Death's Intern (The Intern Diaries Book 1)

by D. C. Gomez

  By the time he came over, I had my window down. Just my luck—the cop who walked to my window was gorgeous. How was that fair? He was at least six feet tall, with a muscular body and brownish hair and matching eyes. He even had a chiseled face with full lips. I saw my reflection in the mirror, and I looked as if I had stuck my finger in a light socket. My hair was messy from all the times I had run my hands through it. I saw grease on my face. I even smelled like Mexican food.

  “Ma’am, do you know why I stopped you?” He even had a sexy, smooth voice. I wanted to smack my head on the steering wheel.

  “I was probably speeding, Officer.” Why lie?

  “Yes. Can I see your driver’s license and registration?”

  I was pretty sure that was just a formality. He had probably pulled all my information while he was sitting in his car. I handed him the license and registration and waited.

  “Isis Black? Didn’t you just call 9-1-1 for an abduction?”

  My mouth just dropped, and I nodded.

  “I went to Abuelita’s, but you were already gone. Abuelita gave me her statement. What do you think you’re doing?” The officer was giving me a lecture. I wasn’t sure whether he was also giving me a patronizing look or one of condolence.

  “I didn’t think anyone would come. I just couldn’t stay there doing nothing.” I didn’t look at his eyes when I spoke. I felt ridiculous admitting that.

  “Do you find anything?” He was still holding my information.

  “Besides that Texarkana is deceptively large, not really.” Unfortunately, on top of talking really fast when I got nervous, I also became a smart-ass. Not the best idea when you were faced with police officers or doctors. He didn’t look amused.

  “No kidding. Would you care to give a statement now, or are you just planning to drive all over Texarkana?” I wasn’t sure whether he was being helpful or was just annoyed by me.

  I took a deep breath and related my story to Officer Hottie. My godmother always said that my downfall would be men in uniform. I was not going to tell her she was right, but he was hot. He asked a few pertinent questions at all the right places.

  “Do you remember what type of vehicle they were driving?” He had been taking notes the whole time.

  “One of those Dodge sixteen-passenger vans. The old model with the bench seats in the back. The windows were tinted to match the black paint job. It was hard to miss. Nobody drives those things anymore besides construction crews.” In Texas, where everyone had a truck, vans were rare. Most families had SUVs nowadays.

  “OK, I’ll pass this information to the other officers.” He sounded genuine, but I wasn’t sure.

  “Why? Do people really care if one more homeless person disappears in Texarkana?”

  “I don’t know about people, but I do.” I met his eyes, and they were unnerving. He had an intensity that I couldn’t explain.

  “I’m sorry.” I actually meant the apology. I wasn’t a total ass, and I didn’t want to be rude just because I was pissed.

  “Don’t be. You’re upset about your friend. But you’re not going to find him speeding to town being a menace to the other drivers. Go home and let us do our job.”

  OK, Officer Hottie was not that much older than me—maybe four or six years. Why was he talking to me as if I were five? I wanted to argue just to have the last word, but I didn’t know what to say.

  “Are you going to let me know?” I was working hard to sound as innocent as possible.

  He shook his head and smiled. God was definitely not fair—the boy had dimples. How was that possible?

  “Yes, I will. Give me a number where I can call you, and I’ll keep you informed.”

  I was speechless. I didn’t want to lose my chance, so I found a scrap piece of paper in my glove compartment and wrote my cell phone number. I handed the paper to Officer Hottie, and he handed me back my license and registration.

  “As soon as I find something, I’ll personally let you know. Now please head home at a reasonable speed. Leave the police work to the professionals.” He was trying his best to look trustworthy and not intimidating.

  “You’re not going to give me a ticket?” I was pretty sure I was missing something, as if he knew something I didn’t.

  “Do you want one?”

  “Not particularly. Thank you, Officer…” I left my sentence hanging because I couldn’t read his name tag.

  “Smith. That’s my last name.”

  I had a few Matrix comments to go along with his name. I decided against it—if I was planning to leave without a ticket. I couldn’t afford a ticket with my paycheck.

  “Thank you, Officer Smith. Please call me if you find out anything.”

  He nodded and went back toward his car. I’d had very few encounters with cops, but I was sure this one was not normal.

  “Head home, Ms. Black, and please stop drag racing on my streets.” He was saying that over his shoulder. I was sort of listening, more focused on his nice ass. He was even fine from behind. I wished I had been drag racing. That would translate to being close to finding someone. Right now, all I had done was get a warning.

  I was completely lost and defeated. I turned around and headed back toward home on Texas Boulevard and then turned left on New Boston Road. I was heading east on New Boston Road, or 82. Not sure why some streets in Texarkana had multiple names. At the intersection of Summerhill and New Boston Road, instead of turning right to head home, I kept going straight. I had no idea why, but I couldn’t give up so soon. I drove less than a mile and turned right at Beverly Park.

  Beverly Park wasn’t much to look at. Right next to Big Jake’s BBQ, the so-called park was just a couple of picnic tables with benches and a small kids’ playground. I remembered Bob mentioning this place. He used to hang out here with an old buddy under the shady area. I drove slowly, so as not to scare anyone away. When I reached the picnic tables, I got out. The place looked empty at first glance, until I looked closely. In the back of the park, beneath a tree, was a man sitting on the ground, not moving. I prayed he wouldn’t run away and that he was still alive. Truly I wasn’t sure if that was Bob’s friend, but I needed to try.

  By the time I reached him, I noticed he wasn’t going anywhere. He was sleeping against the tree, holding a paper bag. I couldn’t tell what was inside the bag, but I had a few guesses. The man looked frail. The sun still had a few hours before it set, but the shadows gave the man a sickish look. He didn’t look very tall, five four tops, and maybe 120 pounds soaking wet. I leaned down to tap his foot.

  “Who are you? What do you want?” The little guy screamed before I could even touch him. He startled me so bad, I fell on my butt. The little man looked crazy, with wild eyes. I was waiting for him to start yelling “My precious!” I was beginning to question my decision to come here. This man looked insane.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’m friends with Bob.” I was trying to sit down without attracting too much attention. I didn’t want him to do anything crazy, like stab me or bite me.

  He was up on his feet faster than I believed possible. “Liar. Bob has no friends. Are you here to take me?” I guessed he had whiskey in the bag, because I smelled it on his breath.

  “No, sir, I’m not here to take you. But some people took Bob this afternoon.”

  That hit him hard, and he stopped moving. I took advantage of his confusion and stood up. At least I could look him in the eyes now.

  “I told him to stop asking questions, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s just like all the rest.” Was it the alcohol talking, or what? I wasn’t following his conversation.

  “Sir, do you know who took Bob?” Please, God, let this crazy drunk guy be semicoherent.

  “The witches took him. Like they took all the young and healthy ones. I told him to stop asking questions and stay in his lane. But he just couldn’t do it.” The little man was pacing back and forth with his arms outstretched. My prayer had failed, because that made no sense. He continued his rambling campaign.
“They don’t want me ’cause I’m old, but nobody is safe now.”

  “I’m sorry, but do you know who else is missing?” I was talking to him as if he were a five-year-old. “Please help me. I need to find Bob.”

  “Girl, he is gone. Let him go. Nobody comes back after they take them.” His words chilled me to the core. Those were the first sober words he had said. He delivered them without judgment or fear—just stated a fact.

  “Do you know where they took them? Please help me.” My voice was shaky and broken.

  “Shhhh. Stay away, girl.” Before I could say or do anything, he took off. How could a drunk man move so fast? That didn’t even make any sense. I had no idea where he was heading, but I knew I was not getting anything else out of him.

  I hated feeling helpless. I was overwhelmed, and there was nothing I could do. Bob was missing, and I had no way to find him. The old crazy guy was even less helpful. On top of that, my own clock was ticking. Death needed an answer by tomorrow. My boring and uncomplicated life was destroyed. I needed to pack up and leave this place. By the sound of the crazy old guy, I was never going to find Bob anyways.

  I wiped my eyes and brushed off dirt from my clothes. If I stayed here any longer, I could pass for one of the homeless. I was a hot mess. I had smeared dirt all over my face by accident. It was a blessing I didn’t wear makeup, or that sure would have made a worse picture.

  I slowly pulled myself into the Whale and headed home. This weekend was ranking in the top three on my list of horrible disasters. I just wanted to crawl into bed and forget this whole mess.

  Chapter 8

  On Sunday evenings I normally brought my dinner home. It was a good thing I wasn’t hungry, because I’d forgotten to pick up food today. Fixing meals for one person was more trouble than it was worth. The creation process relaxed me, but the cleanup was too much of a pain afterward. My fridge always had the basics: milk, bread, cheese, deli meat, eggs, butter, and some condiments. I could always make a sandwich and not starve.

  After the insane day I’d had, I just wanted to disappear. My shoulders were tight, and I could feel the muscles in my lower back knotting up. On warm days I preferred cool showers. Today I wanted a blistering-hot bath. My bathtub was small, but it would do the trick. I filled it up with as much hot water as it could handle. I poured in two cups of Epsom salts and some lavender oil. I climbed into the tub, and the heat from the water boiled my legs. With baths, the worst part was always getting in. After a few moments, the body adjusted. I was relieved to have something else to think about, at least for a few minutes. Tears were rolling down my face, but this time I let them. Maybe that was the only way to empty myself and let go.

  An hour later I crawled into bed, wearing a large nightgown, a purple-and-yellow one my godmother had sent me last year. She had an obsession with nightgowns. Somehow she thought the rest of the world had one, too. On days like this, I really missed her. Unfortunately, if I called, she would immediately know something was wrong. I didn’t need any more people worried. I drifted off to sleep.

  It was late afternoon, and I was standing in the middle of the road. The car was wrapped around a tree. Fumes were coming out from under the hood. It took me a minute, but I knew I was dreaming. It was a weird sensation, knowing the place was not real but not being able to wake up. I had been having this dream most of my life—or, more accurately, this nightmare. I was six then, watching my parents die inside the vehicle, too young to help. I was told that the impact had thrown me from the car.

  “Isis, don’t cry. You are not alone.”

  I looked up and saw my mother standing over me. I couldn’t remember much of her, but I could see her so clearly. Today her dark hair was wrapped in a bun on top of her head. She wore no makeup, but her eyes had a natural outline that made the almond shape stand out even more. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans, and she smelled like jasmine. My mother had a light tan, and she was beautiful.

  “Mom, please don’t leave me again.” I reached for her but couldn’t touch her. I was crying.

  “Baby, you are stronger than you think. Don’t be afraid. I’m always with you.” She kissed my forehead. I closed my eyes to take it all in. That part was new. I had never seen my mother in this dream. I had always ended alone and small.

  I opened my eyes, and I was no longer standing in the middle of the road. I was in Fallujah, Iraq. I was wearing my military uniform, including the Kevlar. I closed my eyes, forcing the dream to change again. Nothing happened. I was still in Iraq watching the inevitable. My heart was pounding, and my hands were sweating. I waved my hands as the convoy passed by me.

  Like clockwork, the gunfire started. The drivers performed defensive maneuvers. Instead of avoiding the incoming danger, they drove, without knowing, directly over the IED.

  “Nooooo! Please stop!” I was screaming at the top of my lungs. Our HEMTT had flipped over. I saw myself pulling the dead body of my friend out. I was holding Sergeant Richardson’s body.

  “Isis, let me go. It wasn’t your fault.” Sergeant Richardson was standing next to me on the side of the road, smiling. That boyish smile played on his face as he spoke. We were band people. We had no right to be in a convoy. But we were soldiers first; everything else was second.

  The pain was too intense. I fell to my knees, and more tears kept coming. He’d never said those words to me. What was going on? For over a year now, I had been having this nightmare. Why was it different now? I kept trying to wake up, but I couldn’t. I could smell the blood on me. I closed my eyes and sobbed.

  “Aghhhh.” I knew where I was before I opened my eyes. That cry was imprinted in my memory. This time I was back in Brooklyn, staring down the fire escape. The mangled body of the intern lay on the ground. He wasn’t moving.

  “Oh God, please let him be OK.” Please make this stop, God. I begged God and all the saints. I was flying down the stairs with my dream self. This time, the intern was sitting up looking at me when I reached him.

  “You need to get ahold of yourself. Learn to control your emotions and forgive yourself, or you will go crazy.”

  The intern vanished.

  “Wait. Come back.” What was going on? I started having a panic attack. Maybe it was too late and I was already going crazy.

  “Let me out! Let me out!” My screams woke me up. I was covered in sweat, sitting straight up on my bed.

  “Oh God, help me.”

  “He is trying to help you. Maybe you should let him.” The voice came from the corner of my room.

  “Holy cow!” I screamed at the top of my lungs. I pulled my sheets over me, as if they were going to save me. I wasn’t judging my courage. Trust me, at two in the morning, nobody is brave.

  From the shadows, Death appeared. She sat on the director’s chair I had in my room. She made it look like an executive chair. With an incredible grace, she crossed her legs.

  “How did you get in?”

  Death just arched an eyebrow and smiled. OK, so I was a little slow in the middle of the night. Not my fault.

  “Do you honestly think doors and locks can stop me?”

  “Good point. Disregard that question. Why are you here?” I wasn’t sure whether I was ready to hear the answer to that.

  “Dreams can be powerful tools. At times, those who have passed have used them to communicate with the living. Your subconscious is more open to the supernatural during sleep. Especially now that you have been blessed by me,” Death said, as if it actually made sense.

  “I’m not sure if my definition of ‘blessing’ is the same as yours. What do you mean ‘at times’? What about the rest of the time?” I had had dreams with people who weren’t dead. Were they foretelling my future? I hoped not.

  “The rest are just random thoughts running through your mind. Some people have gone mad trying to interpret them all. Looking for meaning in the nonsense.” She was not offended by my comment.

  “Great. So am I dreaming or awake?”

  Death gave m
e that knowing smile. “You tell me.”

  “Definitely awake. In my dream, I wouldn’t be getting a lecture or intimidated into working for you.” I was feeling brave—or just too tired to care.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, dear. I don’t need to terrorize anyone to work for me. I’m just following one of your laws: for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

  Oh, great. Death was quoting Newton on me. It was either way too early or late for this.

  “So if you’re not here about the offer, why are you here?” This was the longest day ever.

  “You called me.” Death was serious, and I was speechless.

  “I did what? No way.” I was officially crazy.

  “You wished you would die and quiet the voices.” Death inclined her head and waited for my answer.

  “OK, hold up. A lot of people say things like that. Do you appear to everyone who mutters that statement?”

  “Only to those who put actions behind the words. But you are different. I have a link to you. So your voice is a lot clearer. Didn’t Constantine tell you not to call on me? Rule number three—remember?”

  Was she serious? Constantine had not explained rule number three very well.

  “I have a feeling he forgot to tell me why. I’m sure I would remember if he mentioned that Death would appear.” I needed to have a few words with that fur ball.

  “Strange things happen when I’m around. It would be unfortunate if you called me in a crowded room and people randomly started to have strokes and heart attacks. The body is a complicated machine and reacts differently in my presence.” Death technically did not kill people, but some just managed to die when she was around. Good to know. Don’t call Death at a hospital—check.