John looked over at me. “What's the matter?”
I shook my head. “That guy's a turd. I wanna get out of here.”
“Yeah he's a dick.” John chuckled. “But we have to see this thing through and act like the dog thing wasn't talent, just coincidence. You got me?”
I nodded, I got it alright.
Garcia and Baldy had their heads together, one a cue ball, the other an eight ball.
Garcia turned to John and me. “Mr. Smith here”—he motioned with his notepad to Baldy—“said that you did something to the dog?” He raised his eyebrows.
How to answer without getting my butt in a sling?
John spoke before I had a chance, “Caleb's a major animal lover.”
I worked to keep the surprise off my face.
“That's not what Mr. Smith said. This man claims that he was sure the dog was dead. Then you”—he pointed at me—“touched it, and the dog was suddenly alive again.”
I thought fast.
“Can you explain that?” he asked.
Actually no.
“John's right. Um… I couldn't help it. That poor dog…” I looked down at my shoes, trying to think of what else to say. “Um… I don't think it was dead, though. I mean… it was just hurt.” I pointed at the dog, who was sitting a few feet away, still staring at me.
Before the dog, I hadn’t known dying things could also call to me.
Garcia stared at me for a moment then asked, “You boys live around here?”
John answered, “Yeah, Caleb lives right there.” He pointed toward the top of the rise. “And I live about half a mile from here.”
Garcia held his pen poised over the notepad. “Names?”
“Caleb Hart.”
Garcia's head jerked up. “The scientist's kid?”
“Yeah,” I answered unenthusiastically.
“Now that's a cool relative to have,” he commented with a smile.
“I guess.” Whatever, he was just my dad to me.
“John Terran,” John said, effectively getting me off the hook of dealing with the awkward your-parent-is-kinda-famous moment.
“Okay, you kids get in the police car, and I'll give you a ride home.”
The dog looked up at me and whined softly.
“What about the dog?” I asked.
As if on cue, Animal Control arrived. A ginormous gal poured into an unflattering tan uniform barreled through the crowd accompanied by a skinny partner. The dog immediately went on alert.
I reached out to pet the dog’s head. Garcia and John both tried to pull me away, while the Animal Control lady cleared an evil-looking baton from her utility belt. The dog eluded the baton, which had an attached noose, and darted behind John and me.
Garcia pointed at me. “I don't want any trouble, and I already told you boys not to touch that dog.”
“I thought I could help,” I said. “He seems to like me.”
“Let Animal Control do their job, son,” Garcia said.
Ignoring him, I put my hand on the dog. I thought, Sleep.
“That's it!” Garcia said. He strode over and took John and me by our arms and frog-marched us to his patrol car. I glanced back and saw that the dog was knocked out cold.
Garcia unceremoniously dumped us into the back seat. “Stay put.”
We watched him walk away. He talked with Baldy, who kept vigorously nodding his head and casting dirty looks at us. Animal Control got the dog in their van, a pretty easy process since he was asleep. Skinny was the “collector,” and Humongous was “supervising” this process while standing importantly with Garcia.
The inside of the cop car was pretty gross. Remnants of goop was all over the backs of the seats and door handles. Dried patches of mystery fluids were on the floor. My lunch began to rise into my throat. John hunched over, keeping his arms tucked into his sides so that less of his body touched his surroundings.
Good luck with that one.
Garcia jogged back to the patrol car, slid into the front seat, and turned around to look at us. “I am required to take your statements with a parent or guardian present.”
My parents were gonna have a turtle when a police car pulled up in front of the house!
Thoughts swirled in my head: How did I stop that dog from dying? Why didn't I need blood to do it? Was that a coincidence at the cemetery? Or because it was a person and fully dead, had I needed something extra?
As I put my head between my knees to quell the dizziness that threatened, I decided to read some more about paranormal abilities and Jeffrey Parker. It was time to get up close and personal with AFTD. I needed to rule it, not the other way around.
CHAPTER 6
Garcia pulled the patrol car into my driveway. “That's unique.”
My house was a ranch style with cream-colored arches across the facade. The outer walls were stucco, really different for rainy Washington.
Garcia got out and opened the back door of the car. As John and I climbed out, Mom came out the front door of the house.
Garcia raised his hand out in an inoffensive way like, everything’s okay.
She walked through the open courtyard that separated the driveway from the front door and came to stand in front of Garcia.
“The kids aren't in any trouble, Mrs. Hart.”
Mom told him, “Ali's fine.”
“Okay, Ali. I’m Sergeant Garcia. The boys witnessed a vehicular accident in which a dog was hit, and I need to take down their statements with an adult present.”
Mom's face looked relieved that some catastrophe (she was always ranting about my safety, which got to be annoying) had not befallen us.
With Mom leading the way, we plodded inside. The house smelled like cookies and bread. John gave the air an experimental sniff, too.
The Appetite Beast was alive and well.
Garcia sat down on our couch with a psychedelically colorful afghan spread over it.
“Would you care for anything to drink, Sergeant Garcia?” Mom asked.
Garcia seemed surprised. “Ah, sure, thanks.”
Mom went into the kitchen and came back with a glass of water that she handed to Garcia. Then she perched on the armrest of the couch. Mom usually made cookies once a week. Jonesy liked to show up just as they came out of the oven.
As if I had just conjured him up, he walked through the door.
“Hey, Caleb. What's with the cop car outside?” he asked loudly so there was zero chance to deflect it. His question landed like a bomb in the middle of the room.
John cringed.
Garcia turned to Jonesy. “Caleb witnessed an accident so I’m taking his and John's statements.”
“No kidding? Well, I'm going to stay for this!” Seemingly unfazed by the cop in our living room, Jonesy asked Mom what she'd made.
“Peanut butter chocolate chip cookies.”
“Yes!” Jonesy pumped his arm up and down.
Garcia smiled.
For Jonesy, Garcia just happened to be in my house where Mom made cookies and there may be a cool story as a bonus.
John glanced at me and shrugged.
Garcia took a long gulp of water, then turned to John and me.
“Okay, boys, let’s go over what happened.” He glanced down at his notepad. “You heard a screeching sound, then you saw Mr....” He tapped the notepad. “Mr. Smith's 2023 champagne-colored Ford Grun strike a dog.” He looked at me then at John.
“Is this accurate, boys?”
I was opening my mouth when Jonesy busted in with. “Did the dog die?”
I gave an inward grown. Getting Garcia away from thinking about the strangeness of the dog was epic fail with Jonesy bringing attention to it. John was trying to alert Jonesy to shut up. That never worked. Jonesy was happily stuffing cookies in his mouth and slurping milk.
“Yeah, that's accurate,” I replied.
Garcia gave me the cop stare. Adults wanted kids to fill those awkward silences. That was where I'd get tripped up. Mom looked puzzl
ed.
“Now, it's interesting that you mention the dog,” Garcia said, “because Mr. Smith said that he was certain the dog had been killed.”
My heart rate sped up, and my palms got damp. We'd already been over this. But here he was, bringing it up again. “No... no, he was still alive, barely.”
Garcia smiled. “Okay, Caleb. There were some witnesses who said that you”—he glanced down at his notepad—man, was I beginning to hate that thing—“laid hands on the dog, and it began breathing again.” He pierced me with eyes where the irises blended with the pupils, and I was suddenly reminded of Brett.
“Maybe he was dead for a minute,” I said, choosing my words slowly, “but he must have revived or something.”
Garcia didn't even pause. “One witness said when you touched the dog, there was an ‘energy’ around you.”
My mouth fell open.
“The witness is an aura reader,” Garcia explained.
I'm screwed. Aura readers identified paranormals. I was sure I had my panic face on, and John was as pale as a ghost.
“You know, Sergeant Garcia,” Mom said in a sugar-sweet voice, “Caleb is a minor (that word came out sounding vaguely like lawsuit, I noted with grim satisfaction), and he hasn't committed any crime, so I'm not sure that this line of questioning is justified.”
I heard: Stop bugging my kid, or I'll make you sorry.
Garcia looked at Mom thoughtfully. She tilted her head to the side, and a large gold hoop swung forward, peeking out of her thick hair and twinkling in the late sunlight streaming through the window. I had a sudden stab of love for Mom.
Then, I decided to man up, I wasn't a little kid anymore. “I have Affinity for the Dead.”
It sounded like a disease, as if I’d said, I have cancer. I have two weeks to live. I wasn't going to die. I was going to start living and stop being scared. The Js looked at me as if they thought I was insane.
Garcia appeared startled.
“Caleb!” Mom said sharply, her mouth in a thin line.
“It's okay, Mom. I know he won't tell anyone.”
Garcia needed to feel the burden of my trust, roll it around and taste it like candy in his mouth. I was hoping that Garcia believed in what he was, a policeman meant to serve and protect.
“Caleb's right,” Garcia said, looking at me with kinder eyes. “I don't have to tell this part. You're right, too, Mrs. Hart. He is a minor, and he hasn't committed a crime.
I felt a but coming.
“But there were witnesses. A young woman noticed what Caleb did. She is under no such restrictions. There is no law that will keep her from sharing what she saw.”
Garcia leaned back and crossed his legs, his ankle resting on his opposite knee. His black uniform looked crisp, the sharp creases in his pant legs bisecting the center. His tie tack glinted in the sun as he shifted. He turned to me. “Why do you want to hide it, Caleb? There are other AFTDs.”
Because it threatens my freedom. I thought of Gramps, who always told me freedom was more precious than money. I was beginning to believe him.
“I don't want to end up like Jeffrey Parker,” I said.
Garcia was thoughtful, the whole room held its collective breath.
Garcia nodded. “Yes, that would be enough to give anyone pause.”
Dad walked through the door to the garage. His hair was mussed, and he carried his briefcase.
“What's going on here?” He tossed his coat on the hook by the door.
I sighed. It was gonna be a long night.
Mom and Garcia started to speak at the same time, then they both laughed nervously. Jonesy looked from my mom to my dad then back to Garcia as if watching a tennis match gone wrong. Then, he shrugged and grabbed another cookie. John folded his arms across his skinny chest.
“You go ahead,” Mom told Garcia.
Garcia gave her a brief nod. “Mr. Hart”—he stood and held out his hand—“I'm Sergeant Garcia with the King County Police.”
Dad took the offered hand and gave it a few hard pumps.
He was such a huge contrast to the Hispanic-looking Garcia. Dad loomed over the cop, standing a couple inches taller. “Kyle Hart.” Dad smiled and took a seat on the piano bench facing us..
Garcia sat back on the couch and went over the whole story. He ended with “... and now you see, Mr. Hart, we are at an impasse.”
I deliberated... a standstill! Gotcha.
Dad's face had been thoughtful, then had become somber at the end. He nodded. “We thought that we had some time to devise a plan that would garner Caleb some options so he could come to terms with his new skills. But his skill set is accelerating on course with other puberty manifestations.
He is apparently gaining abilities that I cannot predict, and they are popping up at extremely inconvenient and public locations.”
I did a mental face-palm when Jonesy stopped mid-chew. “I still wanna know what happened to the dog.”
We all frowned at him. Mom wrinkled her nose.
“What?” He slurped the last of his milk.
“I mean, this is good news because my bro here”—he brandished his empty glass in my direction—“saved a dog, but everyone is freaked over it.” For Jonesy, it was a simple affair of right and wrong. He didn't do shades of gray.
John said, “Yeah, it's cool about the dog, but not everyone is going to think it's cool, Jonesy.”
Mom said, “I was cleaning out your room, Caleb.”
I visualized all the crap strewn over the floor. Swell.
“I found some papers about the Parker boy. Once he was identified with AFTD and the government enacted an amendment against some of his rights as a person, his freedoms were stripped.”
Mom was gonna rage.
Garcia gestured with his hand, wait a sec. Mom popped her mouth shut. Huh, she hadn't even Made-Her-Point.
“Mrs. Hart, let's not panic yet. That was a decade ago. Parker was the first, extreme case that had been seen. You remember the headlines.”
As I had only been five in 2015 when that first inoculation round had been given, I didn't remember.
Dad, no intellectual slouch. “You're right. He didn’t just talk to the dead, divine ghosts, or glean how someone died. He was a Cadaver-Manipulator.”
Not even glancing my way, Garcia said, “Well, isn't it fortunate that Caleb doesn't have to worry about that? Controlling the dead is a whole other ball of wax.”
“Very fortunate,” Dad agreed, giving me his best, I-will-throw-lab-beakers-at-you-if-you-talk stare. I snapped my mouth shut.
The Js remained as silent as a tomb.
I repressed a wild urge to laugh.
Garcia braced his palms on his knees and stood, smoothing his uniform as he straightened. Dad got up, running a nervous hand through his hair and making it messier than before.
Garcia fished something out of his perfectly ironed shirt pocket.
He handed me a business card.
I told him I'd never seen that area code.
“Yeah, it was my dad's. He was a cop, too.” He rolled his shoulders in a shrug, “I got it when he retired.”
Dad harrumphed. “I haven't seen one of those in thirty years.”
Garcia smiled and told me, “You call me if you need anything. Just thumb my number in your pulse.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Anytime, for whatever.”
His gaze traveled to the parents, and I was sure he knew there was something more, but he let it go. The twilight edged around him like a halo as he slipped out the door.
Mom leaned against the closed door, locking the dead bolt.
“Wasn't that close!”
Dad nodded. “It's safe to say we're fast running out of time before there will be a contingent of people with a clearer understanding of just what Caleb is capable of.”
“I think Garcia’s a good man,” Mom said. “But he may not be ready to know that last part. Cadaver manipulator might be a bit much.”
Jonesy chanted, “Co
rpse raiser, corpse raiser, it rocks!” He air-pumped with his fist.
John smirked. “You didn't think it rocked when you sprinted out of the cemetery, or when Caleb and I had to do the little blood ritual.”
Mom's mouth unhinged itself from her jaw and Dad looked astounded.
“Blood ritual?” they asked in unison.
“You didn't tell us that detail,” Dad said.
“Is that how you think you did it?” Mom asked with a frown. Probably thinking about all the ways my safety could have been in jeopardy (it was), or some other thing that could have befallen me (it did).
“Well, kinda,” I said.
“Caleb, just barf it out,” Jonesy said.
I fought not to tap my fingers on a surface. “I felt like a tingling... an energy. As soon as I stepped through the gate of that cemetery, I knew there was one voice that was calling me above the others.” I sighed.
“When I got there, I felt like I was in the middle of a whirlpool, that something was just under the surface, waiting to rise. It was like all the energy in the world was waiting for me to take that next step.”
Jonesy interrupted with a loud thwack of his right fist smacking into the palm of his left hand. “And then I hit him a good one!”
Mom jumped, letting out a nervous laugh.
I glanced at Jonesy. “Yeah, thanks for that.”
He gave the what? expression.
John shook his head.
Dad asked, “Do you think after Jonesy hit you that the catalyst was the violence or the blood? Because blood is organic, but so is violence, if one thinks on that.”
That was interesting. I hadn't thought violence was any part of it. I'd assumed that the blood was somehow an integral part of why the corpse rose to begin with.
“That would explain the dog,” John said quietly. He shifted his weight, arms still locked over his chest. “I mean, the car hitting the dog was an act of violence, right? If Baldy—” John continued.
“Smith,” I corrected.
“Whatever.” He shrugged. “If Smith hit that dog, then he wasn't being careful. Cars give warnings about obstacles. It's standard.” John was kinda stiff, but he was making some good points. “Really, if you think about it, he shouldn't have hit the dog at all.”
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