by Martha Carr
“I was following a clue,” she said weakly, pushing her arms out in front of her in case of any sudden branches.
She held up her phone, looking back down at the little red ball that was still pulsing as they finally came to the place that was now dotted with holes, all started by the dog. Amy shown her flashlight across first one, and then another, and then another. Seven graves in all.
“The dog did the digging,” she said softly. It had occurred to her that since she was standing in a small graveyard a certain amount of solemnity was called for and she kept her voice low.
After that the events picked up speed. The officer’s voice took on an entirely different tone and he carefully walked her back to the car telling her to stay right where she was, not move a muscle.
“This is going to be a long night,” she said.
Before long the entire parking lot was filled with a variety of vehicles. Large lights had been brought in and carried through the woods, set up around the perimeter. Forensics dug all night uncovering eventually thirty-five bodies.
At some point, two detectives remembered that Amy was sitting there and came over to question her.
“Young lady, we have found seven decaying skeletons in there. We don’t think you had anything to do with it because from what forensics can tell us they were buried when you would have been a young child,” said the male detective.
“Good to know,” said Amy, startled.
“So far, we found no identifying material on the skeletons but we’re hopeful that will change.”
The detective said the last part more to himself than anything else. Clearly, he didn’t have a lot of confidence in what Amy could contribute to the conversation.
“I have a pretty good idea of who each and every one of them are,” said Amy. She held up the picture on her phone of the piece of paper that carefully listed the seven names.
The air grew thick around her with tension as the two detectives stared at her phone until the light dimmed again.
“Put the pieces together for us,” said the female detective. “You seem to know a lot about this case. Instead of us trying to think up the right questions when you can fill it in for us.”
“I don’t suppose you know who did this,” said the male detective, sarcastically.
“Well, now that you mention it,” said Amy, “his confession is what led me here. I read to him,” she said, as if that was a full explanation. She felt like her mind was floating outside of her body and everything was happening in slow motion.
By the time the detectives got to the old craftsman-style house, Mr. Fallow had passed away quietly in the morning. When confronted with the truth, Natalie confessed everything, including that the family helped cover it up in exchange for being named prominently in his will.
Mr. Fallow had been taking care of the more dangerous criminals that had not gotten enough jail time in his opinion over the years with a more permanent solution. No one had ever realized there was a pattern to their disappearances.
The murders dated all the way back to the start of his career. Amy was asked to testify at the trial and had to face Natalie in court, who wouldn’t look at her.
Amy’s parents look confounded for months and would start a question, “How? What? Why?” But they never got any further. Amy was never sure if they were surprised that she was able to put all the pieces together or were terrified that she been that close to a serial killer for so long. She decided it was the latter and left it at that.
A couple of the dead bodies had families who had long ago put up reward money for anyone who gave information leading to the recovery of their loved ones. Amy found herself with enough money to put a down payment on a house or just not work for a year or two. She considered all of the options and then remembered something else Mr. Fallow had told her.
It had been at the end of a workday, when she put down the Kindle and let out a sigh.
“You are far better than this job,” he said, scowling at her. “Reading me these bedtime stories. That was a good one,” he said, coughing. Amy had to wait for him to stop to get the rest of it. “You’ve allowed the opinions of others to become your compass. It’s made you soft and afraid. It’s about time you went out there and took a few chances. Life is short.”
That last part struck Amy as particularly ironic, given how everything turned out. In an odd way, it was like Mr. Fallow managed to make sure she had enough money to set out on her own.
Her parents gave her the usual amount of grief, saying she’d been on enough adventures lately but she wasn’t to be stopped.
Her car was packed and she stood by the open driver-side door, ready to head to the big city and said, “Life is short. Time to go test things.”
She got in the car and shut the door, waving at them in the rearview mirror as they got smaller, still standing in the driveway. “It’s a truth,” she said. “Doesn’t matter who finally said it to me.”
About Martha Carr
I am the best-selling author of 14 books, including the Wallis Jones thriller series, and the best-selling series The Liera Chronicles set in Austin, Texas - part of an urban fantasy universe co-created with Michael Anderle. And The Peabrain’s Idea, a short story of urban magic that will be a new series set in Chicago - coming in 2018.
You can sign up for my Newsletter here at www.MarthaCarr.com (and grab the next Peabrain short when you sign up). Be the first to hear about .99 cent release days, giveaways, events and other fun ideas! Join me on Facebook and even become a fellow Peabrain member in the Fan Group!
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I'm also a nerdette who's a big DC comics fan and spent my childhood summers on the Jersey shore but have had a weird wanderlust to live in different parts of America ever since. It’s like I’m going on vacation and taking everything I own. That's enough about me. Need to feel inspired today? Looking for something to make you root for an ordinary hero? I'm all about that in everything I write.
There's something to be said for getting lost in another world and coming out the other side feeling a little better about yourself or the possibilities in front of you. That's basically the best part of life in a nutshell, no matter what kind of story I'm setting out to tell, even in a thriller.
Want a little more?
A Sample From -
Waking Magic: Book One
The Leira Chronicles
Waking Magic: Book One
The Leira Chronicles
Chapter 1
Detective Leira Berens was getting impatient. Murder suspects shouldn’t get to call the shots.
“You’re going to need to come out sometime, Arthur,” Leira yelled from where she stood in the weed-filled, postage-stamp of a front yard. She was giving the suspect five minutes to think it over but then she was going in and getting him.
The five minutes was just to make her Captain happy. Happy Captain, happy life.
“Fuck, Arthur, it’s us or the Mexican Federales,” she yelled, squinting into the hot Texas sun as she tried to persuade him. “I hear our hospitality is better.” She turned back to looking at the house. “It’s not going to be pretty if we come in there.”
“He’s coming out,” said her partner, Detective Felix Hagan. “He’s out of options. We’re the only ones who won’t shoot him,” he looked around at the neighborhood. “Or worse.”
Arthur was a punk kid in a local upstart gang trying to take over territory in Austin. He had killed a man in a Tijuana bar fight. Normally, not an Austin problem.
Tough luck that the dead guy was a member of the Latin Kings. Even worse luck when the Kings picked up Arthur’s best friend who quickly told them every secret, including a few about Arthur.
They had cornered Arthur in a biker bar on South Lamar and Arthur chose to shoot his way out of there. A kid fresh out of college, not much younger than Leira took a bullet to his neck.
Unintended consequences.
He bled out in a minute making Arthur an
Austin P.D. problem. Now, everyone was looking for Arthur.
Leira glanced down at her watch. The face of the watch shimmered and blurred for a moment. Gold sparks shot out in every direction. She froze, staring at her watch.
“Shit,” she whispered, looking around quickly before looking back at her watch, “Not again.” Two days of watching things lose their shape and glow like the fourth of July had her unnerved.
Too young for a stroke, or at least she hoped so.
Worse idea, she was going crazy like her mother, Eireka Berens. She was sent off to the padded rooms at thirty-two when Leira was just ten years old for talking about entire worlds that no one else could see.
Leira shook her head and looked again. The dial of the watch cleared. Let it go. One more minute.
“You getting antsy? Youth,” said her partner, with a snort of laughter.
Leira glanced at him and back at the run-down bungalow. She was giving him the look he had nicknamed, the dead fish the first week they rode together. Leira thought of it as more of a blank stare.
“Don’t be an asshole, Felix, just because I can still see my shoes. Old age is making you cranky.” She said it matter of factly.
“That would bother me more if you were wearing grown-up shoes,” he said, smirking at her Merrell Vapor blue and orange thin-soled running shoes. It was the most expensive thing she ever wore.
“Somebody’s got to be able to run after the bad guys,” she told him, not looking in Hagan’s direction. He let out a laugh. He liked his young partner even if she was impossible to read. Frankly, he saw it as one of her better qualities even if he could never tell if she was trying to make a joke or just stating the obvious.
It didn’t take him long to also realize Leira didn’t like chitchat and never hesitated to shoot.
More reasons to like her.
She wasn’t much to look at despite the curves and skinny pants she favored, and flawless ivory skin with a face framed by thick, short dark hair that curled around her face.
Men did occasionally try asking her out back when she was at the University of Texas but no one ever got her way of looking at the world.
She liked being able to reason things out and leave feelings out of it. Life was a lot easier that way.
But not being willing to tell a guy what he wanted to hear accomplished jack shit for her dating profile.
“Damn house looks like it’s being held together by the paint chips,” she said, still aiming her semi .40 at the front door. “Okay, enough of this,” she griped, taking the front steps two at a time. “Arthur shouldn’t get to eat his last meal as a free idiot in peace.”
“I’ll make sure to tell the Captain you paused before doing your usual foot through the front door,” said Hagan, following her up the stairs, his .45 raised as he quickly scanned left to right.
Leira turned, her back to the door and kicked backward, splintering the old wood as the door swung open, banging against the wall. She swiveled and whispered, “Going left.”
Hagan nodded, slipping down the narrow hallway to the right toward the bedrooms.
“Clear!” Leira called out from the kitchen, looking out toward the back porch.
A plate of half-eaten mac and cheese was on the kitchen table. Leira kicked a fork, making it slide across the floor. “Arthur, your last meal was powdered orange cheese,” she called out, looking around. “It’s poor choices like these that got you to this point in time.”
A loud crack rang out. Detective Hagan let out a deep, strangled scream. “Stop! Stop goddammit!” he yelled.
Detective Berens wasn’t sure if her partner was yelling in pain or out of habit. She ran down the hall in time to see Arthur squirm through the window in the back bedroom.
Hagan was collapsed on the floor holding his shoulder. Blood was seeping through his fingers. “Go, get him!” he yelled through his clenched teeth. “Get the little fucker!”
“Call for a bus,” she called over her shoulder. She slipped easily through the window and took off after Arthur as he leaped over the chain link fence into the next yard.
She vaulted the fence, already running as she closed the distance between them. Arthur looked back to see where she was and was surprised to find Leira right on his heels.
He tried to bring the pistol up just as she punched him hard in the face. She caught him mid-stride, tackling him as the pistol flipped end over end in the grass.
“That’s for Hagan,” she spit out, wrenching his arms behind his back and closing the handcuffs tight around his wrists as he squirmed on the ground.
He spit out grass, twisting around to look up at her. “You broke my fucking nose, you bitch!”
“Yeah, you’re having one hell of a bad day.” She jammed a knee into the small of his back.
“What the hell? You taking steroids?” Arthur whined. “How you get to be so strong?”
Leira pulled him up and grabbed his gun, pushing him back the way they came.
She dragged him back to the small house and right up to the window, shoving him back through the same window.
He landed with a thud. She easily crawled through and stood over him.
“Damn, lock me in the car instead. Why you have to do me like that? Never use a door?” he complained, rolling over and trying to stand.
Leira ignored the bitching and shoved him back to the floor. “Shut up and stay there.”
The sound of sirens was getting closer. “Move and you have a bigger problem.” Leira went to the bathroom and pulled a dirty hand towel off a plastic circle hanging from the wall, hurrying back to the room.
“Hagan, you okay?” she asked, handing him the towel. “Here, press this on your shoulder. It’s the least questionable rag I could find in this place.”
“Damn, Berens, you sound like you’re worried. Makes me think I might be dying if you’re concerned.” He grunted, his face twisting in pain.
Leira gave him the dead fish look.
“Much better,” he smiled. “Now I know I’ll be okay.”
“Get a room,” Arthur sneered. Leira turned to him and delivered a swift kick. She stood there waiting to see if he had anything else to say.
He gave off nothing more than the occasional whimper until a couple of uniforms came to take him away.
“Feel free to bounce his head a couple of times when you tell him to duck getting into the backseat,” she said as they marched him out.
The paramedics rushed in, hovering over Hagan. “I can walk my own damn self out. Don’t give me crap about policy.”
He struggled to his feet as the two medics helped him down the hall.
“I’ll meet you at the hospital.” Leira followed them out and got into her car, turning on the lights and siren.
Leira waited at the hospital until Detective Hagan was stitched up and relaxing with green jello in his own room.
“This is the life,” he said, lying back in his bed trying to fish out the last bite of jello with one hand. Leira managed a smile.
“All the paperwork we’re gonna have to fill out for a flesh wound. I better enjoy this.” He shook his head, slurping the square of jello off a white plastic spoon.
“I think the flesh wound is supposed to be the good news. I gotta go,” she told him. “Your wife on the way?”
He looked up and shrugged. “Yeah, damn boss wouldn’t let her off any earlier without clocking out. My fault, just a little. I told her all I got was a scratch. Go, before she sees me and the yelling starts,” he said with a wink.
Leira slipped past the nurses’ station as Rose Hagan was demanding to know why her husband had to stay overnight.
She thought about stopping to say hello but when she turned to head in that direction the desk lost its shape and the gold fireworks started again.
“Damn, it’s bigger,” Leira whispered, frozen to the spot. She reached back for the wall to try and orient herself.
“Oh no,” she said, as the middle section of the station disappeared
altogether. The center of the oversized circle turned a watery gray. Her eyes grew wide and she instinctively rested her hand on her gun.
Someone, or something in the giant murky space was looking back at her. “Not happening,” she whispered, as she stepped forward to get a better look.
The gold fireworks around the edges hummed. Hell, they snapped, crackled and popped. “This is a hell of a hallucination,” muttered Leira, as she put out her hand to see what would happen.
Curiosity was always her go-to even when caution was the sane choice. But sanity was clearly checking out, so why not go all in?
Whatever it was felt large and squishy, more solid than she expected.
“Hey!” said a startled nurse, trying to right a tray of small paper cups filled with medications, bouncing around on the tray. Leira's hand was resting on her boob.
The nurses’ station was back where it belonged and the opening was gone.
No more sparklers. Just low fluorescent lighting.
“Sorry about that.” Leira quickly removed her hand. “Was trying to point at something.” Making something up on the fly always ends badly for me. She tended to stick closely to the truth, but she had never faced trying to explain her own crazy before.
“Next time, ask before you touch,” the nurse ordered.
Leira gave her the dead fish look. “Not really my type,” she said, trying to make a joke.
The nurse narrowed her eyes. “You should be so lucky.”
“Into… men…” Leira told the nurse’s retreating back. The nurses at the desk let out a laugh. Leira nodded and waved, feeling her face grow warm as she headed down the hall. “Crap.”
She found her way to their unmarked patrol car, a green Mustang, opened the door and sat very still behind the wheel, waiting to see if something else was going to happen.
Nothing did.
“First step of going crazy is making an ass of yourself.” She took some deep breaths and blinked a few times, hard, to see if she could conjure up the image.
Nothing. She tried again. She needed to be sure. Blink. Blink.