The Light Who Shines

by Lilo Abernathy

  I can see the wheels turning in Mack’s head as he processes everything I’ve said and then some. I have a feeling that as quiet and slow to speak as Mack is, nothing gets past him. He is the sort of man who thinks a lot but shares just a sliver of what he’s learned.

  “How are the interviews conducted, and how is the location secured?”

  Mack thinks on this a minute, then replies, “Well, we do it on Phantom Island because that’s where the fireworks are set off for the show. The surrounding water provides some protection for those onshore. Because we’re are dealing with an unknown quality in the candidates, we keep them on the mainland and call them over the bridge one at a time.”

  “Chief Mack, would you mind putting together a list of everyone who was on the island, both those who attended the interview and those who judged it? I’d like to know who was accepted and who was rejected. I’d also like to know which committee members wanted Jason and which didn’t.”

  Mack rubs his lips with his forefinger thoughtfully, then says, “I sure can do that, but I can tell you now that all the committee members wanted Jason. There’s no question about that.”

  I stand and hand Chief Mack my card. Then I offer him my hand.

  He puts both of his long-fingered hands around mine, and I feel the warm, callused strength envelop me. “You take care, Inspector Kildare.” Chief Mack looks into my eyes, showing me he means it.

  I smile. “Thank you, Chief Mack. You do the same.”

  Chief Mack’s eyes remain deeply thoughtful and troubled as I depart his office with Varg following behind me. The Dalmatian makes to follow us too, but Mack gives a soft whistle and she turns around to sit on her bed again.

  I sure like Chief Mack. He’s good people. No doubt about that.

  Chapter 30

  Bees and Honey

  Bluebell Kildare: May 29, 2022, Red Ages

  When I arrive with Varg at the precinct, the clerk in the sallyport informs me that I’m expected and escorts me to the interview area. Detective Gambino is standing behind the one-way mirror watching Detective Schmidt question Paul when I approach him.

  Gambino turns at my arrival. “We had to wait for him to sober up, so we only got started about twenty minutes ago.”

  “How’s it going?” I ask as I watch Paul stare mutinously at Detective Schmidt.

  Gambino smiles wryly. “Not well. I wanted to observe, but I’m going to have to take over.”

  I watch for a few minutes as Detective Schmidt asks Paul if he ran over Jason, and Paul responds by covering his eyes. Schmidt accuses Paul of beating and starving the boy. He sneers at Paul and insinuates that Paul likes young boys. Paul keeps his cuffed hands over his eyes through all the derision and accusations, repeating, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.” Detective Schmidt is getting nowhere with Paul, and his ploys are ridiculous.

  I watch Gambino too. Disgust rolls off him, but I can’t tell if it’s aimed at Paul or Schmidt. If I had to put money down, it would be on the latter. His scowl deepens as the interview progresses.

  I pull out my sixth sense and feel a significant amount of hate in the room, but it’s not coming from Paul. Rather it is coming from Detective Schmidt. I recoil from sensing him and sift through those feelings to focus on the feelings emanating from Paul. Paul is scared out of his wits. He’s pathetic, but there’s no evil in him. There is a great deal of guilt, though. I don’t see how someone with a soul that mild could have tortured that boy in the way he was tortured.

  I pull in my sixth sense as Detective Schmidt exits the interview room, slamming the door on his way out.

  I look at Gambino and ask, “May I question him?”

  Detective Schmidt snarls, “Like you can accomplish shit.”

  Varg gives a low warning growl to Schmidt, baring his teeth. I ignore Schmidt, briefly hoping he will make Varg angry enough to attack, but then I chastise myself for the thought. Instead I look to Gambino. Gambino inclines his head minutely. That’s all I need.

  As I enter the interview room, I see Varg put his paws on the mirror frame to keep an eye on me. I sit across from Paul and say in a soft, warm voice as though I’m greeting an old friend, “Hello, Paul.”

  Paul jerks in surprise, obviously expecting Schmidt again. He lifts his eyes over his fists and lowers his hands. “Hello.”

  “So,” I say conversationally, “I met your sister Agnes today. She seems really nice and has a beautiful car.” As I’m speaking I open up my sixth sense to feel Paul’s emotions. He lightens up at the mention of his sister and nods. Encouraged by this, I continue. “So how long have you been living with her?”

  Paul’s mood shifts to sadness. “Since my wife Hannah died about six years ago.”

  I look Paul in the eyes and say in a soft, empathetic voice, “I’m sorry to hear about your wife, Paul. How did she die?”

  Paul nods, and I can see that he internalizes my empathy. He takes a deep breath before speaking. “She died of breast cancer. It was horrible to watch.”

  I nod at him gently, still pouring as much of my empathy at him as I can. It is easy to do as I can feel his pain, still terribly strong after all of this time. “I know it was. I imagine that’s when the drinking turned really bad.” I try to make it sound like it is totally reasonable to become a drunk after watching that. And who am I to judge? Maybe it is totally reasonable. Being a drunk isn’t a crime.

  Paul looks down at his cuffed hands on the table and nods as he fidgets with his fingernails.

  “So,” I say, “your sister took you in and has been really good to you even though you have a drinking problem.”

  Paul nods again and waves of shame and guilt fill the air.

  I continue speaking gently. “Here’s the thing, Paul. We know that the car hit Jason. We have evidence from the car on Jason’s body. Paint chips were found in his skin and the grill pattern of the car was marked on his body. We also found pieces of the headlights and windshield glass smashed on the ground and embedded in his forehead. So we have no doubt that the car hit the boy.”

  Paul quietly listens to this, picking at his cuticles but not responding.

  “Did you hit the boy with the car, Paul?”

  Paul covers his eyes with his hands and shakes his head. He says, “No, no, no!”

  But I sense something when he covers his eyes. He is not covering his eyes to block his view of me. He is not trying to hide from me. He is covering his eyes to block out an image or a memory. His “no” isn’t really an answer to me either. His “no” is self-denial.

  I look at Paul and lay my hand gently on his shoulder, patting it a few times. Then I play my hardest card yet. “Paul. It’s okay. I understand. I know you didn’t do it.”

  Paul uncovers his eyes and looks at me in confusion and disbelief. He thinks he just got a “Get Out of Jail Free” card, and he is not sure what to think of it. His feeling slowly shifts to one of shock and perplexed amazement.

  I ignore him completely. Turning my back slightly, I pick up my phone, pretending to dial Gambino. With a sigh into the phone, I say “Gambino, the car is registered to Agnes. Paul says he didn’t do it, and I think I believe him.” I pause a moment as though listening. Then I say, “I think he’s protecting Agnes because she took care of him for so many years.” I pause again and sense alarm coming from Paul. “Yep. All the evidence points to her. You’d better go get her and lock her up for manslaughter.”

  I have my head resolutely turned from Paul the whole time, but I feel as his alarm escalates to utter and complete horror and guilt.

  I flip the phone closed now and start to stand up, still not looking at Paul. I hear him start to sob softly and whisper, “I did it. I didn’t mean to do it. It was me. It wasn’t Agnes. Please don’t hurt Agnes.”

  I turn around, feeling like a total heel, but I have to do this. I affect a confused look and sit back down again. I keep my voice soft and confused and reach my hand out across the table toward Paul without touching him. I allow ques
tion and confusion to enter my voice. “Paul, what happened?”

  Paul has his mouth covered with his hands as though he wants to hold back the words, but he focuses on my outstretched hand, and he does talk. He talks between his weeping with tears streaming from his eyes.

  “I was drinking at the Cock and Bull Tap. Just before the police shift started coming in, I ducked out to my car and took a nap. When I woke up, I started to drive home, and as I left the alley this naked boy runs out of nowhere. I couldn’t stop in time.”

  Then Paul’s soft sobs turn into tormented, racking sobs. I can hear the horror in his voice and feel it in his soul. Paul looks me in the eyes, but he doesn’t see me. He sees the image he’s been trying to block out the whole night. He is seeing the thing he wants to deny.

  “I saw the boy’s face hit the windshield. I saw his eyes. He was looking at me through the windshield. He looked straight at me and saw me when he hit it. He was alive and had this hopeful look on his face.”

  Paul pauses and looks at me and stresses this thing that is causing him more horror and pain than anything else. “He was so full of hope. Then the expression of hope went right out of his face when his head hit the windshield. All I could see was blood smeared around his face and his eyes staring at me. His dead eyes!”

  Paul’s emotions are so powerful, they rip right through me—painfully. I can feel everything that he’s feeling. He is an excellent projector, and as luck would have it, I am an excellent receiver.

  I could leave now, but I’m not done yet. I take several deep, fortifying breaths and then lay my hands on Paul’s cuffed hands, holding them gently. This is a man who feels great empathy and guilt and pain. He feels intensely, and I need to use that to help him the little bit I can. But I have to hurt him more to do it.

  I say, “Paul, I know you didn’t mean it. But you know you shouldn’t have been driving a car after drinking. You know your reflexes are not right after drinking. If you had been sober, you might have stopped in time.” Paul sobs harder, but I keep going because he needs to hear this. “This boy is dead because of you. So we have to press charges because you deserve a strong consequence for this. The boy will never get a chance at the rest of his life. He will never get a chance to find and be with his Hannah.”

  Paul nods at this as pain wracks his body and shakes his shoulders. He keeps his head down and gasps for breath between sobs.

  Then I finally say, “Paul, your wife doesn’t have a chance at the rest of her life. This boy doesn’t have a chance at the rest of his life. But Paul, you do. You have a chance at the rest of your life. And you need to decide how to use it. Would your wife have wanted you to use it this way? Drowning yourself in alcohol? Avoiding responsibility for your actions? Spending your life dulling your pain?”

  Paul shakes his head as he continues to weep. I can hardly watch. But since I’m putting him through it, I have to watch it. Not only do I watch it, but I feel it. I feel everything he’s feeling, and I am cutting him deep. As a result, I cut myself just as deep.

  With a thickened throat, I finish it. “Okay then. Detective Gambino is going to come in and ask for a written confession. And then you need to start thinking about the right way to live your life from now on. Good luck, Paul.” Then I release his hands and leave quietly.

  When I enter the observation room, I lean against the door frame. The tears that I had been suppressing leak out slightly. I swipe them away and take several deep breaths.

  Gambino watches me thoughtfully in his quiet, intelligent way. When my breathing calms down he says, “Excellent work, Inspector.”

  At the same time, venomous hatred is spilling out of Schmidt even more powerfully than before. He spits out, “That was sorry fucking work. You are way too soft and pathetic. You only got a partial confession. What about the kidnapping and torture?”

  Gambino’s cheeks start to turn red, but he keeps his back to Schmidt and raises one eyebrow to me.

  I return the look squarely while ignoring Schmidt. “Paul didn’t do the rest. I’m sure of it.”

  Schmidt snickers at this. “What? Don’t want to blame your lover boy? I saw you fondling him!”

  Gambino ignores Schmidt and nods at me slightly. The telltale splotches of red appear on his ears now, and a blood vessel in his temple pulses as he grinds his teeth. He still keeps his gaze averted from Schmidt and wrestles to remain composed. He finally turns to Schmidt, speaking through tense lips that brook no argument. “Get a warrant for Agnes’ house and search it. Bring two other officers with you. I want Franks to be one of them.”

  Schmidt looks at me as if he just won a round and leaves victorious.

  After Schmidt slams the door, Gambino turns his grimacing face to me. “I believe you, but we have to follow procedure, and I want other officers there as a witness to what he does or doesn’t find. Franks is fair.”

  Chapter 31

  A Big Mess

  Bluebell Kildare: May 29, 2022, Red Ages

  I glare at the last set of stair treads leading to my floor. Only a few more steps till home. I think longingly of my soft comforter and pillows. It’s been a long, exhausting, emotionally trying day.

  When I ascend the stairs, Varg and I proceed down the hall to my apartment. The hallway is spacious with little receiving tables outside each door. A dark brown bench seat is comfortably situated next to a large, healthy jade plant under the window at the far end. The walls are plaster and painted in a pleasant taupe. A multicolored Persian rug stretches out in front of the bench, lending a welcome splash of color to the warm oak floors. The ceilings in this building are high and set off with elegant white crown molding. Alexis’ apartment door is at the beginning of the hall and is painted with what used to be a bright red. The door across from my apartment is a vivid blue, but that apartment has lain vacant since my arrival. I assume it must be large because there are no other doors on that side. The years have taken their toll on the door paint while the rest of the hallway is kept in great condition. I wonder if the doors have been left to age as a style decision.

  As we approach my worn and scuffed emerald painted door, Varg starts growling viciously, baring his fangs. Thus warned, I push my sixth sense through the door, searching for life in the apartment. I sense no living souls, but still Varg snaps and growls. A growing sense of unease fills me.

  I insert my key in the deadbolt without turning it, then pull out my Glock. I turn the key very softly until I hear the click. I give a quick twist at the knob and a kick to the heavy oak door, which slams into the wall behind it. A furiously snarling Varg charges in and disappears within the darkness. I put my back against the solid door and hold my gun forward, tense and afraid. I extend my arm and flip the light switch on.

  Holy cripes! My apartment is completely trashed. I tentatively step inside and turn to deadbolt the door behind me. Varg is doing a perimeter check, growling every step of the way. I join him with my Glock, ready for action. As far as I’m aware, the only being that would not register a soul is a Dark Vampire since their souls have already joined Lilith. I try to leap over the sofa cushions that have been thrown on the floor, but when my foot hits the floor it goes flying out from under me. I land with a thump right on my butt. Stunned, I sit there quietly until the stinging recedes, reflecting on the fact that ballet lessons as a child might have served me well. With a glance around, I surmise that my foot landed on a book that slid forward when I put my weight on it. Dozens of my precious books, with pages torn and spines split, litter the floor under the sofa cushions by my feet.

  Holy smokes! I realize I’m still holding my Glock. Luckily I didn’t accidentally set it off when I went flying. Reasoning that if someone were going to jump out at me, they would have done it already, I carefully slide it back in its holster. With considerable stiffness I stand up and gingerly rub my jean-clad left butt cheek. Cripes! I’m going to have a whopping bruise tomorrow. I carefully step over the remaining books and cushions until I make it safely to the other s
ide of the living room. Checking the remainder of the apartment yields nothing—nothing but a big, fat, huge, monolithic mess.

  My couch is tipped over on its front as though someone had been examining the spring works underneath. I flip it on its feet, throw the cushions back on, and collapse in an exhausted heap. I drop my head to my hands and absorb the disaster. Piles of my beloved books lie around me in various stages of destruction. I absolutely love those books. They are my treasures, found at garage sales and picked neatly out of resale shops, fragile with age. Exhaustion threatens to overtake me. I’m tempted to ignore the mess and bury myself in sleep. Inviting as it sounds, the mattresses are upended and the pillows torn to shreds. I have to deal with this now.

  I stare at my chimerator with reluctance, knowing I must inform Jack. He would be furious if I didn’t call. On the bright side, perhaps he can arrange for an earlier appointment with the ward specialist. I bite my lower lip in consternation. Ugh, this is not a call I want to make. With a sigh, I flip open my chimerator and chime his line.

  Jack’s handsome visage comes into view. “What’s wrong?”

  I let the words tumble out of me, the quicker the better. “Jack, my apartment was ransacked with no sign of entry. Is the ward specialist available tonight? My apartment is becoming a public thoroughfare, and the novelty is wearing thin.”

  Jack’s eyes narrow, and even through the tiny chimerator I can see that he’s furious. He finally speaks in a low, hard voice. “I’ll see,” he says, and he closes the line.

  I sigh at his abruptness and then force myself to stand and start putting things to rights. My books come first. I pick them up one by one, straightening their covers and unbending their pages to place them back in the bookcase as carefully as I can. Three heartbreaking shelves and eleven unsalvageable books later, I hear a knock at the door.

  “Who is it?” I call.

  Alexis’ strong voice answers through the door, “It’s me. I’ve got the deworming meds for Varg.”