Death Whispers (Death Series, Book 1)

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  Baldy stepped away from John and me, giving us a look that I never wanted to see on an adult's face, revulsion mixed with fear. I hadn't noticed before but now I saw a semi-circle of wary faces. What had they seen?

  I glanced at John who said in a low voice, “We're screwed.”

  Ya think? Just the kind of proof I was avoiding.

  The dog was sitting up but still looked injured. Its eyes followed me like I was all that mattered. My creepy new reality.

  Wonderful.

  A cop moved through the small crowd with a notebook in hand.

  “You boys there,” we looked up, his name tag read Garcia. “Step away from the dog.”

  We did, the dog dragging behind me with a limp.

  Garcia-the-cop approached the dog reaching his hand out, the dog growled low in the back of his throat, showing teeth. Garcia backed away, his eyes remaining on the dog, he brought out his pulse.

  After he depressed his touch pad he looked up again, “I've pulsed animal control. They'll be here soon.”

  My heart sped, I didn't like the dog being taken away.

  “Okay,” Garcia said. “Somebody start talking.”

  Baldy stepped up, wringing his plump hands, “I was driving along, doing the speed limit, when this dog just appeared out of nowhere,” he spread his hands wide to show how it was just one of those things. “And these two boys,” he gave us an accusing glance, (wasn't this turning out special), “were on the other side of the road and I had to avoid them.” He gave that last word special emphasis, as if us walking on the side of the road was a crime.

  Garcia opened his hand, “Identification, please?”

  Baldy gave us an unfriendly look and handed over his driver's license. I felt the pressure building and tried to rein it in. When I was upset it was way worse to manage.

  John looked down at me. “What's the matter?”

  “That guy's a turd. I wanna get out of here.”

  “Yeah he's a dick.” John gave a chuckle, “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. I didn't know if AFTD was talent, but it was annoying.

  Garcia and Baldy had their heads together, one a cue ball, the other an eight ball.

  Finally, the cop 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,” he said.

  I kept the shock off my face. That wasn't exactly accurate, but...

  “That's not what Mr. Smith said: 'he was',” he looked down at his notepad for the exact quote, “...'sure the dog was dead.' Then you touched it and everything 'got funny' and the dog was suddenly alive again.”

  “Can you explain that?” he asked.

  Actually no.

  John looked down at me with an “I tried” expression. Lying sucked, let's see how creative I could be.

  “John's right.” Garcia turned to John, seemingly taking him in for the first time. “I couldn't seem to help myself, seeing it lying there,” I looked down at my shoes, hiding my expression, giving myself time to continue, “I don't know how it got better.”

  That was mainly the truth. Before today, I didn't know dying things could also “call” to me, image me. Everything, every being was unique: an insect was not a dog, a dog was NOT a human being. I held Garcia's stare and he seemed to decide something, “You boys live around here?”

  John answered, “Yeah, Caleb lives right there,” John pointed over 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 and he looked at me more closely, “The scientist's kid?”

  “Yeah,” I answered with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “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.”

  “What about the dog?” I asked. The dog looked up at me and whined softly. As if on cue, animal control arrived. A ginormous gal poured into an unflattering light tan uniform barreled through the crowd accompanied by a skinny partner. Two more opposite people you'd never see. The dog's posture immediately changed, he was alert.

  I was bothered by the dog's suffering so I reached out and several things happened at once, Garcia tried to pull me away, the huge animal control gal cleared her evil-looking baton from her utility belt and John pulled me back. I missed purchase on the dog as Garcia did on me. The dog eluded the baton with an attached noose, parking himself behind John and I.

  Garcia said to me directly, “I don't want any trouble and I already told you boys not to touch that dog.”

  “I thought I could help, he seems to like me,” I said.

  “Let animal control do their job, son,” Garcia said.

  Ignoring him, I put my hand on the dog thinking... sleep.

  “That's it!” Garcia said. He strode the two feet over to where John and I stood and took us each by the arm to his patrol car. I chanced a look behind me and saw the dog knocked out cold. Garcia was tallish, my feet skimmed the ground as he hauled me and John to the car where we were unceremoniously dumped inside.

  He pointed his finger at us. “Stay put.”

  We watched him walk away. He lingered with Baldy for a short time who nodded his head vigorously, casting dirty looks at us whenever Garcia turned away. Then he spoke with animal control who were collecting the dog. Skinny was the “collector,” and Humongous was “supervising” this process while standing importantly with Garcia.

  Garcia jogged back to the patrol car. John and I were surveying the inside of the patrol car and I deemed it pretty gross. I could see remnants of goop all over the back of the seat, floor and handles on the door. The black upholstery didn't hide it either. There were dried patches of “mystery fluid” in strategic locations. The contents of lunch began to rise in my stomach. John reacted similarly, hunching in on himself so less of him touched his surroundings.

  Good luck with that one.

  Garcia slid into the front seat and turned around to look at us. “I am required to take your statements with your parent or guardian present,” Garcia said, in a matter-of-fact voice.

  Sounded like he had said that a few times. My parents were gonna have a turtle when a police car pulled up in front of the house!

  Thoughts swirled in my head like: 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 (before) and it was “fully dead,” I needed something extra? I didn't have those answers. As I put my head between my knees to quell the dizziness that threatened I knew tonight I'd 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 surveyed my house briefly. “That's unique.”

  It was a ranch style with cream-colored arches across the facade, covered in stucco, really different for rainy Washington.

  We followed Garcia and Mom came through the door and under the open archway before we had a chance to get to it.

  Garcia seemed to “get it,” putting his hand out in an inoffensive way like, everything’s okay.

  “The kids aren't in any trouble Mrs. Hart.” Garcia began, but my mom cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Ali's fine.”

  “Okay... Ali,” he paused, “they witnessed a vehicular accident in which a dog was hit and I need to take down their statements with an adult present.”r />
  Mom's face looked relieved that some catastrophe (she was always ranting about my safety, which got to be annoying) had not befallen us. She stepped backwards, to let Garcia pass. While she waited for us to trudge through, I watched Garcia look around our house. It smelled like cookies and bread, those were good smells. John gave the air an experimental whiff too.

  The Appetite Beast was alive and well.

  Garcia sat down on the psychedelically colorful couch.

  “Do you care for anything to drink, Sergeant Garcia?” she asked, checking out Garcia's name tag.

  “Ah, sure, thanks.”

  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. The words landed like a bomb in the middle of the room, John cringed.

  Garcia turned to Jonesy. “Caleb witnessed an accident so I am taking his and John's statements.”

  “No kidding? Well, I'm going to stay for this!” Unfazed by the cop in our living room, he proceeded to ask mom what she'd made today.

  “Peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies.”

  “Yes!” Jonesy pumped his arm up and down. Garcia sorta looked down, smiling.

  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 just looked at me and shrugged, what do we do with him?

  Garcia took a long gulp of water, then turned to John and I, Mom perching on the armrest of the couch.

  “Okay Caleb, tell me what happened,” he glanced down at his notepad briefly, then looked up, “you heard a 'screeching,' then, you saw Mr....” he tapped the notepad, “Smith's 2023 champagne-colored Ford Grun strike a dog.” He looked at me, then John.

  “Is this accurate boys?”

  I was opening my mouth when Jonesy busted in with. “Did the dog die?”

  I gave an inward grown, my peripheral vision telling me John was trying to alert Jonesy to shut up. That never worked. Getting Garcia away from thinking about the strangeness of the dog was epic-fail with Jonesy bringing attention to it. I looked over at Jonesy happily stuffing cookies and slurping milk.

  “Yeah, that's accurate,” I replied.

  Garcia gave me the “cop stare.” Adults want kids to fill those awkward silences. That's where I'd get tripped up. Mom was giving me a puzzled look. She knew something was going on.

  “Now, it's interesting that you mention the dog.” Garcia began, (actually, Jonesy had) “because Mr...” he rolled his eyes up, “... Smith,” he remembered, “said that he was certain the dog had been killed.”

  My heart sped, my hands immediately dampening. “No... no, he was still alive, barely.”

  “Okay... Caleb,” he paused, giving a small smile, “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.” Looking directly at me with a piercing stare out of eyes which blended with the pupil, I was suddenly reminded of Brett. He had those eyes.

  “Maybe he was dead for a minute...” I began, choosing my words slowly, “but he must have revived or something.”

  Garcia didn't even pause, “One witness said that the dog's breath had gone out of it before you reached it. That when you touched it, there was an 'energy' around you.”

  My head snapped back up. What? Was that possible?

  “The witness is an Aura Reader, Caleb.”

  I was screwed! They identify paranormals. I am sure I had my panic-face on. John was as pale as a ghost (hardy har-har).

  “You know, Sergeant Garcia,” Mom's voice was all sweet, but dude, I knew that tone!

  “Caleb is a minor (that word came out sounding vaguely like lawsuit, I noted with grim satisfaction), and hasn't perpetuated 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, twinkling in the late sunlight streaming through the window. I had a sudden stab of love for Mom, standing up for me. I decided to man-up, I wasn't little anymore.

  I broke the silence. “I have Affinity for the Dead.”

  It sounded like a disease, ya know: I have cancer, I have two weeks to live. I wasn't going to die. I was going to start living now and stop being scared. The Js looked at me like I was insane.

  Garcia startled.

  “Caleb!” Mom said sharply, her mouth in a thin line.

  “It's okay Mom, I know that he won't tell anyone.”

  He 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: to serve and protect.

  “Caleb's right,” 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 hasn't committed a crime.”

  I felt a but coming.

  “But,” he said and I smiled, “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.

  “I cannot protect Caleb's information.” He turned to me, “Why do you want to hide it, Caleb? There are other AFTDs.”

  Because it threatened 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.

  Mom looked at me with her mouth in an “O” of surprise. I didn't want to work for the government and have no choices, duh! John nodded, he knew what had happened to Parker.

  Jonesy gave a nod because his mouth was full.

  Garcia was thoughtful, the whole room held its collective breath.

  Finally, Garcia said, “Yes, that would be enough to give anyone pause.” A silent consent passed between him and Mom. My identity stripped away, a possible slave for a government that would use me under the guise of protecting the nation or some crap like that, ah... no.

  Dad walked through the garage door with his hair in disarray, briefcase in hand.

  “What's going on here?” he asked, fingers balanced on the doorknob, tossing 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, laughing nervously. Jonesy looked from my mom to my dad then back to Garcia like a tennis match gone wrong, shrugged, and grabbed another cookie. John had his arms folded across his skinny chest silently watching the drama unfold.

  “You go ahead,” Mom said.

  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 hand Garcia offered and gave it a few hard pumps.

  I looked at dad, such a huge contrast to the very Hispanic-looking Garcia. Dad loomed a little over Garcia, standing six foot-one to Garcia's shy six foot. Garcia stepped away and folded his lankiness back onto the couch, Dad balancing on the piano bench.

  They faced each other. “Kyle Hart.” Dad smiled.

  Garcia was braced for some hostility, but my parents didn't automatically think someone was out to get them (well Mom did, some).

  Garcia went over the whole story, beginning with how the dog had been in the road, and Baldy (Smith) had hit him. 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 during this retelling, becoming somber at its end.<
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  Finally, he nodded, “We thought that we could allow ourselves some time to devise a plan that would garner Caleb some options, to come to terms with his new skills. But his 'skill set' is accelerating on course with other puberty manifestations,” Dad finished, his expression expectant.

  Jonesy was near drooling at a speech of complicated proportions, his eyes vacant and glassy, John looked mildly confused and Mom was irritated. Garcia was valiantly figuring it out.

  “Dad... English!” I berated.

  Dad smiled sheepishly. “Sorry folks, thinking aloud. His face fell into stern lines. “In other words, he is gaining abilities that I cannot predict and they are popping up at extremely inconvenient and public locations.”

  Understatement of the year!

  I did a mental face-palm when Jonesy piped in, “I still wanna know what happened to the dog.” This said mid-chew on a cookie.

  John looked at Jonesy.

  “What?” Gulp, slurp with the milk. Mom wrinkled her nose.

  “I mean, this is good news because, my bro here,” brandishing his empty glass in my direction, “saved a dog and everyone is freaked over it,” he said, shrugging. For the Jones-man this was a simple affair of right and wrong. Jonesy didn't do shades of gray.

  John spoke up, “Yeah, it's cool about the dog but not everyone is going to think it's cool Jonesy. In fact, I bet some may notice that we don't want noticing. The same ones that noticed Jeffrey Parker.”

  John's speech struck everyone mute.

  Mom spoke next, “I was cleaning out your room Caleb.”

  Great, as I visualized all the crap strewn over the floor.

  “And I found some papers that talked about the Parker boy. Once he was identified with AFTD and the government became involved and enacted an amendment against some of his rights as a person; his freedoms were stripped.”

  Mom was gonna rage, I felt it coming as sure as I was sitting here.

  Garcia must have been more astute than I gave him credit for because he 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.”