Interference

by S. L. LUCK

  “Chief Fogel, please!” she shouted again.

  “You want me to handle it?” Sarah asked.

  Dan shook his head. “What’s another headache? I got it.”

  He sighed and strode toward the throng now vibrating at his approach. As he got closer, the ravenous group surged against the police tape until it broke. Without the flimsy barrier, they fell inward over each other, pretending they had not seen such a device not moments before and so crept forward until three of Dan’s constables sped to contain the area. The fracas lasted less than a minute, only until Dan raised his hand and warned them in a booming voice that there was plenty of room in Garrett’s jail cells. So advised, they fell back grudgingly but remained elbow to elbow, watching, shouting.

  “Chief Fogel! Is this a homicide?” one reporter yelled. “What can you tell us?”

  “Should residents be concerned about a murderer on the loose?” the one beside him shouted, thrusting a microphone over the newly erected police tape.

  “Our sources say it’s a nurse. Can you confirm?” belted another.

  The speed with which news travelled wasn’t surprising to Dan, but the audacity of its messengers never failed to disappoint him. He ignored the questions and was about to return to his cruiser when he noticed that Jessica Chung had been jostled off to the side and was waving at him. Frowning, Dan realized she was not in the heels and form-fitting suit he was used to, but in jeans and sneakers. Her long hair up in a messy ponytail and without the dark stain of lipstick she normally wore, Jessica looked almost innocent as he walked past her. The effect was jarring. “Please, Dan!” she begged beside a cruiser that had been set up as a blockade.

  “I don’t have anything for you, Ms. Chung,” Dan said. “You’ll have to wait for the conference with all the others. If you don’t get run over, that is.”

  His reminder made her flinch. “I’m not here for that. I wanted to thank you,” she said, biting her lip. “I just need a minute.”

  Seeing one of their own stealing Dan’s attention, the sea of reporters began drifting toward them, so Dan lifted the tape attached to the cruiser and invited Jessica in. Quickly, she ducked beneath his outstretched arm and stood beside him, fidgeting. “Don’t make me regret this, Ms. Chung. They’re apt to start rioting soon, so let’s make this quick.” Next to him, she looked small and as tired as he felt. “Something wrong?” he asked.

  Jessica looked down at her feet. “No, I—” she hesitated as her peers closed in. “I’m not here for the story, Dan. I’m here because I’ve been trying to call your office since the news conference to thank you for saving my life, but they wouldn’t put me through.” She held up a hand when Dan started to speak. “I’m not knocking you; I know I deserved it. The pressure of my job is hell sometimes, but it’s no excuse to behave the way I do. I know that. When that van was coming toward me, it’s like I could only think about the story. I had to have it—and it almost killed me. That’s what this job does to you. It makes a person not who they really are, but that’s not who I want to be. It’s not. You didn’t just save my life, Dan, you changed it. I just came to tell you that.”

  Of all expectations Dan held, Jessica’s declaration was not one. “You’re not a reporter anymore?” was all he could think to say.

  She shook her head. “I’m taking some time off. They gave me a leave of absence for a few months, so I promise I won’t bother you for a while. And even when I go back—if I go back—I promise I’ll be different. I don’t want to be that person anymore.” Wind blew a loose strand of hair over her face and she tucked it back behind her ear. Then she did something that woke him more than the coffee he’d inhaled an hour earlier: Jessica Chung rose on her toes and hugged him. “Thank you,” she whispered into his chest, then quickly stepped back.

  Realizing his arms were stiff at his sides, Dan relaxed. “You’re welcome Ms. Chung.”

  “Jessica,” she said.

  “Jessica,” Dan repeated. “Well, you’re welcome, Jessica. I’m glad it worked out for you.”

  “Who do you have to sleep with to get information around here?” a reporter behind the tape sniped, jealously eyeing Jessica.

  Perhaps it was the godawful last few weeks or the lack of sleep or his increasing realization that he had no control over the happenings of the world, but Dan turned to the woman who’d been his adversary and asked her for coffee when she felt up to it.

  “I figure a little bit of friendship is what this world needs right about now, don’t you think?” he asked, looking away from her to the tarp-covered body not thirty feet off. Without hesitation, Jessica accepted Dan’s offer and left him, bewildered as to the providence of life. Disappointed reporters called after him as he returned to Sarah, who had resumed her interview with the two witnesses.

  “Excuse me for a moment?” Sarah politely asked them, and when they acquiesced, she stepped away to talk to Dan. “What did the bulldog want?

  Dan smiled. “She wanted to apologize. And thank me for saving her life.”

  “Saw God, did she?”

  “I don’t know about that, but I’m not going to dismiss someone who wants to change their ways.” He tipped his chin toward the two witnesses huddled together near the ambulance. “They give you anything that can help us?”

  “Doubtful,” Sarah said. “They were the only ones around. They might not have even seen her if the wife didn’t stop to tie her shoe when she did.”

  “Until we know what we’re working with, let’s keep an eye out. I know we’re tight already, but we can’t have folks worried if they’re going to make it home or not.” Dan pinched the bridge of his nose to quell the sudden caffeine crash in his system.

  “We’ll make it work,” Sarah said.

  They stood for a time, observing the activity near the nurse’s body, doing their best to filter out the racket from the reporters, feeling the day’s new wind sting their faces. Again, Dan returned to Father Bonner’s dream. He said now, “If you don’t feel comfortable answering, forget I said anything, but could you explain to me how dream catchers work? Is it literal or figurative?”

  Sarah had never spoken to Dan about her spirituality, but neither did she shy from wearing the jewelry or endorsing the symbols of her culture. “A bit of both, actually,” she told him, watching his gray-streaked hair flap in the wind. “Are you having bad dreams?”

  “These last few weeks, I’m not sure I’m even awake, but I’m not asking for me. I have a friend who could use one; at least I don’t think it could hurt, could it?”

  She was heartened that he didn’t dismiss the power of the protective charm she dearly valued, but something about the way he wouldn’t meet her eye made her say, “There’s been a high demand for them lately. You’re not the only one who’s asked about it.”

  “Oh?”

  “If I tell you, you’re going to think I’m crazy.”

  “Nothing could make me do that, unless you started rooting for the Leafs.”

  Sarah’s smile was uneasy. “No, nothing as bad as that. But we’ve had maybe a dozen people call asking us to make dream catchers for them this week. Roy Botcher, Jack Fischer’s wife—I forget her name—Boyce Swinkley, Phil Beecher, a few doctors at the hospital; even the mayor, but don’t say anything about it.” Dan made a zipping motion at his lips, then Sarah continued. “I don’t know what’s happening, Dan, but it’s like they’re all having the same dream, or parts of it. It’s not normal, you know?”

  “Any ideas on what’s causing it? Off the record. No judgement, I promise.”

  “My culture challenges us to seek connections in our relationships, not just with others but with—especially with—the earth. We honor Mother Nature, and so we are always learning from her. If something is wrong, Mother Nature lets us know. The river. The animals. The weather. Even that patient and the bus crash. I think it’s all her way of warning us. I don’t know if your friend’s dream is the same as the others, but I think there’s evil here, Dan. I couldn’t
write it up in a report, and you wouldn’t want me to record all the things I’ve seen and heard lately.” She held up her palms when he cocked his head, “Not that I’m keeping anything from you, Dan. I’m not. But I’m not sure you’d want me writing about the devil, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “You think it’s the devil?” he asked.

  “I know it is,” Sarah said.

  28

  With three days to go before the opening of the Fall Festival, the communal kitchen at Southbridge was full of residents. The sun was still tucked beneath the hills when the ovens went on, so that a few hours later, when Ed finally woke from a fitful sleep, the dining room was bordering on hot and smelling of bread and cookies and several kinds of tarts.

  Dorothy hurried a cup of coffee and a donut to Ed’s table, and there he sat, still waking, watching as dough was rolled, pies were filled, sauces were stirred, jams were canned, and buns were stuffed. Around him, the typewriter clicks of knitting needles sounded as women finished their projects, and a faint smell of glue passed Ed’s nose as decorative artwork was completed. Though the day opened with prayer on her behalf, not even the murder of a young nurse could quell the residents’ excitement. Until yesterday, the fate of the festival had been uncertain, with several community members speaking out against the appropriateness of celebration given the recent atrocities. In rebuttal, Southbridge joined nursing homes and schools across the city in entreating the mayor to support the fair’s continuation, not only for the mental wellbeing of the city’s beleaguered residents, but as a testament to the city’s endurance. It was only after Dak Cardinal, stepping in for Perry Searles, pledged to lengthen the time allotment for the mayor’s opening speech, that the event was finally confirmed.

  Ed sat still among the explosion of activity and searched for the devil-woman. No longer would he call her Sylvia, at least to himself, and it was with great relief that he found her absent from the kitchen and wouldn’t have to speak her name. He sipped his coffee, trying to rid himself of the aftertaste of evil. Overnight the nasty thing had come into his head. Ehhh-ddie, she whispered inside him as he lay alone in his bed. Eddie, Eddie, Eddie, come see me, Eddie. Won’t you come see me? That she could speak inside him brought such a sudden convulsion of terror that Ed had wet himself. Little boy has wet his pants, has he? Oh, ho, ho, ho, better change, Eddie. I can smell it already. He jumped out of bed and shut his door. Knock-knock, Eddie. Her voice surged inside him, and for the rest of the night, each time he began to relinquish himself to sleep, the devil-woman knocked. He could only assume she’d busied herself with invading someone else when at last she allowed him to sleep. That had been three hours ago.

  Feeling the buzz of caffeine, Ed picked at his donut. Before long, Chester rushed in and Ed felt the outside cold breezing off his jacket. He slapped Ed’s table and sat down; the wisp of hair covering the top of his head fluttered then settled. “We’re going to win it this year, Eddie! Four times in a row. Simpkin can kiss my rosy-red ass if he thinks he’s getting that ribbon. I can’t wait to see the look on his face when he sees our float. I’ve got a fifty on it. Easiest bet I’ve ever made.” The thrum of excitement pulsed through the man’s entire body so that, sitting across from Ed, Chester bobbed forward and back, forward and back, twitching his knees in a squeaky, restless jig. “What’s the matter, Eddie? Ticker okay?” He patted his own chest.

  “Bad sleep.”

  “Wait until you start shitting yourself every time you fart; we’re not too far off from that, you know.” Chester’s lips pursed and he looked away from Ed to the pies being pulled from the oven.

  The disgusting bodily function that awaited them was the least of Ed’s concerns, for he wasn’t entirely sure he’d live long enough to experience further penalties of old age. He said, “You hear about the nurse near the river?”

  Chester nodded. “Orest’s granddaughter. Terrible.”

  “He’s at Akerdale, no?”

  “For a few years now.”

  Ed pushed his donut aside. “I’m starting to think there’s not a safe place in this city. In here, out there, people dying everywhere.”

  “It’s not safe anywhere,” Chester agreed. “Never has been, Eddie. It pays to be oblivious sometimes, doesn’t it? It’s so much easier that way.” He pulled Ed’s donut toward him and took a bite.

  You look like hell, Eddie, a voice soundlessly sprouted. With his cup halfway to his lips, Ed froze. There, coming into the kitchen with Evie on her arm, was the devil-woman. She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t have to. Ed felt her crawl inside his skull. Cat got your tongue, bed-wetter? Talk to me Eddie. Talk to me. Summoning the ancient, disciplined part of himself that restrained his mind, Ed pushed her away. As if nothing were happening, bakers continued baking, sewers continued sewing, crafters continued crafting. Tying on an apron, Sylvia chatted amicably with the other residents while the devil inside her barged into Ed’s mind. Oh, I wouldn’t do that, Eddie. Want to see what happens when you don’t play nice?

  Chester howled. Ed’s eyes swept from Sylvia to Chester, who had dropped Ed’s donut and was now holding his temples. “Christ Almighty! It feels like I just got stabbed in the head.” Evie dusted the flour from her hands and hurried to their table. “You okay, hun?”

  Eddie.

  Chester groaned, rubbing the sides of his face with two fingers. “Must be a muscle spasm or something—”

  Eddie.

  “Want some Tylenol, Chester?” Albert Humphrey asked.

  Eddie.

  “I think it’s passing, Alb—”

  EDDIE!

  In an eruption of agony, Chester’s arms shot out. Ed’s mug flew across the room and smashed into Flora Quimby. A surprised squeal came from the old woman’s bright-pink lips and she dropped her knitting while two of her tablemates began dabbing at the coffee stain down her floral-patterned back. Bakers and crafters and handymen and handywomen converged around Chester. Again he cried as the others tried to ease his pain, unaware that nothing could help him.

  ENOUGH! Ed’s command ricocheted around his interior until it hit the devil-woman.

  That tickles, Eddie, wafted her response.

  Behind him, Evie was rubbing the base of Chester’s skull. “This works wonders for me whenever I get a headache,” Evie explained, digging her knuckles deep into Chester’s loose skin while the others looked on. “How does it feel?”

  “I think it’s working,” Chester moaned. “Keep doing that. Oh, God, please keep doing that. My head is starting to feel better.” Evie did, and soon the crowd dispersed back to their stations, reminded that the golden years sometimes proffered more dirt than anything else.

  What do you want? Ed asked the thing inside his brain.

  Call me Pandora, Eddie, she purred.

  Ed flinched.

  “You getting a headache too, dearie?” Evie asked, easing up on Chester’s neck.

  “Just stretching, no need to worry about me,” Ed said.

  Liar. Pandora flicked him.

  Stifling the sting she inflicted behind his eyes, Ed rose. “I don’t know about you, but I could use another coffee. Evie? Chess?”

  Get me one too, Eddie.

  What do you want? Ed again inquired as he collected a tray from a rack at the end of the counter. He took three mugs and a small carafe and brought it back to his table. Pandora tapped his ear drums, rubbed his nasal cavity, felt his cerebellum.

  “You’re supposed to get it in the cup, Ed,” Chester said.

  Ed stopped pouring and let Evie take the carafe from his unsteady hand.

  “I think you boys have had too much excitement this morning.” Evie filled their cups. “Once this festival is over and things get back to normal around here, both of you should think about a nice little trip to Florida; spend the winter where the weather won’t make you crazy. Worked like a charm for me last year. You boys want some pie?”

  “Wish I could,” Chester said. “I got to get back to the grounds. Float’s
done, but with Perry away, we’ve got a shit ton of extra work to take care of. Sorry for the language, Evie.”

  “I raised five boys; cursing is their second language,” she waved his apology away.

  “Sylvia!” Chester waved across the room at the sandy-haired woman who was removing cookies from a cooling rack, using tongs to put them into cellophane bags. “Going to start decorating this afternoon. Pick you up after lunch?”

  “I’ll be ready.” She nodded and began closing the bags of cookies with red ribbon.

  Evie put a hand on Ed’s wrist. “Why don’t you come with us? Even if it’s just so that you’re not sitting in your room. The days after anyone’s funeral, it’s not good to be alone. I remember my father telling me that when my mother died forty years ago. You have to keep people around you if you want to heal.” Like a scab on a wound, Ed thought, but said nothing. “Dorothy’s napping, but she’s coming, too. You can watch us do the front entrance.”

  Join us, Eddie.

  Fear for his friends overrode his concern for himself. If he stayed home, Ed worried that he wouldn’t be able to help them, should the need arise, so he picked up his cup. “No coffee for me, then. I’ll need a nap if I’m going to make it through the day.” He rose and carried his cup to the dish bin over the garbage station, then made for the hallway.

  You murder that girl? Ed inwardly intoned as he passed Sylvia without looking at her.

  Instead of answering, she conveyed the images of her kills with Harold through the projector of Ed’s mind. You should try it sometime, Eddie. Cleans the pipes.

  Ed’s stomach turned sour. Hurrying toward his room, he hoped that Pandora’s reach would peter out like a faraway radio signal, but still he could feel her probing him like a tongue. What do you want? he asked once more.

  I have a job for you.

  Not interested. Ed passed the nursing desk and waved to the two attendants on duty.