Just Intuition

by Fisk, Makenzi

  Then she helped Allie into the car and buckled her seat belt. This was the safest spot for her while Erin conducted a quick search of the area and she had a modicum of undeserved confidence in the security capability of the dog. Fiona was not a reliable bodyguard, but Erin rationalized that her canine senses might be a useful alert if anyone approached.

  She searched the area and noted scuffs in the gravel as well as a few freshly broken branches on one side. Someone had recently passed on foot. There was no one here now and it did not appear that they had left anything behind, except the barricade. She settled into the driver's seat, took a breath, and leaned over to double check that Allie's seat belt was clipped securely.

  A sharp thwack on the back window crashed through the stillness like an explosion and Erin leapt from the car, pistol instantly in her hand. She scrutinized the brush, gun automatically following her sight line. At first there was no sound and then the soft whipping of branches. Someone scrambled quietly away. Erin pursued but found the brush nearly impassable without knowing where the trail was. Brambles scraped at her, snaring her legs. By now, the assailant was long gone. There was no hope of catching him this night.

  She returned to the car and saw a solid bulls-eye crack in the back window. A palm-sized rock lay nearby and she angrily kicked it.

  "Ouch!" She winced at the intense pain in her toe and got into the car. Soft-soled running shoes were not made for punting rocks. Her heart pounded in her ears and she punched the wheel a couple of times in sheer frustration. Allie stared back at her, eyes clear at last, but a look of confusion on her face.

  "What's going on? Why did we stop?"

  "Everything is okay." Erin squeezed each syllable through clenched jaw. "I need you to give me your keys. Right now. We'll talk when we get home." She hit the automatic door locks.

  Abruptly sober, Allie handed her keys over. Erin started the car and, with one more glance in the rear view mirror, shifted into drive.

  * * *

  I have a smile on my face as I take off like a panther. That's right, I'm a badass panther and this is my territory. I am jogging on soft cat's feet and I can still hear that stupid cop thrashing around like a snared rabbit. She's makin' so much noise that I wanna laugh. The stick she was wavin' didn't scare me, but the gun from the car sure got my attention. Even a panther knows when to bail out. I hit the trail before she started popping off shots like Stallone in The Expendables. But not before I chucked a big rock at their frickin' car. Right smack in the middle of the goddamn back window. A perfect throw, if I do say so myself.

  Bitches! Both of 'em. I've always hated that interfering cop and now she has a zombie girlfriend. Every time I've seen her, she's just plain weird. And her dog is some kind of useless. When they came snooping around my bog, their stupid mutt walked past me without barking or anything. I wanted to jump out and slap its tail out from between its legs. I imagine what would have happened if I'd done it that day, and it's funny enough to simmer me down some.

  That was their first mistake. Trespassing on my bog. Poking around my business. Mind your own business. The bog is mine.

  I wanted them to smash into my roadblock tonight and I can't figure out how they knew it was there. It would have been great to see the car burst into flames. I would have danced around the bonfire like a wild savage. That would have taught them a real lesson. The brand new crack in their back window should be a good reminder.

  I stop and take the set of keys from my jeans pocket. Balling them up in my fist, I throw them in a nice high arc. With so many leaves on the ground, no one will find them for a hundred years.

  In the dark, I nearly miss the fork in the trail and sink to my shins in the swamp. By the time I get to town I'm cranky, my shoes are muddy and I'm thirsty. I could use a beer but this whole damn place closes at 11p.m., which was hours ago. I'm also out of cigarettes so, when I see a pack of smokes sitting on the dash of a parked car, I try the handle. Of course, it's not locked and I help myself.

  When I flip open the Camels, I'm surprised to find a fat little doobie snuggled right in there, alongside the remaining half pack of cigarettes. Never tried one of those before and it feels like tonight's the night. Millions of dope-smokers can't be wrong so I stop by a fence and light up. It tastes weirder than it smells but I inhale and hold the smoke until I'm ready to burst. For the life of me, I don't feel a damn thing. I grind it into the gravel with my shoe and light up a real cigarette to get the taste out of my mouth. I don't care what brand I smoke; it's all the same to me. I suck in a lungful. That's what I wanted in the first place.

  The streetlights on this part of the avenue are out. Have been for a while. I guess that's why I like coming this way. I like walking past the little cemetery at the end. That cemetery is old as dirt and no one gets buried there any more. You can barely read the names on the gravestones and nobody ever visits. They say it's haunted, but don't they say that about every cemetery? Isn't that the point, really? I've never seen a single spook and I've spent a lot of time here. All I know is that it's a good spot to sit and think without anyone getting up in my face. A good spot to walk around.

  I take a shortcut through and pause to bend down and read my favorites.

  Mathilda "Hildie" Johannson 1898-1962 Loving Mother

  Below the name is a picture of an angel that looks like she is blowing her nose. Runny Nose Hildie, her friends probably called her. Cracks me up every time. I read a couple more and come to a freakishly tall one that is familiar.

  Harold Woods 1902-1955 Millwright

  There's no picture on this one, but it's the tallest one in the row and always catches my attention. I put my shoulder against it and give a good shove. I'm pretty sure I've shoved it over at least twice before but it just won't stay down. One more push and it topples backwards. Scheisse! I jump out of the way before it lands on my foot and then I boot over a couple other easy ones.

  Past the cemetery, right across the road, sits a large metal dumpster. I'm done my last cigarette so I hold the glowing end to the empty package until it ignites. When I toss it in, I aim for a pile of newspapers. Too lazy to recycle? Time to pay the price.

  It's already smoldering and flames will be visible soon. Awesome.

  I wait around a few minutes until I see a steady line of gray smoke. Spreading cheer everywhere I go, I'm like freakin' Santa Claus.

  The car is three blocks up, where I left it and I retrieve the keys from under the floor mat like everyone else in this town. I drive down the back alleys, park the car and toss the keys back under the mat. I've been driving since I was eight but sometimes I want a set of wheels that no one knows. The old guy here never notices, as long as I leave it in the same spot. I'm good at that.

  It's a short walk to my place but it's almost dawn when I get home. I still need a beer so I go into the shed and grab one from the little fridge. A nice cold Bud is a luxury I truly enjoy. I park my ass on a wooden stool by the work bench and the first few swallows go down real nice.

  It's been a long time since I did any work in here so I pull a drawer open and look at the scalpels, fleshing blades and shears. They are still as shiny as the first time I held them in my hands. A metal cabinet holds fiberglass forms for a bobcat and a fox that arrived mail order a long time ago. A tight row of taxidermy chemicals lines the top shelf and I face all the labels to the front so I can read them. The newer ones in plastic bottles are clearly labeled and I run my finger along the acids, degreasers, and deodorizers. There are a few dark glass bottles with labels long worn off and I've forgotten what they were. Maybe I never knew in the first place. They intrigue me and I open one to take a sniff. It smells like always and burns my nose a little. I put it back.

  The mounted head of a five-point white-tail deer stares through glass eyes down at me from its permanent spot on the wall. It's not a bad job but not my work. I avoid looking at the dust-covered muskrat in the corner. That one was mine. The face is distorted, the eyes are all wrong, and I hate that thing
but I can't bring myself to throw it in the burning barrel.

  I remember when I tried to skin a squirrel at the age of six. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'd found it already dead by the road and thought I was doing a great job until I caught holy hell for it. In hindsight, it was a pretty pathetic attempt. I've done a few critters since then but I don't think it's really my thing. Maybe I don't have the patience, or maybe I'm too lazy, and things never worked out. I still like to come out and make sure everything is still here, just in case.

  I finish my beer and trudge over to the house. If I get my ass to bed, I can probably still catch a few hours of sleep. As I drift off, my mind goes back to those bitches. They had better keep their noses out of my business.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It took quite a bit of convincing on Allie's part for Erin to go to work today. She was fine. Really. Just had too much to drink. Didn't want to talk about it. She would curl up with the pets on the sofa and relax. Fiona had been overly attentive to her and that was probably the best thing. Before she went to work, she promised to go to yoga and recharge her batteries.

  Last night, Erin had lain awake alone in their bed for a long time before she fell asleep. She'd slept but she sure didn't feel rested this morning, even after her coffee. She set and then double-checked the alarm before she left the house. She stretched her shoulders against the new bruise directly on the point of her scapula. It had been a bright red welt when she'd seen it in the mirror. Someone had a pretty good arm.

  Erin tossed her lunch bag into the coffee room fridge beside a large blue Tupperware container marked CZ. Every shift a new container appeared, sometimes more than one. Who had such an appetite? She would have to ask Officer Chris Zimmerman about that.

  She left her off-duty pistol in her locker and changed into her uniform. Tightening her belt with the .45 cal Smith & Wesson around her waist, she emerged from the locker room mentally changed as well. Today she would sneak back out to Dolores Johnson's house and examine the scene again. It didn't matter that everyone else considered it an accident, she knew otherwise, and Dolores deserved better.

  She sauntered into the briefing room at ten to seven, chagrined to see Lieutenant Derek Peterson leaning against the sergeant's desk. Derek had been in plainclothes long enough to appear uncomfortable in the too-tight uniform he now wore. More at home in jeans and golf shirts these days, his belly sagged a few inches over the top of his belt buckle. He adjusted his duty belt self-consciously, sliding his sidearm and lock-blade knife further back.

  As a high school football player, he'd thought highly of himself and so did most of the cheerleaders. Erin never figured out why, but he had butted heads with her since their senior year. A grade ahead of her, he had joined the local PD fresh out of high school and she joined after college. On the number of occasions she had worked with him, she'd learned not to trust him one bit. He made his own rules when it seemed fit, and his inflated sense of entitlement annoyed her.

  "Sergeant Berg away on his course?" she queried, skipping the customary greeting. It was no secret that the sergeant had been campaigning for a computer crimes course for years. He'd finally persuaded the administration to send him to Quantico to 'learn from the big boys' as he put it. He would spearhead a new subsection within the Criminal Investigation Unit specially designated for solving computer-based crimes like child exploitation. Since these crimes had no geographical boundaries, he would liaise with other units across the continent and around the world. A family man with small kids, he was driven more than most cops, and one of the few who wanted to bring the PD's technology into the current decade.

  When Sergeant Berg finished his course, he would take Derek's place and Derek would take the Sergeant's position on Erin's crew. Good for the Criminal Investigation Unit. Bad for Erin. Right now, Derek merely reoriented himself to life in the Patrol Unit.

  Derek nodded but did not look up, frowning at a sheaf of papers in his hands. She got the distinct impression that he enjoyed making her wait. He ran a hand through shaggy blond hair and continued reading. She could swear he was sucking in his gut and wondered how long he could hold it.

  "Where is the rest of the crew?" Erin sat uneasily at the conference table, the focal point for morning briefings.

  "Z-man won't be in until ten, because he had to take his mom to the doctor. Jake is home sick with probably the same flu as Z's mom, and I sent Ryan and Mark off to an early call. Right now, it's only us here."

  "What's the early call?"

  "Mark's assisting the fire department down at the end of Ash Avenue with a dumpster fire." He paused and looked back at his papers. "Ryan is with him."

  "Two guys sent to a dumpster fire?" Erin raised an eyebrow.

  "Are you questioning me as your supervisor, Officer Ericsson?" Derek tensed his shoulders in exaggerated surprise.

  "Cut the crap Derek." Erin met Derek's pale green eyes. "Nobody is here for you to impress." Even in high school this had been the only way to deal with him.

  He looked at her for a moment and then he snorted. "You always were such a shit. A little firecracker."

  She stared back at him. "Do you have anything useful to tell me today or should I go find out for myself?"

  He dipped his head and said, "I dunno. I just picked up these papers from dispatch and haven't had a chance to go through them. I sent both guys on that call because there was vandalism to headstones at the old Ash Ave cemetery and I thought they could share the paperwork since the fire and damage are probably related."

  "So, is that it?" Erin rose to her feet.

  "Yup," he grunted. She was about to scurry past him when she reconsidered, and stopped.

  "Sooo," she said again, drawing the sound out unbearably long. He looked up, surprised, and more than a bit suspicious.

  "What are you after, Ericsson?" His brow furrowed and his lips pulled back against his teeth.

  "I wanted to tell you that I heard Ryan and Mark talking the other day and they are really looking forward to you being transferred to our crew." The lies cemented the end of her tongue like grade one Papier-Mache paste.

  "Really?" One side of his grin nudged higher. "And what about you, Erin?" He came up to his full height in front of her. "Are you excited?"

  "Couldn't be happier." A little piece of her shriveled inside.

  He held her gaze a moment longer and his frown relaxed. He settled his weight back onto the side of the desk.

  "Now that we're all happy here, whaddyawant?" Sarcasm slithered underneath his words.

  "I hear you've closed the Peterson arson case already," she said.

  "Arson, nobody said arson."

  Unfortunately, Derek was not only her supervisor for the day, he was also lead investigator on the Dolores Johnson case and Erin wanted information. She remembered that she needed to tread lightly with his high-school-football-star ego.

  "That was really fast work." She stretched out the adjectives. Running a hand slowly through her hair, she tilted her palm toward Derek.

  He took the bait. His eyes moved to her hand and then predictably downward, lingering on the soft skin at her throat and the curve of breast beneath her shirt. Every professional interviewer worth her salt knows this as a palm flash, but Derek still fell for the feminine distraction like a teenage boy. Not that she often used it, but she had to admit it worked. She angled her head slightly and the effect was complete.

  "Yeah," he said. The edge dropped off his attitude and he sucked his gut in another inch.

  "How did you do that so fast?" she murmured. "You must know all the right people at the crime lab. Did the tests come back already?"

  "Uh, I didn't see the need to—"

  "Really? Are the forensic guys all done? There were no signs of accelerants? No forced entry?"

  "Fire guys said no accelerants, but the whole place was burned to a crisp—"

  "The stove was tampered with. Was the gas line checked?"

  "The old lady musta left it on." His t
one was dismissive and she backed off. She did not want to be so assertive that he withheld information.

  "What about the autopsy? That could not be complete yet."

  "Nope. In case you haven't noticed lately, the Medical Examiner's Office is as cash-strapped as we are. They won't spring for unnecessary procedures. Absolutely nothing out there says it wasn't a tragic accident, so there was no need for an autopsy. The remains were released to her family yesterday and they are going to cremate her today. She was already mostly cooked anyhow." He stifled a laugh, puffing out a bit of air in the process, and his belly drooped back over his belt.

  Erin's narrowed her eyes at him. He caught her look and his grin disappeared. Graveyard humor did not apply to people you actually knew.

  "I get that you liked her, but she was a nutty old broad," he said more softly. "She'd been phoning in reports of phantom intruders for the last three months and there was never a shred of evidence. Seriously, once she reported someone broke in and stole two slices of cheese. That's whacked. She was clearly losing her marbles. Maybe her kids should have put her in a home."

  "Did you do a full search of the surrounding area?" She knew she was pushing her limit.

  "Search the bog? That's impossible. What goes in, stays in. We were at the scene for six hours. You don't think we are bright enough to notice anything unusual? I told you there was absolutely nothing out there."

  She remembered seeing Derek the day she took Allie to the bog. With one ass-cheek on the hood of the patrol officer's car, it didn't look like he was doing much of anything useful. He probably didn't even do his own paperwork.