by Lee Killough
“It won’t work,” Lien said. “If she were alive, even if she confessed by letter, she would resume calling her mother. No, there must be nothing from her until we’re ready to have her die. I read about fugue states not long ago. I think she left the gym for a breath of air and met the man in this horror movie costume stealing the bow and arrows — you did say they found that’s where the weapon came from — and he attacked her. He slammed her head into the wall and that concussion caused her to enter a fugue state in which she thought she was one of her old professional personalities.”
“Mala Babra,” Garreth said.
“Good. As Mala, she didn’t know what she was doing in this strange town when she should be in San Francisco singing so she walked away and along the highway thumbed a ride with a trucker. She made her way back here by stages, stopping here and there to make money singing in bars and such. Once she reached here she began recovering her memory and contacted a friend, me, Lucy Lee. I will call your Anna, give her the story and say I’ve given Mada a sleeping pill because she was so bewildered, but Mada herself will call in the morning. Only I’ll call again to say with great regret that while I was out for the evening, because I’m a singer, too, my apartment house burned and Mada died in it. Or I assume so because she wasn’t among the survivors and there are unidentified bodies. I’ll even offer to send Mrs. Bieber the newspaper article.”
Which he hoped would put Mada to rest far from the John Doe — fortunately not autopsied — buried here. Buried but never to be forgotten. He planned to tend the grave as Anna would if she knew, and as a blood debt, a reminder of responsibility and accountability.
Maggie stirred in his arms. “Why don’t we move more to my side of the bed. Your side is so lumpy, like you have rocks in the mattress.”
“Nothing’s wrong with that,” he answered, though he shifted her off the pallet. There must be a better way to have his sleeping earth. Maybe take fabric to someone and ask for a custom mattress pad with packets of earth sewn into the quilting, calling it an “holistic” aid to health. Further evidence that Californians were nutty, of course...which he hoped made his differences seem quirky rather than suspicious. “Contact with earth sets up positive resonance in the human body. My veins carry the blood of an ancient lineage who always keep close contact with the earth and barring accident or murder, live very long lives.”
She sighed. “You’re crazy, Garreth.”
“Ah, yes, but it’s part o’ me charm, Maggie darlin’.”
She giggled and snuggled against his bandaged shoulder and side.
He smiled down at her. Maggie was not like Marti but even without being able to bare his soul to her, she filled some of his needs, as he did some of hers. The gulf between him and normal humans might be narrower than Lane thought, and bridgeable with care.
“What did you talk about with your ex-wife today?” Maggie murmured.
“Brian.” They agreed Dennis could adopt him, but have Brian hyphenate his last name to remain a Mikaelian, too. That satisfied Garreth’s parents, and Garreth, so he could keep track of his descendants. “Go to sleep. I need to run.”
“You can’t lay off until your shoulder and side finish healing?” She shook her head and pulled the blankets over her head. “I always knew runners have a cog missing.”
The bandages were nothing but props now, the wounds under them just angry scars...soon to disappear altogether.
Sliding out of bed, he dressed in a warm-up suit and packed his bottles. The night outside was clear, the stars and sliver of moon bright as crystal in the icy sky. Garreth drew the air deep in his lungs and blew it out in an incandescent cloud of steam. He ran easily, enjoying his strength and endurance and the vision that turned darkness to twilight. Too bad he could not share it with Maggie, but... nothing is perfect and the solitude had its own pleasure.
The frozen ground streamed beneath his feet. When something moved in his peripheral vision, he smiled. Not exactly solitude. Three coyotes had fallen in behind him, tongues lolling in predatory laughter.
“Hi, gang.”
He lengthened his stride. Far ahead, a herd of cattle lay dozing. With his shadow escort pacing him, he aimed for them. Nothing is perfect, so this was not bad. It was enough.
Lee Killough has been storytelling since the age of four or five, when she started making up her own bedtime stories, then later, her own episodes of her favorite radio and TV shows. Because she loves both SF and mysteries, her work combines the two genres. Although published as SF, most of her novels are actually mysteries with SF or fantasy elements...with a preference--thanks to a childhood hooked on TV cop shows--for cop protagonists.
Also published by BWLPP
Killer Karma
Aftershock
Wilding Nights
Blood Games
(A Garreth Mikaelian Mystery)
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