come and get a look at the victim?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Rosie said, “The Jag in the parking area is registered to Dwayne Clark. Got an address, phone number, and email. We’re getting more info now.”

  “You got a phone number, you said?”

  Rosie nodded, showing Mason his iPad.

  “That’s a cell number.” Mason tapped it into the keypad of his phone, then silenced it and listened.

  The guy in the burlap bag started ringing.

  “Guess we’ve got a probable ID.” He hung up the call. “Let’s get some background on him.”

  “Already underway,” Rosie said.

  “Okay good.” He looked at the ground around the makeshift grave. There were plenty of tracks in the dirt, thanks to the team that had dug the body out. “I hope you got a lot of shots of the ground before it was trampled,” he said to the cop with the camera.

  “I did.” He brought his camera over and scrolled photos across its digital screen.

  Mason looked at the images of the undisturbed grave. The killer had barely dug past the grass’s knotted root carpet. He’d chopped it open, rolled it back, scraped out a little of the dirt underneath, and then tried to cover the unfortunate Dwayne Clark with it again.

  Mason said, “Whoever put him here expected him to be found. Anything the body and this scene have to tell us could be significant. Let’s not miss anything.”

  Billie’s guys carried the dead man to an ambulance that had driven over the grass to get close. “The forensics team will finish up here,” she said. “I want to stay with the body.”

  Mason said. “Listen, Carmichael, just so you know, we sometimes use Rachel as a consultant on cases like this.”

  “I know.” Her elf-green eyes popped wider. “Are you bringing her in on this one? Wow, I didn’t think I’d get to work with her so soon.”

  Oh, hell. “Listen, if you fan-gurl all over Rachel, she'll make you her
slave. If you want her respect, treat her like an equal.” It was a dumb request. Rachel had no equal, but still.

  The change in Billie’s expression was so sudden and deliberate he almost laughed. “I’ll be completely professional, Detective. And I’ll call you when I’ve finished with the exam.” Then she unlocked her phone and handed it to him.

  He entered his number into her contacts, then returned the phone. “Thanks.”

  He had to go home, host a family barbecue, and during a free moment break it to Rachel that her link to the darkness was back, big time.

  Girl Blue: Chapter 2

  Jeremy had arrived home before nine, stuffed the washer with more laundry than it could possibly clean, helped himself to 80% of what was in the fridge, and answered my, “how was your week?” while he ate it.

  I stood across the counter from him, trying to interpret his food-muffled words. “Are you too short on time to chew and swallow before talking? Gonna eat the last crumb and then launch yourself out of here at the speed of teen?”

  He stopped talking, finished chewing, took a big gulp of milk. “Sorry, Rache.”

  “Aunt Rache.”

  He grinned. “I am in a hurry, though.”

  Josh, sitting opposite his big brother, sighed with all the drama thirteen can muster–which is, I have discovered, a lot–slid off the stool, and headed for the door. Hugo, Myrtle’s sighted, male mini-me, was on his heels. There is nothing in the entire universe cuter than an English bulldog puppy. Hugo had also become Myrtle’s seeing-eye pal.

  Myrt remained where she was, sitting on the floor by Jeremy, who had dropped enough crumbs to make it worth her while.

  Josh slammed the door hard enough to make me wince.

  Should’ve made the place kid proof, Inner bitch opined.

  There’s no such thing, I thought in reply.

  “What’s with him, Rache?” Jeremy asked.

  I sent him my patented glare, which I had learned from my sister, who had learned it from our mother, may she rest in peace.

  “Aunt Rache,” he corrected. “Jeeze, what’s everybody so touchy about anyway?”

  “You’re neglecting your brother, not to mention your dogs and your uncle. These are dire offenses, Jeremy Brown. Just because you’re a big college man now, doesn’t mean you get to blow off your family.”

  “I’ve barely been gone three weeks!”

  “Yeah, and you’re already acting like a big fat douchebag. Spend the morning with your brother.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do anymore. I’m an adult.”

  I shrugged. “An adult wouldn’t act the way you’re acting.”

  “And how am I acting?”

  “Like a selfish little shithead.”

  That pissed him off. I was kind of pissed too, but since I was technically the grown-up in the room, I notched myself down a few degrees. “We’re having a barbecue here at noon. My sister and Jim and the twins will be here. You and Misty can take off after, and you’ve got the rest of the long weekend to be together. I’m gonna come crash in your dorm room if you don’t spend some time with the fam. Mason’s moping like Myrtle when her dish is empty. Josh is heartbroken, and don’t even get me started on the dogs.”

  Myrtle chose that moment to whap him in the shin with her paw. He’d stopped dropping crumbs and she didn’t like it.

  He looked down at the dog, then out the window at Josh. His kid bro was walking slow with his head down. Hugo was trotting beside him with a frisbee in his mouth, but Josh didn’t even notice.

  Jeremy said, “I’m sorry. I had a hard week.”

  “You wanna talk about it?”

  “I’ve got this one professor who’s a Class-A asshat.”

  “Language. You want me to come down there and kick him in the balls?”

  The trouble in his eyes evaporated. He even smiled a little. “Yes, Aunt Rachel, I want you to come down there and kick him in the balls.”

  He slid off the stool, smacked his thighs and said, “Wanna go hunt some froggies, Myrtle? Froggies? Hmm?”

  Myrt sprang upright and started wiggling her butt.

  “I’d like to hear more about the asshat professor, though,” I said.

  “Later. And…I’ll do better. With the family.”

  His mea culpa look was so much like Mason’s that my heart melted.

  “I know you will. We miss the hell out of you, you know.”

  "You, too?"

  "Me especially," I admitted. "I love you, kid."

  "I love you, too."

  "Well, duh."

  Mason grilled steaks, looking like the most content man on the planet for the first time in three weeks. My sister Sandra had brought mac salad and coleslaw. I heated up a can of baked beans in the microwave, poured chips into giant bowls and scooped dip into small ones.

  Yeah, I don’t cook. It’s not what I was put on the planet to do.

  “Let’s eat down by the water,” Sandra said. We had just exited the house, our arms full of plates and silverware. “Pretty soon it’ll be too cold.”

  “I concur.” And then I whistled to get the kids’ attention. “Will you guys move the picnic tables down by the water for us?”

  Jeremy and my niece Misty, who’d been sitting side by side on the dock holding hands, got up and came running. Josh, too, dogs flanking him. Christie stayed put and returned her attention to her phone. Misty and Christie were twins, blue-eyed blondes like their mother, although you’d never know it today, as Christie wore what looked like a Rasta hat and it covered every lock. Jim, world’s greatest brother-in-law, left his position as official grilling commentator to help them lug the old-fashioned wooden picnic table.

  “Jeremy got over being mad at you?” Sandra asked.

  “He couldn’t deny his own assholery.”

  “Is that a real word?”

  “It is now. As an author, I get to add new words to the language.”

  “I don’t think that’s true.”

  “I’m pretty sure it is. Sprounce is one of mine. You know what Myrt does when she finds a froggie. Sprounce.” I made claw hands under the plates and bounced a little.

  “I love you,” she said.

  “Me too.”

  We walked across the dirt drive that wasn’t really a road, because we were the only ones who used it, to the picnic table on the grassy patch of shoreline. The kids had already taken off, but Jere was still within earshot. I said, “I appreciate you hanging out with us today. I won’t be upset if you two want to go do your own thing after we eat.” I was careful not to sound like I was giving permission in front of everyone. I knew how I would react to that–instantly and with great fury–and presumed he’d be the same.

  “We’ll probably hang out for a while,” he said. “Maybe take off later, though.”

  Sandra and I put the plates on the table, and I glanced over at Christie. Her full attention was on her device. I pulled out my phone and texted her, “Get off your fucking phone.”

  She looked up from the screen, grinning at me. “You are so ridiculous, Aunt Rache,” she said, getting up, pocketing it, and walking in that way only super tall, super lean teenage girls can do. Then she pulled off her hat to release a cascade of dead-straight, jet-black hair.

  I bit back the sound of horror that jumped into my mouth. Well, mostly bit it back. Half a squeak escaped. Sandra elbowed me in the small of my back, where her kid couldn’t see. When I could speak, I said, “Wow, what an…extreme change.”

  The guys were carrying the steaks to the table, and everyone was finding a spot to sit.

  “I got sick of people not being able to tell us apart.”

  “So you decided to become the evil twin?”

  “Rachel!” Sandra scolded.

  “She knows I’m teasing. You know I’m teasing, right?” I took a plate and a seat on the bench. Mason slid in beside me.

  “I know you’re teasing," Christie said. "Besides, I already was the evil twin. At least now I look the p
art.”

  “I’ve seen evil, kid,” Mason said. “You ain’t it.”

  “But it’s nice to have goals,” I added in my best Sandra tones.

  That made her smile. Christie wasn’t such a puzzle to me. She kind of was me. 99% attitude and convinced of her rightness on all subjects, regardless of evidence to the contrary.

  She wasn’t evil. If she were suddenly orphaned and I left the planet, she could probably go either way, but as things stood, she was going to be okay.

  I looked her over thoroughly, nodding slow. “You should darken your brows a little bit.”

  “I hate makeup.”

  “Not makeup. Dye. I’ll have Amy text you her brand. You now, she’s naturally a redhead, right?”

  “No way!”

  “Way. Not since she’s been my goth-Friday, but I was at her mother’s place once, and there are pictures. Total ginger.” A platter of food came my way before we could discuss my assistant any further. Amy does a million jobs. Most importantly, she posts as me on social media because I have zero tolerance for idiots. If I were Tweeting every day, my career would go up in smoke, you know, unless I were president.

  I stabbed a big juicy steak, dropped it onto my plate, and enjoyed the friendly chaos of conversation going on around me. We talk so much when we’re together I don’t know how anyone eats. But we managed to decimate the meal, and get through dessert–apple pie with ice cream. It grew eerily silent once we had that in front of us.

  We really were a family. Not officially or anything, but I was starting to wonder if Mason was ever going to ask.

  Right. And it’s what year, now?

  I know, Inner Bitch, I know, but if I ask he might say no.

  He won’t.

  He could.

  He won’t.

  Myrtle growled, which Myrtle almost never did. Hugo immediately jumped in front of her and started snarfing. (Snarf: Snuffly barking, which is what bulldogs do. Yes, it’s another of my words, and also the only perfect word to describe this sound.) We looked where Hugo was looking, at a tall, young man with terrible posture, walking up our seldom used dirt road toward us.

  I got to my feet, still nervous from last night’s murder dream. Mason got up, too, stepped over the picnic bench and headed toward the guy. The stranger lifted a hand. He was looking right at me and smiling. “Rachel? Wow, it’s really you!”