by Karl Tutt
The
House
at
Hull
By
Karl Tutt
Copyright Karl Tutt 2015
All rights reserved without limiting the copyright reserved above. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, brands, characters, places, media and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction which might have been used without permission. The publication use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Thanks to Carolyn, my patient reader, and Sue, an editor who is generous with her time and attention.
Prologue
I am a clairvoyant, a psychic . . . though some who know me might say psycho. I know what you’re thinking . . . but sometimes I just get things. I don’t really plan it. It just comes. Voices . . . visions . . . the usual crap you see in lousy TV shows and movies, but in my case, it’s real --- or at least I think it is. I’ve pieced together a decent living playing the market, consulting with the Boston police on matters only I could uncover . . . and occasionally predicting a long sea voyage or an unexpected inheritance from a long-lost relative.
I don’t charge the suckers much and I consider that part of the business, an attempt to spark some hope for the hopeless. A convenient rationalization and sometimes I even get it right. If things do get tight, I have a part-time gig as a captain on one of the water taxis that ferries passengers to and from some of the downtown wharves and Logan Airport. I work cheap, but it sometimes helps pay the rent on my humble digs.
Don’t judge me. I’m telling you . . . I’m the genuine article. I didn’t know it until Afghanistan. The Marines discovered that more than a few of my crazy hunches were on target. They didn’t understand it, but they liked it. I saved some very expensive stuff from being blown to Kingdom Come, not to mention some kids who thought they were gonna be heroes until they saw blood in the sand . . . sometimes their own. In the meantime I got promoted and the intense training taught me some useful things about killing. Some of them did become heroes . . . and some of them simply didn’t come back. I’d like to tell you I’m a Jack Reacher or a Doc Ford, tall, smart, fearless, and handsome. But the truth is I’m just a skinny nerd . . . albeit a dangerous one at times. I never really know when that thing coming . . . the second sight. It overtakes me, mostly when there’s an impending death, or an already lifeless body that’s been defiled or discarded.
The cops don’t like me much. I make ‘em look bad sometimes. But Billy Frye, Homicide Detective Second Grade, puts up with me because I let him take the credit . . . when there is any. The rest of them call me the Spook behind my back and often to my face. None of them know about the military stuff. It’s better that way, keeps from having to use it very often. My name is Elmo C. Dombroski. The C stands for Cathay. It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue.
For the record, I don’t really believe in ghosts, but there are “things” out there that just don’t fit into the neat packages that most people cling to. You can’t blame them. They’re just trying to maintain a shred of sanity. It’s getting tougher all the time. Call those “things” what you will. I am their connection . . . their interpreter . . . sometimes the only one. I’m not saying I always understand, but I smart enough to know that, too. Sometimes it’s a little scary, but it is what it is.
I eat hot dogs for breakfast, only Hebrew National on a buttered, toasted bun with mustard and slaw. I slog too much cheap wine . . . whatever jug of red is on sale at the corner Seven Eleven. I skip lunch every day, and have frozen pizza for dinner every night. I prefer DiGiorno’s or Freshetta. In a pinch I’ll even do a Tortino’s, but I gotta be really hungry.
I guess you would say I live in a basement, but I’ve got my own private entrance just off the sidewalk on Hanover Street, in the north end, the heart of the Italian neighborhood. It’s kind of dark down there and a little damp in the winter, but I call it cozy. I’ve got my CD’s and a damned good speaker system. A little desk in the corner when I need to make some notes or send a heartfelt plea to the bill collectors. Luckily I haven’t had to do much of that lately. Let me just say, it’s home . . . and the rent is cheap.