by PM Weldon
Things were semi-back to normal. I didn't remember much at all of what happened in the warehouse. Neither did Pink. I had weird dreams of golden-painted faces and old bones.
Vale and company found us because of an anonymous phone call. Senator Padeaus and Llse Wallace were dead, and Pink and I were heavily drugged on the cot. And as Julie put it, I'd been beaten. Again.
It took a few days to sleep off the drugs and again, I couldn't remember what happened. I did remember Mary Smith's death…sort of. Either way, we had solved three mysteries total. And I had jobs lining up thanks to the news article, though not all of them were good jobs. And some of them were down right spooky.
Vale had put in a good word for me, and I wasn't so much welcomed back into the squad as allowed to participate when I wanted to, as a crime scene photographer. I decided to get my PI license, just in case.
Susan was happy her client had been released on the Lanier Strangler case. But still the body count was rising.
After the party was over and I was on my way to my car, Julie called out and fell into step with me. "Haunted bones."
"What?"
"You kept saying that while you were sleeping. After Mary Smith attacked. I wanted to ask you where you got that."
"I got it from Mary. That's what she called her mother's bones."
"But we proved her mother wasn't in there." She put a hand on my arm and we both stopped on the sidewalk. "Haven't you thought about that?"
I gave her a confused look.
"Devan—why did the picture show the image of a living woman? Poulin wasn't dead. Why didn't it show Patsy Granger's image?"
I had asked myself the same question several times. "It did. Vale pulled pictures of Elizabeth Poulin and Patsy Granger and if you're just glancing…they kind of resembled each other. But if you were riddled with guilt, like Mary had been, then she would look exactly like Elizabeth."
"So it was Mary's self-made ghost that caused her to make mistakes and believe the image was her mother's ghost."
"That and someone's haunted bones."
about the author
PM Weldon has published over 11 novels and 40 short stories. She lives in the Bible Belt with her family and a pounce of cats.
Big Fish, Little Fish
A Devan McNally File
ONE
The Master drilled the last screw into the hinge and blew away the shavings with a quick breath. He carefully replaced the drill where it hung on the pegboard of his basement wall then turned to admire his handy work. The silver hinge was firmly connected to the bright red bowling ball. The three finger holes just below the addition reminded him of a surprised emoticon. He loved bowling balls. They were round, and shiny, and colorful…
And heavy.
He glanced at the young man on the floor, struggling with his bonds where he lay several feet from the Master's work table. Several layers of shiny silver duct tape covered his eyes, and a golf ball and more duct tape kept him quiet. The handcuffs and leg irons were chained together, making a perfect hog-tie.
The sun should have set by now. There was no rain forecast for the evening. And a full moon. The perfect atmosphere for the Master's next performance.
He finished the ball with a lock and thick chain. After removing the ball from the padded vise, the Master carried it to the struggling man as the chain scraped along the wood. Once he set the ball on the basement floor, he pulled the chain to him. It brushed over the captive who increased his struggles. The Master listened to his muffled protests and once he had the chain's free end in hand, leaned forward and put a hand over the tape keeping the golfball in place.
"Sshh…it won't do you any good. No one will hear you. And tonight, it will all be over."
The captive protested louder, harder. The Master pulled a second padlock from his pocket and fastened the other end to the metal collar he had wielded around the young man's neck that morning. One click and the stage was set.
His doorbell chimed above.
The captive tried to yell.
The Master sighed as he rose and looked down at the young man. The visitor would be Mrs. Cunningham, his neighbor, bringing him his Thursday evening chowder. He looked forward to her weekly treat and planned on enjoying the potatoes and salty taste in preparation for the night's festivities.
On the shelf next to the steps leading upstairs sat a vial and several syringes. The Master had one loaded and ready just for this moment. He gently took it in his hand and knelt beside the bound captive before he carefully injected it into his neck. One last muffled scream and then blessed silence.
The Master ascended the stairs, locked the door and washed his hands before he answered his neighbor's knocks.
"Mrs. Cunningham," he said with the appropriate mixture of joy and happiness. Not too much. He never wanted to appear fake.
She was a short woman, plump with middle age. Her hair was cut at an angle to thin out her round face and dyed a shade of red not found in nature. She smiled at him and held the pot. "It's so nice to see you, Mr. Smith. You're fine today?"
"Yes, yes I am. Would you like to come in for a cup of coffee?" Standard question. She always refused.
"Well…" she looked to her right, then her left. "Actually…yes. I would. But just for one cup."
He smiled and stepped to the side to allow her entrance. She had been in his house before. He had paid her to clean several times. Her change in ritual didn't alarm him, but it did peak his curiosity. Once he closed the door, he noticed she clutched a newspaper to her chest. "I see you still read the paper? I thought everyone read them online nowadays?" He moved to the kitchen with her just behind him and placed the pot on the stove. It was still warm but he liked chowder hot.
"Oh yes," she said and laid the paper flat on his shiny marble counter top. "I was wondering if you'd been keeping up with the Lanier Strangler?"
He smiled. For no other reason than the name given the cases. A series of bodies found in the water of Lake Lanier, nude, strangled. "I heard they arrested someone."
"Oh…that's what this article's about. Apparently they had to let him go. Another body was found while he was in jail, so his lawyer got him acquitted."
Really? He reached out to move the paper closer to himself as Mrs. Cunningham went about the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee. He didn't mind. She was putty in his hands when ever he wanted.
The article on the acquitted suspect rehashed exactly what his neighbor said in a single sentence. He read it quickly and unfolded the paper to see the full image of the attorney Susan Lowell. She was an attractive woman. Tall. Statuesque. And very powerful. He respected the fact she fought for her client because obviously…he was innocent.
Mrs. Cunningham retrieved cream from the refrigerator as he scanned down the page. The second article caught his attention and he stared at it.
"Yeah…pretty neat, huh?" Mrs. Cunningham said as she poured the cream in her cup next to the paper. "They say he can take pictures of ghosts. Two murder scenes—even solved his own case."
"His own case?"
"Article says he's that cop that got shot in the head about two years ago. You can see some of the shots he took if you go online."
He pointed to the paper and looked at her. "On the paper's site?"
"Nah. You have to google Devan McNally and magic pictures. It's spooky as hell." She sipped her coffee. "Oh, and Mr. Max over at the dock? His nephew works downtown. Apparently McNally's been taking pictures for the Lanier case."
He gave her a sharp look. She didn't notice. She was looking at the paper. "What…did he find?"
"Bowling balls." She shrugged. "Or that's what the article says."
"How are bowling balls relevant to the strangled bodies?" He straightened up and schooled his features into his usual mask of calm, though inside the Master railed.
"Oh I don't know. It's the only clue they're releasing about what he's found." She patted the counter. "Well I should be going, Mr. Smith."
&
nbsp; "Yes…May I keep the paper? I would very much like to read it."
"Oh, sure. But you know it's online too. Just have to have a subscription." She waved at him. "I'll let myself out. Night, Mr. Smith."
"Night…Mrs. Cunningham," he replied but didn't watch her as she left. He folded the paper and held it in front of him, his gaze locked on the picture of Devan McNally. This was a man he wanted to get to know. "Well Mr. McNally," he said as he pulled a spoon from the bowl of them next to the stove and stirred his chowder. "We'll have to change things up a bit, won't we, and test out exactly what you can do."
Tonight's plans had just been…changed.
To be continued in Big Fish, Little Fish.
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