Medium Dead

by Chris Dolley

  There was only one thing to do.

  “I need go pee pee,” said Brian.

  The detective stopped and gave Brian a quizzical look.

  And promptly got squirted in the face by a jet of liquid emanating from a swiftly fashioned nozzle in the bear’s nether regions.

  The detective dropped the bear and jumped back spluttering.

  “My sister had a doll that did that,” said his colleague. “Though not with such force.”

  Both peered down at the bear. Neither of them bent down for a closer look.

  Brian switched his attention to the other detective. Surely one of them had to be susceptible? Forget the bear. It’s a stupid toy. Check the shelf again. Books make great hiding places.

  He aimed the suggestions at Bob’s head, pitching them soft, barely a whisper, a series of thoughts sliding towards his subconscious mind.

  But would he have enough time? The younger detective had reached down, grabbed Brian by the paw and lifted him up. The knife loomed closer. He was going to cut Brian open.

  “Uh-oh,” said Brian. “I need go number two.”

  Brian wasn’t dropped this time. He was thrown down. And both detectives took two giant steps backwards.

  “My sister’s doll never did that,” said Bob.

  For one fleeting moment Brian contemplated dowsing both detectives with projectile slurry. But that would have stretched plausible deniability a tad too thin. And, besides, this wasn’t the woods.

  Instead he decided to take his battery driven bear act a step in a different direction. If he could talk and pee why couldn’t he move as well?

  He lifted a paw and pointed. “Read me a story.”

  “Is that bear pointing at the book shelf?” asked Bob, amazed.

  Brian seized the opportunity, reinforcing his suggestion. Books. People hide things in books. They slip notes between the pages. Again, he fired the words at Bob’s brain – no more than a whisper – but more insistent. Repeating them over and over again.

  Bob’s head was turning. He was looking towards the bookshelf.

  Brian concentrated harder. Books. Hiding places. Between the pages. Bob was moving now, walking over to the shelf. But not Matt. His eyes hadn’t left Brian, he was still obsessed with the bear and convinced there was something inside.

  Brian tried to watch them both, sampling their thoughts in snatches, juggling his attention between the two. What was going to happen first? Bob reach for the book, or Matt for the bear. Brian prepared a bladder full of liquid just in case. But he didn’t want to use it. He didn’t want to do anything that might distract Bob from looking inside the book.

  Matt stepped forward. He’d made up his mind. He was going to pick up the bear and open him up. Bob was still dawdling, his hand hovering between the Chicken Little book and its neighbor. Brian had to act. He locked his eyes on Matt, rolled back slightly, raised both legs, and spread them.

  He added a wink – a Clint Eastwood Dirty Harry wink. Are you feeling lucky, punk? Do you think this bear contains one projectile bodily function, or two?

  Matt froze, a drop of water hung from the tip of his nose from his last encounter with the bear. Did he feel lucky? No, he didn’t. He stepped swiftly to the side.

  “Have you searched these books?” asked Bob.

  “What?” said Matt, distracted, still keeping both eyes on the bear in case it swiveled round to face him.

  “These kid’s books. Have you searched them?” He had one book in his hand. He was flicking through the pages. Brian couldn’t see which one it was.

  “No,” said Matt.

  Then the picture fell out, half spinning, half gliding to the floor. Bob bent down, picked it up and, from that moment, the Kayla Anderssen murder enquiry changed tack.

  Brian watched from the sidelines as the picture was rushed to the lead investigator. Everyone became excited. It was their first lead. And such a good one. A few officers were detailed to stay behind and complete the search while the rest ferried the picture back to the station. Brian used the opportunity to de-bear and fabricate a new bear from carpet fibers and other toys, in case Matt or Bob came back for a bear count.

  Brian’s job now was to stay with the lead detective and wait. It might take a day or so, but Brian had to be on hand the moment anyone made a credible identification of Daddy.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Brenda decided she was no longer any good at waiting. The old Brenda had excelled at waiting. No period of time was too long to fill. She’d switch on a soap, curl up with a book, or lie back and daydream. But the new Brenda was a crime-fighting action hero. She needed the rush of adventure. As long as it wasn’t too adventurous and there were frequent comfort stops ... and protective shields ... and she could choose her wardrobe.

  She sighed, wondering if the police had found the picture. Brian had been gone an hour. He’d have come back and told her if anything had gone wrong, wouldn’t he?

  She decided he wouldn’t. He’d extemporize and dig himself into several holes until either he found a way out, or everyone else fell in.

  She paced. She monitored the news broadcasts. She hovered by the phone.

  Maybe she could do her own detecting? Summon up Kayla and find out who killed her. They’d need to do that to put things right once Daddy was caught.

  Or...

  She could use the time alone to investigate Brian. She could summon up his ex-partners!

  She liked the idea, but ... what about Cynthia? Wouldn’t she intercept any call Brenda made and sabotage it? She was just the kind of vindictive spirit who would.

  Brenda paced some more. Maybe if she moved her summoning to a different room and opened a portal there. A kind of back portal that Cynthia wouldn’t be watching.

  Brenda had no idea if it would work – or even if it made sense – but she needed to know more about Brian, and that was something worth taking a risk over.

  She moved through to the kitchen. It was the room Brian’s previous partner had chosen to materialize in. Maybe that would make it easier to contact her.

  Brenda pulled the kitchen chair out from under the table and repositioned it so she was facing the fridge. That was the place the ghost had first appeared, so that was the place Brenda would focus on. She’d imagine the fridge door was a back portal to the astral plane and throw it open with her mind.

  Brenda went through her pre-summoning ritual, then filled her mind with the image of the woman – her pinched features, the dressing gown – concentrating hard, trying to give her form and substance. She may not have known the woman’s name but she could project a picture of her – like a giant Bat Signal – far out into the astral plane. She threw open the fridge door with her mind and shot the image through.

  ‘Brian’s partner. The medium working with the Vigilante Demon. I summon you. Here! Now! You know the way. You’ve been here before.’

  Brenda waited, peering at the fridge door. Not a ripple. She tried again. And again. Then expanded her search. ‘Anyone whoever’s worked with Brian, the Vigilante Demon. I summon you! I need your help. I need information!’

  Still nothing. Did it work better if she had a name to work with?

  That’s when she remembered Brian Trafford’s wife. Annie? Julie? Her name was in the crime report Brenda had taken from the FBI files. She could have been one of Brian’s partners – killed in a takedown gone wrong.

  Brenda ran to the lounge to find the report. Where was it? So many stray pieces of paper lay scattered over surfaces. She chose the largest pile. There it was! Angela! Angela Trafford.

  She took the page back to the kitchen and went through her routine again, this time using both name and picture. ‘Angela Trafford, I summon thee!’

  She pressed harder on the picture in her hand, squeezing the paper between finger and thumb. ‘Angela Trafford! I need you! Here! It’s about Brian!’

  “What’s happened to him?”

  Angela Trafford exploded into the kitchen. No hesitant,
semi-see-through apparition, but a vibrant, flaring figure, looking like an oversaturated image with every dial turned to max – color, brightness, sound.

  She was distraught, bloodstained, and panicking.

  “Where’s Brian? Did they kill him? Is he alive? Where’s Julie? Julie!”

  Brenda was taken aback. The woman was screaming, her bruised face contorted, her image darting around the kitchen, desperately searching for her daughter, for Brian – barely staying in one place long enough for Brenda to catch her eye.

  “Angela, stop! Listen to me! Listen!”

  The ghost stopped, hovering high above the kitchen table, her wild eyes staring down at Brenda.

  “Who are you?”

  Brenda wasn’t sure what to say. One wrong word and anything could happen. Angela could disappear, or go berserk and be worse than a thousand Cynthias. She looked so volatile, looking every inch a distraught mother who didn’t know if her daughter and husband were alive or dead.

  And she had an English accent. Maybe she really was an innocent.

  “Who are you!” Angela screamed.

  “I’m Brenda. I have news about Brian. He’s alive.”

  The ghost dropped like a stone, her legs falling through the table, her face now level with Brenda’s. She was crying and smiling.

  “And Julie?”

  “She’s ... fine.”

  Brenda felt terrible but ... what was the point in telling the truth if the truth was like a knife to the heart? Angela would be gone in a few minutes. She didn’t need to know her child was dead. She’d been tortured enough without Brenda adding to her pain.

  “Thank God!” She started sobbing, and laughing. Years of not knowing dissolving around her.

  “Can I ask you a few questions,” Brenda asked.

  “Yes. Of course. Thank you.” Angela wiped her eyes and sniffed back the tears.

  “I know this is a painful but, can you tell me what happened in Florida when those men attacked?”

  For a second, Brenda thought she’d lost her. The ghost recoiled, her image flaring ... then settling down.

  Angela swallowed. “Why do you want to know?”

  “I want to catch the men who ... attacked your family. It’s what I do. I’m a medium. Has any other medium ever contacted you about this before?”

  Brenda held her breath waiting for the reply.

  “No. You’re the first ... person I’ve seen since ... since the attack.”

  Strike one for Brian and his ‘Angela Trafford came to one of my previous partners’ story.

  Brenda listened as Angela recounted the same story she’d read in the crime report. An unprovoked, violent attack on an innocent family who’d already handed over all the money they’d had. The husband had been attacked first. He was being beaten to death when his wife tried to drag the men off. She was elbowed hard in the face, knocked to the ground, and shot.

  If Brian had had superpowers, he’d had the time to use them. So, either he made a monumental misjudgment, or he didn’t get his powers until later – probably from the gene therapy.

  Or Brian was messing with her mind. Creating a Brian Trafford conspiracy as a test of her investigatory ability.

  “How are Brian and Julie?” asked Angela. “What are they doing? Is Julie still in school?”

  Brenda lied, fabricating the kind of story that she would have liked had the roles been reversed. Brian and Julie were as close as any father and daughter could be. The early years had been difficult but, together, they’d got through them. Julie was doing well at school. Brian was doing well at work. Brenda kept the story light on detail and heavy on feelgood factor.

  She kept that up for three minutes. Angela’s face just eighteen inches away, her eyes full but sparkling, tears running down her cheeks, her smile ... her smile as wide and as happy as a smile with a busted lip and three broken teeth could ever be.

  When Angela left, Brenda broke down.

  After the tears, came the need to be busy. Anything to take her mind off Angela and Julie. In the lounge, her eyes alighted on the parcel of incriminating evidence waiting to be sent to the FBI. That was something she could do.

  It whiled away thirty minutes. She put on gloves and gave the box a thorough wipe. She found the address of the nearest FBI office to Stamford, printed it clearly, made up a credible sender’s address – carefully avoiding the name of any fictional detectives and fighting the urge to use 221b Baker Street – and dropped it off at the Post Office.

  Driving back she thought of one other productive task she could accomplish – returning the Jaguar.

  Luckily her inner Brenda’s inner Brenda – a devilishly devious woman of fox-like cunning – came up with several reasons why returning the Jaguar would be a bad idea. Top of the list being that Brenda was on crime-fighting stand-by and couldn’t risk taking three hours out to drive to Wellesley and back. She had to be close to home, ready to answer Brian’s call. Then there was the matter of her altered looks. Would the car dealer hand over fifty thousand dollars to a stranger? Or would he get suspicious and call the cops?

  But the clincher was the simple fact that there wasn’t an ‘r’ in the month and everyone knows you can only hand back expensive cars when there’s an ‘r’ in the month.

  The day dragged into evening with still no word from Brian. Kayla’s murder was covered by a few of the news channels, but there was no mention of any new evidence. Brenda managed to pick her way through the opening chapters of Strong Poison, but even the imminent entanglement of Harriet Vane and Lord Peter failed to engage her as much as it usually did. Only a jaw-dropping installment of The Rich, The Spoiled, and the Surgically Enhanced managed to snap her out of her growing lethargy.

  Celeste, the drama queen’s drama queen, discovered she had a brain tumor. Apparently it was pressing on the part of her brain that controlled the buttoning and unbuttoning of her tops. Brenda marveled at the wealth of medical information one could pick up from quality TV. With Poor Celeste staring at a future of worsening décolletage, she was rushed to see the world’s top neurosurgeon, Storm Canaveral, a former pro linebacker, who’d taken up medicine in an effort to cure his own football-related brain tumor. Storm took one look at Celeste’s cleavage and whisked her away to his own private hospital yacht moored in the Mediterranean. But had he left it too late? The episode ended with Celeste flat on her back – a position not unknown to Celeste – but this time she was complaining of a headache. And that was a first.

  The rest of the evening could never compete with that, and a scratchy-eyed Brenda retired to bed with her book.

  The next morning brought better news. Daddy’s picture had been released to the media. It wasn’t being covered by all the television channels, and the item barely rated a forty-second segment on those that did, but it was a start, and the local media around Syracuse had to be covering the story in full.

  Brenda’s spirits rose for a heady ten minutes. Then her mother called.

  “Have you given any more thought to where you’re going to be this weekend?”

  Crap. Brenda had forgotten what story she’d fed her mother the last time. Was Fabio pulling double shifts at the hospital, or the fire station? And where was Brenda supposed to be? On vacation? Horse riding across the Rockies?

  “Only,” continued her mother, using the warding form of the word which usually preceded an extremely hard sell. “I have this little dinner party....”

  Alarm bells, augmented by the occasional siren, sounded in Brenda’s head. Dinner party. She was going to be served up and grilled. All her mother’s cronies would be there. All wanting to know every detail about Fabio. And they’d be relentless. They’d want to know where his hospital was. How many castles his family had and where exactly they were. They’d probably bring Atlases along, and books on Italian peerage. They’d fact-check her to death!

  Brenda stalled as best she could, wondering if she could fall back on the ‘r’ in the month ploy, but wisely decided not to. She u
sed the bad connection ploy instead.

  “Hello? What did you say? I can’t hear you. We’re in the mountains and the signal’s terrible. I’ll call you when we get back.”

  She hung up, fighting the urge to run and hide behind the sofa. Her mother wouldn’t give up. Brenda had bought a day at the most. Perhaps it was time to kill off Fabio? Say he’d been eaten by wolves during their trip into the mountains.

  She was still working out the best way to ditch Fabio, when the phone rang again. This time it was her landline, not her cell. Her answering machine sprang into life.

  “Pick up. I know you’re there.” It was Susan, her sister.

  This time Brenda did hide behind the sofa.

  “Brenda Steele! Pick up the phone.”

  Brenda crouched lower. She was not at home. She was on a riding vacation, fighting off wolves in the Rockies. And she was definitely not answering the phone while Susan was deploying surnames.

  An exasperated sigh hissed from the answering machine.

  “When are you going to come clean and tell Mom? You know the longer you wait, the harder it’s going to hit her.”

  She did. And she also knew who was going to suffer most from the fallout. Brenda Steele, the one with the surname. First she’d be shouted at, then shunned, then, when they realized that she liked being shunned, they’d turn up at her doorstep with a team of crack deprogrammers.

  Hiring a male escort was an obvious cry for help, Brenda. We’re here to turn your life around.

  And she’d never stop spinning.

  About five minutes into the scenario, and just before they’d pinned her to the ground and injected her with industrial strength Prozac, Brenda had a minor epiphany.

  What if she just said no? After all, she’d faced down street thugs. She’d smart-mouthed crime bosses. Why not stand up to her family?

  If her inner Brenda could have taken physical form, she’d have bitch-slapped her host across the room. Are you mad, girl? There isn’t a protective shield strong enough that Susan and your mother couldn’t find a way through. Family can hurt you in ways a mob boss can’t imagine. And if you hurt them back, it’ll be worse.