by J. R. Rain
Licinia laughs. Your twenties are showing again, dear.
“Never mind. I mean I don’t enjoy telling people things that’ll knock the stuffing out of them.”
“Ahh. Floored. Got it. Heh. Never heard that one before. If you want me there, I can meet you?”
“It’s okay. I got it. Thanks.”
“Call me if you need anything.”
I smile. “I will.”
No sooner do I stand than my door opens and a slender woman with black hair walks in. She’s pale and has huge eyes, like one of those Japanese cartoons. Or at least as close as normal human anatomy can get. The forlorn-mixed-with-angry expression on her face plus wedding ring tells me another cheating spouse case has arrived.
“Good evening,” says the woman in a high-ish voice. If I heard that voice on the phone, I’d assume her twelve. “Are you Ms. Silver?”
“Either that, or I’m someone in the midst of breaking into her office.”
She stares at me much the way I’d expect a deer would look at an oncoming truck.
“Yes, I’m Alexis Silver. I was about to walk out though, another case has my urgent attention at the moment. I can only spare a few minutes for a cheating spouse.”
“All right. Thank you.” She sits in the facing chair. “Wow, you’re pretty good. And you’re right. I think my husband Eric is seeing another woman.”
“Working late a lot? Losing interest in you sexually?” New file. “What’s your name?”
“Rachel. Umm. Rachel Moss.” She fidgets at her wedding ring. “He comes home late a couple times a week and says he’s been ‘helping someone’ from work. Even disappeared one Saturday for a few hours.”
This woman looks dainty and vulnerable, but I’m mostly convinced she’s had years of practice exploiting her oversized eyes and isn’t half as timid as she’s putting on. Add to file: Eric Moss, perhaps cheating. I pull an iPad out of my desk drawer, pre-loaded with a form she can fill out with her information. She nods when I quote my standard rate. Given I’m not in this for the money, I charge only enough to make sure people are serious about wanting my services.
“Here, this’ll be easier.” I hand her the tablet and do some light web searching for her husband in the meantime.
He’s a customer care supervisor for an internet service provider. Middle manager type. Looks clean cut, if a bit on the skinny-emo side. Long brown hair, prominent nose, dense eyebrows. I wouldn’t call him a playboy, but he’s not too rough on the eyes. If he added some muscle mass, he’d be striking.
“I think that’s everything.” Rachel hands me the iPad back.
I give it a quick once-over, and it looks like she’s got everything, so I open the command menu, enter my password plus a file ID, which uploads it to the case notes. From the same drawer, I pull a white capsule-shaped GPS tracker out of its charger, and sync it to my phone.
“Like I said, I’m in the middle of a more pressing case. Life and death type stuff. I will look into your husband’s potential affairs as soon as possible. Can you place this tracker in his car without him noticing? Bury it in the glove compartment or one of the backseat cup-holders. I’d appreciate getting it back when we’re done, so please don’t roll it under the seat or drop it in the gas tank.”
She nods, smiles, and takes it. All her timidity is gone, replaced with a wounded vindictiveness I’ve seen all too often. “I can do that. Thanks.”
“No problem.” I offer a handshake. “I’ll call you as soon as I’ve got something worth passing on.”
“I understand.” Rachel stands. “Thank you for helping.” She bows her head. “I never would’ve believed him capable… I thought he loved me.”
They almost all say that. “You might be reading too much into whatever he’s doing. It could be a misunderstanding.” I almost always say that back, and I’m usually wrong.
“Thanks for thinking the best of him. I guess I can hope, right?” She flashes a wan smile and walks out.
I lock the computer and leave my office a few steps behind her.
The ride to Olympic Hills takes twenty-seven minutes. I nose my Rubi onto the driveway of David’s parents’ house in the midst of a nice suburban area. It’s a two-story loaf-shaped home. A double garage door sits on the left under four artistic L-shaped red beams that connect the roof overhang to the wall. The front doors are doubles, beneath a large, square window that probably lets sunlight into a two-story atrium by a stairway.
Gerald opens the door when I’m halfway from my Jeep to the porch. He probably heard me pull in, likely not used to having visitors. I manage to keep a straight face as I walk up to him.
“Ms. Silver.” His white caterpillar eyebrows climb. “Oh… oh, no.”
I rush forward and grab his arm before he collapses. The old guy’s smart. I’d have phoned him with good news. Showing up in person is not a good sign. He’s too out of it to notice I easily guide/carry him inside and into a living room on the right. A waxy-cinnamon scent permeates the house, the candle from whence it came flutters on a coffee table. Lorraine, perched on the dark blue sofa, faces a huge flat-panel TV, but a small, handheld device has her attention. As soon as she notices me dragging her husband in, she damn near drops it.
“What’s happened?” asks Lorraine, her voice teetering.
Gerald refuses to let go of my arms after I ease him into the sofa next to his wife, so I wind up taking a knee. I probably reek of saltwater, but they haven’t noticed or cared.
His fingers dig into my arms. “What’s happened?”
“Hannah is okay.” I hope.
Some relief shows on both their faces.
“But…” Lorraine’s lip quivers.
I swallow a lump. I’ve never been good at this sort of thing. Then again, is it possible for someone with a soul to get ‘comfortable’ giving this kind of news? “I’m sorry. I was able to locate your son, David and his wife. They were both killed.”
“Oh, no!” Lorraine wails and grabs on to Gerald, who mercifully releases me to hold her instead.
For a minute or three, I remain silent and motionless as they run the gamut of emotion from dumbfounded staring, to sobbing, to fury. Eventually, Gerald composes himself enough to speak.
“Tell us what happened, please,” he wheezes.
“A man from his company invited them on a weekend boat trip. While they were out on the Sound…” I look them both in the eye, one after the next. “I’m theorizing here. This is not fact yet.”
They nod.
“I believe the man attacked them in the middle of the night, stabbing David to death in his sleep. Christina woke and tried to defend herself, but wasn’t successful. I know it doesn’t help much, but I doubt David felt a thing.”
“What about Hannah?” Lorraine shivers, kneading her hands.
“I’m not a hundred percent yet, but I believe she woke up while the man was attacking her mother, and I’m sure she saw it.”
Gerald emits a strangled gurgle, his eyes closed, while Lorraine stares at me, lip quivering.
“She escaped with the life raft he had been planning to use after scuttling the boat. I don’t know if he intended to harm Hannah as well, let her go down with the boat, or pretend to ‘rescue’ her from a sinking ship. This afternoon, some people in a cabin cruiser found the life raft with her in it. She kept saying ‘the bad man killed them.’”
“Is she all right?” asks Lorraine.
I open and close my mouth, thinking. “The condition she was in, she’d been at least a day or two without water or food, exposed to the elements. I’m starting to believe he killed them Friday night.” Cold ocean water can extend rigor by days. “She’s at Seattle Children’s Hospital. They don’t know who she is yet. I’ve given your information to the police already. The detective investigating David’s death is named Webb.”
“Please, help them find who did this.” Lorraine grabs my shoulder. “For our son.”
I pat her hand. “I will. I’m pretty sure I
know already.” I explain about how Troy washed up on Marrowstone Island Monday morning with a wild story about a freak wave.
Gerald’s face reddens. “I know that name. David had gotten quite upset with a ‘Troy’ about three months ago.”
“Around when the threatening calls and strange cars started?” I ask.
They stare at me in shock for a few seconds before Lorraine nods. “Yes, that’s right.”
Hmm. The cheap-katana neighbor got a look at the guy who followed Hannah home from her bus stop. I should swing by and show him Troy’s picture. It doesn’t feel right though. Computer nerds with CEO jobs (even for tiny start-ups) don’t tail eight-year-olds walking home from school in their spare time, or throw bricks through windows.
“Will you make sure they get him?” asks Gerald. “Why did he do this to David and his family…?”
“You make sure he goes down,” says Lorraine, in the most sinister tone I’ve ever heard from an older woman.
You haven’t seen me on a bad day.
I gently pull her hand off my shoulder and clasp it in both of mine. “I will.”
’m worn out by the time I get home, and settle for a chunk of tuna from my freezer. Raw, of course, once it thaws. Overtaking and devouring dinner under the waves is much more fulfilling, but I lack the energy, and wind up munching while perched on the sofa, ogling Gregory Peck in Twelve O’Clock High. I remember catching that one in the theater. Doesn’t feel like all that long ago. What was it… 1949?
One moment, the Eighth Air Force is on the screen, the next, poorly colorized Romans. Licinia’s running commentary on how ridiculous whatever movie this is woke me up. Ugh. I must’ve drifted off. For a while, I debate saying ‘screw it’ and sleeping on the couch in my clothes, but summon every ounce of willpower and get to my feet. After turning the TV off, I make my way upstairs, enjoy a cool shower, and flop in bed.
Sleep is fitful. I drift in and out all night, my thoughts chased by the same, nebulous feeling of worry that hit me when Serrano mentioned Seattle Children’s Hospital. A couple times in my life, I’ve almost wound up taking in a child. This boy in ‘71 was the closest. Kevin Rawlins. Six years old and kidnapped by his estranged father after he’d murdered the mother. Wasn’t even my case. I was tracking down a creep stalking my client at the time, and the two came walking past me. As soon as I locked eyes with the boy, I knew something wasn’t right. A bit of charm wrapped the guy around my finger and he couldn’t wait to tell me everything he did, and that he still hadn’t made up his mind if he’d leave the boy alive.
Licinia had been inches from killing him, but we were out in the open. I had him stand there until the police showed up, and asked the guy as sweet as I could to tell the nice officer what he’d just told me. They found the woman dead two houses away.
I almost took that boy home.
Geez, he’d be past fifty now. Anyone seeing us together would’ve thought him my father.
And that’s why I don’t get attached.
At least the dread centered on Hannah is weaker, so I do manage to sleep a little. By the time morning rolls around, I can’t think of anything else but her: how she’s doing, did she wake up yet, did she suffer any long-term injuries, and so on.
I jog naked out my back door around 6 a.m., and hit Lake Washington for breakfast. Fresh food makes me feel a bit better, and afterward, I walk back into the house picking my teeth with a crab leg. That always drove Patrick, my werewolf ‘husband,’ crazy. Watching me eat shellfish, shell and all. Every time I crunched, he’d cringe. His loss.
A quick shower later, I hop in my Rubi and hurry over to Seattle Children’s Hospital after making a detour to buy a plush unicorn. When I find one that looks exactly like the one I left in the Bit Bucket, my gut churns. Good luck like this worries me. She’d be so thrilled (I hope) to have her plushie back, I may well wind up finding her in a coma she’ll never wake from.
Argh.
Maybe I drive a little too fast on the way to the hospital.
My powers of mental influence are a lot weaker on straight women than they are on heterosexual men, but it’s enough to get the duty nurse to believe I’m David’s sister. She gives me the room number, and I hurry off down the hall.
Hannah’s the only patient in a two-bed room, nearer the window. Gerald and Lorraine are with her, sitting on either side, Lorraine holding her hand. The girl appears asleep, which worries me, but she’s gotten some color back. They’ve got her on an IV, but no beeping monitors or anything. As soon as I see her, that sense of worry that had been dogging me all night disappears.
The grandparents look up as I walk in clutching the stuffed animal.
“Hi. How’s she doing?” I hold up the plush. “I umm, got her something.”
Lorraine puts on an expression of resolute determination. “They told us she hasn’t regained consciousness yet, but the doctor thinks it might only be extreme exhaustion.”
I approach the foot of the bed, mesmerized by the girl’s chest rising and falling. Why aren’t I worried anymore? My presence here didn’t magically fix whatever’s wrong with her, or prevent her health from taking a downturn. What could me simply being here do, other than moral support? I stoop forward and tuck the unicorn under her right arm, the one without an IV line.
“We’re keeping our hopes high.” Gerald pats Hannah’s other arm a safe distance above the IV. “They’re giving her fluids.”
“Is it all right if I stay for a little while?”
“I suppose it’s all right.” Lorraine lowers her head and sighs. “Figuring out why all this happened isn’t as urgent as finding David was.”
“Don’t think we’re blaming you.” Gerald pushes a chair over for me. “We spoke to Detective Webb. He believes our son was dead before we ever came to you.”
“He also said something curious.” Lorraine gives me an odd stare. “They said the people who found her told him the life raft came at them like a speedboat.”
I feign surprise. “That’s odd. Maybe a dolphin found her and brought her to other humans? They say they’re quite smart.”
“Hum.” Gerald scratches his chin. “Didn’t think of that. Are they really?”
“I think so. Some even recognize specific boats where the people drop food for them.”
“How ‘bout that. Learn something new every day,” says Gerald.
We sit for a while, mostly silent. Occasionally, they ask about the killer. I whisper about my belief Troy is responsible, and that I’m confident the police will nail him once they have enough evidence together for an indictment.
Quintus developed a fever when he was about this age. Licinia directs my thoughts to a dry, dusty room where a brown-skinned boy with dark hair lays upon a woven cloth mat. He’s barely got any clothing on, a pathetic scrap of fabric tied around him like a tiny pair of underpants. He’s so thin, I put a hand to my throat, choked up at the near-starved look to him. I’m seeing from Licinia’s eyes as she tends to her son. I did what I had to do to save his life.
I clench my jaw.
No. Not another child. The heart came from a Roman soldier. My thoughts jump to heart transplant, but she pushes the idea out of my head. No, I needed the heart for the ritual. It restored his strength enough to live, but Quintus remained slight of body for the rest of his life. He was a kind, thoughtful soul. Despite his physical frailty, he lived to eighty-nine.
Wow, that’s impressive for the day.
His life was beyond natural after I had cured him. Quintus never became sick again, though he did break his leg twice.
Ahh.
Unlike me, Licinia wouldn’t remain ageless to watch her children grow old and die. Upon her mortal death, her soul hurtled into the Void, and lurked, separate from time, until a door opened for her to slip through. Her first mermaid.
Oh, Greta was not happy with me. The woman hurled herself from ocean cliffs when her husband perished at sea. She wanted to die, but I had other plans. She told the waves to take
her, and so I did. I was quite a bit angrier back then.
Ouch.
“Ms. Silver?” asks Gerald.
I snap back to the here and now. “Yes?”
“Lori and I are going to visit the cafeteria. Would you mind staying with Hannah until we return? So she’s not alone if she wakes up before we’re back?”
“Of course.”
The Stricklands make their way out of the room, pausing right outside the door to look left and right. They spend a minute or so debating which way to go before Gerald takes the initiative and heads to the left.
I move to the chair Lorraine had been in closer to the bed, and instinctively hold Hannah’s hand. She’s much warmer than before, which is a good sign. “Hey, kiddo. You look a lot better.” Her forehead is also warm, but not alarmingly so.
Inconveniently, the need to use the bathroom strikes me after a few minutes. This is much easier to deal with out at sea. The necessary aperture is further down my tail, about where my ankles are in human form. It’s somewhat like a bird, in that it happens and I don’t even notice. Alas I’m not swimming at the moment. The room has a small restroom in the corner opposite the door leading out to the hall.
Grumbling, I get up and hurry into the bathroom.
Further confusing my debate about being ‘still somehow alive’ or closer to what vampires are is the need to use the toilet. It happens more frequently when I eat ‘not-meat.’ My body won’t process it, and it only rents space, so to speak. Again, a diet to die for. I can eat as much fattening whatever as I want―enjoying the flavor and texture―and it does nothing to me. Manfred had been rather jealous of that. Food made him quite ill, and he’d wind up retching all over the place if he dared consume anything but blood.
As a mermaid, however, my tastes did change somewhat. I once adored (but couldn’t afford) sweets and baked things. Now they’re ‘nice,’ and I salivate over a wriggling live trout the way I used to want tarts.
Ahh well.
As I’m cleaning up, a metal clatter followed by a stumbling squeak of shoes catches my attention, like someone walking into an overbed tray table.
