by Adan Ramie
Harry tried to swallow, or turn away in disgust, but her body was fixed as if she had been mounted by a taxidermist. The familiar itchy, crawling feeling bubbled in her stomach, and she knew instinctively that the maggots were inside her. The corpse pushed up with both hands onto its knees, and her bloody, swollen face turned slowly on her neck to regard Harry.
“Where’s my justice?” she asked, her voice like the sound of a thousand whispers of a howling wind. She crawled to her feet, and her arms and legs lengthened, her hair lightened, and the blood ran from the cold, dead body into the darkness at her feet. The missing woman was gone, and in her place was a ghost that Harry hadn’t seen, even in dreams, in fifteen years.
Harry pulled with all her strength, but her body was nothing but dead weight, and she sat rooted to the spot as the woman trudged on limbs swollen to the point that the skin split with each step. Harry tried to scream, but the dead mouth opened instead and released a plague of beetles that washed over her like a black tide and pulled her into an open grave.
HARRY GROANED AS THE room lit up with the flashing face of her phone and dragged her from the misery of another nightmare. The shrill ring sounded like the old rotary phone her grandparents had refused to give up so long ago. She rolled over, grabbed it, and mashed the button to accept the call. It took her a few moments to focus. It was still dark outside the windows; the lights of the city twinkled back at her. Only a few people dared call her this late, or early, and most would only do it if they were in trouble.
"Hello?" she rasped. "Who is this?"
"Did I wake you?"
The voice startled her awake, and she glanced over at the empty space in the bed beside her. "When did you leave?"
"Last night, after we fell asleep. I woke up and didn't want to bother you, so I decided to come home and get some work done." Harry could hear the clacking of keys being struck in the background as CSS Klaudia “Busy” Biznicki worked. The young crime scene specialist was fast, probably the fastest typist Harry had ever met, and a genius with an internet connection. Harry could hear the teasing in her voice, and it brought a smile to her face. "Aren't you ever going to get up?"
"For what?" Harry asked, and dropped back down onto her pillow. She pulled the sheet back up to cover her chilly skin, and felt around on the bedside table clumsily. "I don't have a job anymore, remember?"
She could picture Busy rolling her eyes. She had done it the same way every time Harry had mentioned her lack of a badge in the past month.
"You're being a big baby," Busy told her. Clack-clack-clack. Harry marveled at how she could work on one thing and talk on the phone about something entirely different at the same time. She often teased Busy that the two halves of her brain didn't connect, and Busy took it as a compliment.
Harry flicked the top off her Zippo and lit a cigarette. It had been nearly a year since she quit when the captain had taken her badge. Months of self-control, self-denial, and self-torture—and she had started smoking again almost as soon as the Barsten case was over. It just wasn't worth it.
"Are you going to go out of the house today?" Busy asked.
"I may."
Busy snorted. "Are you going to get dressed today?"
Harry grinned and licked her lips. "I don't know. Are you coming back over?"
"Down girl." Harry heard the tell-tale sound of a printer as it loaded paper and spit it out. "I have to work."
"Must be nice," Harry mumbled. She took a long drag off her cigarette and blew smoke rings into the gathering light in her apartment. In less than an hour, the sun would be up on another day without her badge. She really wanted to just dive back under the covers and go back to sleep. The milk steamer in Busy's little apartment whooshed to life, and Harry wondered how many lattes the young woman had drank already. Two, maybe, but more likely four. "Don't overdo it with the coffee, babe."
"Don't 'babe' me," Busy said, and Harry could hear the grin in her voice. "I think I can handle it. I'm a big girl."
"You drink too much coffee," Harry countered. "It's bad for your kidneys."
"And cigarettes are bad for your whole body," Busy shot back. The crackle told Harry that Busy had moved the phone from one side to another. Both of her hands were probably full mixing syrups into a heady, sweet-smelling concoction. The memory of peppermint whispered through her nostrils; Busy's favorite holiday drink had been her constant companion for the past two months. Harry would be sorry to see it go when spring hit.
"I know."
A comfortable silence fell between them, and Harry pondered what new flavor Busy would come up with when the little tendrils of green started to poke their heads out of the cold ground again. It wouldn't be long before the coats and hats came off, and people desperately reached for spring's warm temperatures with thin, but still long-sleeved, t-shirts and sneakers. Maybe Busy would choose chocolate, or switch to tea. Did they make sprinkle-dusted marshmallow cream for coffee drinks? Harry was partial to black and strong.
Her phone buzzed in her ear, and she pulled it away to check the incoming call. Speaking of black and strong, she thought, as the captain's face glared out at her from the phone. She put the phone back to her head. "Hey, babe, I need to go. Briggs is calling."
"Really?"
Harry made a face. "You don't have to sound so shocked. I'm a good cop."
"I know," Busy said. "I'm sorry. I just didn't expect her to call you so soon. Let me know how it goes."
"I will. Talk to you later," Harry said, and switched over. "Captain, what a nice surprise," she said. She stubbed out her cigarette, put the ash tray back on the night stand, and slid out of bed. The floor was cold on her bare feet as she padded over to the bathroom. "What can I do for you this morning?"
"I just wanted to let you know that you are scheduled to meet with police board in March. I've forwarded the e-mail to you on your personal account. Please let me know if you don't receive it."
The captain's voice was all business, as usual, but there was an undertone that Harry picked up on, but would never mention. Something very soft and very human. She almost sounded like a friend. Harry smiled.
"I'll check as soon as I get out of the shower," Harry told her.
"Good." A pause ticked by between them. Harry could tell it was more tense and uncomfortable from the captain's side. She wanted to say something comforting, something that said she wasn't angry with her, but with the system; she couldn't think of anything. "Thresher, I look forward to your being reinstated."
"I do, too. I'm ready to get back out there."
"Have a good day, Thresher."
"You, too, Cap."
The line went dead and Harry put her phone down on the counter. She stared into the mirror at the dark circles under her eyes, the stringy mess of her hair, and the smudge of cigarette ash near the line of her jaw. Busy was right. She hadn't been taking care of herself. Instead, she had been wallowing in her own misery.
The Barsten case had taken a chunk out of her life, and spread doubt over her every decision like a thick layer of molasses. She was flagging. Worried about what the police board would decide, she could think of little else but the imaginary meeting in her head that played in a loop like a bad movie. The gunshot, the look on Cal’s face, and the dawning realization that she was responsible for putting them in that situation to begin with... all of it combined to sap her self-confidence. All she had left was sex, and it wasn’t fair to Busy to keep her cooped up all the time.
Unemployment wasn't good for her. As she started the shower and waited for the old lines to pull hot from the heater in the basement, Harry decided she would go out today. Nothing had come from her reclusive withdrawal from society. It was time to get back out there.
Her phone buzzed, and she picked it up. She had two new e-mails. One was from the captain, a forward of information on her scheduled meeting with the Board of Police. The other was from an unknown sender. She clicked it open.
"Regina’s Flock would like to invite you to
the 7th Annual Christmas Fundraiser! Come check out art and music created by at-risk youth in your area. Refreshments will be provided. Donations of any amount of money, goods, or time are accepted. Checks should be made out to..."
Harry stopped reading. When the Barsten case ended, she had meant to have herself taken off the shelter's mailing list. She had even let her finger hover over the unsubscribe link at the bottom of the e-mail a couple of times before, but didn't have the heart. Regina’s Flock was a dying breed; instead of trying to make a paycheck off street kids, the director, David Miller, was just keeping the lights on and the kids fed. Dry beds were always available for any kid with a need for it. Harry wished for something as decent long ago when she was a kid. She decided to go visit David at the shelter and see what she could do to help set up. A little good karma never hurt anyone.
CHAPTER 2
FRESHLY SHOWERED AND pressed, Harry pulled up to the quiet shelter at 8 o'clock. She paused at the door, tucking an errant strand of blonde hair behind her ear, and tried to peek through the little window. She saw chairs stacked neatly in a corner, an old TV playing what looked like an afterschool special from the late '90s, and one kid sitting lonely in front of it.
She pulled the door open and walked inside the shelter, having an idea of what to expect, but trying not to let it color her opinion of the place too early on. The kid's head swung around and his eyes narrowed. He was 12, maybe 13, and already he could smell a cop at 50 paces. She offered a smile, but he scowled and turned back around, deeming her not a threat. The unique sound of a woman's heels clip-clopping down a narrow hallway hit her ears just a few beats before she saw her. Harry sucked in a breath.
The woman who walked toward her was short, thin around the middle, but thick on top and bottom. Her red heels drew attention, then cast it up over fleshy, muscular legs that peeked to the knee out of a tight-fitting skirt. A light sweater, V-neck cut to accentuate her lush, dark cleavage, drew the eye from her chest to her face. She jerked to a stop, her face morphing through an array of emotions as she scrutinized Harry. Then, as suddenly as she stopped, she put a smile on and walked toward her. The detective felt a quiver somewhere near her solar plexus.
Steady, she told herself.
"Good morning," the woman said, holding out a hand. "My name is Sanura Johnson, and I'm the Youth Counselor here. Can I help you?"
"De—I'm Harry Thresher." She shook the counselor's hand and marveled at how smooth and supple the skin of her hand was. She wanted to grasp it between both of her hands and run her fingertips over its texture, but fought the urge. A month ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated; before Busy, everything was a lot simpler.
Sanura’s lips, painted a deep, lush burgundy, spread wide to show an unapologetic gummy grin that Harry returned. "Detective, is it? Or former?"
"I'm taking some time off." Harry couldn't fight the blush that rose from her chest to burn in her cheeks.
Sanura let out a throaty laugh and squeezed Harry's hand before she let it go. "Are you here for something in particular?"
"To see him," Harry said, and pointed at the mouth of another hallway. Just inside the entryway stood a man who still didn't look a day over 21. "Thank you for your time, Miss Johnson. It was nice meeting you."
"I'm sure we will see each other again," Sanura said with a smirk, then twisted around and walked away.
Harry watched her fast, clipping walk, the way the muscles worked under the thin material of her skirt, and had to force herself to look away. The heat kicked on in the shelter with a click and a thump, and David looked up from his clipboard. He spotted Harry and his mouth fell open with something like fear. She smiled as she walked over to calm his fears that this meeting would bring the same kind of bad news as their last.
"Hey, David."
"Detective Thresher. What can I do for you?" He dropped his clipboard to his side. "I assume you’re here to ask about another murder." One eye twitched as he said the word, and his Adam’s apple bobbed furiously under his bad shaving job.
Hearing her title was bittersweet, and it punched her in the gut every time. It had been what kept Harry inside her apartment for the past weeks, and she wondered again at why she had fought her reluctance and dove back out into the world. She tried to keep her smile genuine.
"No, no murders. I'm here as a civilian," she answered. "I was wondering how everyone was doing here. I got the e-mail you sent out about the fundraiser, and thought maybe you could use some help."
"The fundraiser?" He seemed surprised. Harry waited while he composed himself, glanced down at his clipboard, then looked up at her again with a sheepish smile. "Yes, of course."
He pulled the clipboard up and leafed through until he found the page he needed, then turned it around and handed it to her. It was heavy in her hands, and she wondered how long it would be before this poor man and his shelter went digital. The paper he had flipped to was a sign-up sheet, and there were only two names on the list.
"We usually don't get a lot of volunteers," he explained. He tucked his hands under his arms and looked her over. "Are you sure you have the time? I was under the assumption that a detective's work is never done." He laughed. It sounded about as real as the smile that had fallen from Harry’s face.
She nodded, signed her name on line number three, and checked the box that would sign her up for bringing supplies. On second glance, she saw that the other two had only checked supplies or monetary donation, and begrudgingly checked the next box. "What exactly does 'hands on' entail?" she asked, and handed him back the clipboard.
His eyes widened at her choice, then he held out his open hand to shake. "Detective, there's so much to do, and there are only a few of us here to do it.” He laughed, the sound bordering on hysteria. “Well, the two of us. Three on a good day, so anything you can help us with would be great. We need volunteers to oversee the production of the art and music, especially with the rowdier youth, and to set it up when the fundraiser begins. There's also food preparation, and security."
"Security?" In her mind, a scene from her nightmare repeated: a willowy orphan standing before a riverbed, then lifeless, lying in the reddening pool with shallow water lapping over a fish-pale face. She shook it out of her head.
David reddened under his acne scars, and his eyes shifted to the few stragglers from the night before. "Unfortunately, I'm usually not enough to wrangle them all for the big events. They get overexcited. Some of them look at it as their chance to lift the wallets of the people who would come and buy their art for a large donation. Not only does the youth get in trouble, but the shelter loses that donor forever, and I need some help keeping an eye on a few of them."
"I can definitely do that. Put me on that list," she said, and glanced over at the folding chair in front of the television. The kid who had eyed her when she walked in scraped his chair back and stood. He walked over to them with a determined step and a chip on his shoulder that Harry could see in his face. "Good morning," she said.
"You're a cop," the boy announced through a scowl. The expression on his face said he could smell authority on her, and it didn't suit his palate. He turned to David. "What do you need a cop here for?"
David opened his mouth to answer, but Harry shot back before he could get a chance. "I'm not a cop. I was once, but right now, I'm just here trying to help."
"Why the hell would you do that?" the boy asked.
David gave him a disapproving frown, but the boy ignored it.
"What's your name, kid?" Harry asked.
He looked at her like she had grown another head. "What does it matter to you?"
Harry shrugged and shifted on her feet to throw him off guard. He felt the shift, but didn't know how to compensate, and wrapped his arms across his chest.
"I just wondered how to address you," she finally answered. "I want to help because I know what it's like. When I was a kid, I didn’t have a lot of family to turn to. Those that took me were too old, and they didn’t live to see me even
get to your age."
"So?" he asked, but he didn't sound as convinced as he had before.
David cleared his throat. "Detec-... Er, Miss Thresher..."
"Harry," she corrected him, and held out a hand for the boy to shake. "You can call me Harry. I spent some time in shelters, so I know what it's like."
The boy shook her hand uncertainly and glanced from Harry to David and back again. His dark eyes were troubled. "There'll be kids on the street 'cause they don't want to stay at a place where there's a cop."
"I'm not a cop," she said, showing him where her badge should have been. "I lost my badge trying to protect a couple of girls who made really shitty choices."
He squinted at her, as if he could see what lurked in her mind if he stared hard enough at her skull. He let his hand drop. "Keaton."
"Good to meet you, Keaton."
He turned to David. "You gonna explain that story to every kid who walks in here? A lot of 'em will turn tail as soon as they see her." He sniffed. "She even smells like a cop."
"What does a cop smell like?" Harry asked.
"Like hand sanitizer, starch, and gunpowder." He stuck out his tongue. "It's a gross combination."
She grinned at him, and sized him up. He was a little small for his age, but not much; in his formative years, he had been fed well. His clothes were worn but not ragged, and under his fingernails were clean. "How long have you been on the streets, Keaton?"
"Long enough." He turned abruptly around and walked back to his folding chair and television. He tossed a glance over his shoulder when he got there to make sure she was still watching him. She raised her eyebrows and he turned back.
"Cute kid," she said.
David nodded. "From what I can gather, he's only been homeless for a few weeks. He's a voluntary case, and pretty low risk as far as I’m concerned. Single father, multiple siblings; you do the math."