[Anthology] Close to the Bones

by Martha Carr

  “She was trapped. Bound and gagged in the boot of a car. The woman was trying to fight her way free, but she couldn’t loosen the ropes. In the end, she started to lose consciousness.”

  Although the DI had a recording device poking out of the top pocket of his coat, he still made notes on a small pad as she talked. The relief of not having to make eye contact allowed Bretta more breathing room to think.

  “The victim had a daughter, named Sabrina. She’s in college.” Bretta paused, then amended herself. “At least, she was enrolled at the time. I guess that’s a while ago now, huh?”

  “Almost ten years.”

  Bretta tilted her head forward to hide her shock. She’d thought months or more, but a decade? She frowned and looked at the bushes, trampled flat before she got here. The hole in the ground with mud slipping back down its sides.

  What the hell is going on? Why the sudden interest?

  She bit her lip to stop the question blurting out without her say-so. Even if she made it onto the permanent police payroll, channelers weren’t paid to think.

  “She thought of the man who hit her and put her in the trunk. He was a mechanic, holding a wrench. Younger than her, and she was sixteen years and the length of a full term pregnancy on top of a college age daughter. What’s that? Thirty-five?”

  Math wasn’t her strong point. Along with English, Geography, History, or any other subject they gave you papers for at school. If it had been, she wouldn’t have been standing where she was. When the choice came down to self-employment, even at her occupation, or mopping down the floors at a McDonalds—well, her pick was obvious.

  “What else?”

  Bretta lifted her head and looked over the DI’s shoulder at DS Ivy. He’d asked her a question as she was coming out. Stupid timing from a disrespectful man, but what had he said?

  Scissors. She’d held scissors in her hand. Bretta frowned. A childhood memory—they were often strong, shouting over more recent events—but something still didn’t fit. She raised a shaking arm to wipe the sweat and drizzle from her forehead. It was hot like she was running a fever. If she got sick on top of everything else, work would be a bust for the next few weeks. That would be enough to send her under.

  Ginga rhymes with ringer.

  Bretta jerked as though a shock had been wired up to her nerves. A redhead. One of the memories crowding her brain was a redheaded young girl.

  How could you?

  The emotions of the memory flooded back through her. The crushing disappointment, the shame. A girl upsetting her mother by cutting her hair late one night. School loomed the next day. A specter of child-sized judgment waiting to taunt her.

  Bretta covered her eyes with her hands. She frowned in concentration as she sorted through the random fragments. A jigsaw puzzle with no picture on the box, the only way to see the full image was to fit the disparate pieces together.

  She’d been a black woman with a full-grown girl, college aged. Resentment at the separation needled at her, still sharp and fresh. After all, I’ve done for you? You won’t even pick up the phone to call! A woman, not old, but one whose life was accelerating away from her. The darkness. The claustrophobia. A woman trapped in the trunk of a car, arms tied, struggling to breathe. In her mind a final image of the man who put her there. A young garage mechanic, with a wrench swinging from a grimy hand. A handful of ginger curls, white skin, freckles. A child who’d upset her mother.

  Bretta pulled her hands away and looked up at the DI, her face aghast. “There are two women’s memories in the imprint.”

  He frowned and shook his head. Either puzzlement or worry etched deep lines into his forehead. He creased his eyebrows until they met in the middle.

  Hot blood suffused Bretta’s skin again, flushing her cheeks and making the tips of her ears sing. The twilight had faded into darkness while they worked. Now it was lit with only the dim wattage from flashlights. The thin drizzle had finally made up its mind and strengthened into a downpouring of rain.

  As the drops fell, cooling the heat from her cheeks, Bretta felt an ache run through her body. It weighed her down as much as if her blood had been filled with lead. The flash of strangeness about the day recurred to her. The multiple channelers, the aged crime scene. The stiff backs and short tempers. Whatever terrible act the police were investigating, it was far worse than the other cases she’d worked.

  Bretta reached out her hand to touch the DI’s hand, wanting the reassurance of touch as she spoke the words no one would want to hear.

  “It’s not a clean imprint. The victim was drenched.”

  Bretta stomach curled with hunger pains as she walked into her apartment and slammed the door behind her. There were eight locks mounted on the side at irregular intervals. She fastened all of them, even pulling the chain across, before pressing her clammy palm against the white, painted wood. Home.

  The baggie protecting her kit still held a few drops of moisture from the afternoon rain. Bretta wiped it with her sleeve, then tossed it down on the side table. On her way out of the station, DI Able had shoved it into her hand. Although his voice was gentle as he told her to take it home, the rebuff had been brutal. He may as well have shouted, “there’s no job for you here.” The message was the same.

  She stood, her shoulders slumping, feeling dread creep up the back of her legs. For the past few hours, this was the moment she’d dreamed of. Arriving home, back in her safe place. Away from the pointed questions, raised voices, and glaring eyes. Now she found the danger had traveled back home with her.

  After channeling an imprint, with her mind still subsumed under the memories of other people, Bretta always found it hard to track what was happening. When a roomful of policemen all hyped up on anger started shouting, all hope had been gone. No matter how hard she tried, the effort didn’t make a difference. It would take a day or two, maybe more, before she came back to normal. Something the police already knew but had chosen to ignore.

  The first angry flash of resentment lit up her belly. It was one of the reasons she’d so desperately wanted a role with the police—their impeccable health and safety record. Each station had protocols in place to prevent the outcome her dad had faced, from happening to her.

  Bretta craved that more than she desired food or sleep, or even hope for the future. If she didn’t change something soon, her life would dissolve into a dozen scattered pieces. She’d end up rocking back and forth on an institution bed until her body gave up life as a bad joke.

  The police knew better. Despite that, all the rules and regulations turned out to mean nothing. This evening it had boiled down to a plain and simple truth. The police knew what could happen if they pressured a channeler. Yet still, they’d gone ahead and done it. They’d acted like Bretta’s mind and safety didn’t matter a damn.

  The hot tears of frustration and self-pity threatened, but Bretta didn’t have the time or energy to give to them. Her stomach rumbled again. She needed food, and she needed sleep. In the morning, she could try to care again.

  A large container of dried noodle packets sat open on the counter. Bretta’s apartment wasn’t large enough for the luxury of cabinets or shelves. She bit off the corner and spat the plastic into the palm of her hand. After breaking the noodles a half dozen times, she tipped them into a microwave safe bowl and popped the timer on.

  The imprint memories bubbled up through her head again. An echo that would happen off and on. Either until they winked out on their own, or were driven out by the next imprint.

  Ginger hair. Scissors. The certainty that no matter what she did, her mother would always find her a disappointment.

  Bretta smiled at that. For so many years, living with just her father, she’d wished for a replacement for her mother to love her and treat her like a little friend. After doing this job for over ten years, the desire stayed at a gut level, but in her logical mind, it faded.

  Sorting out the tangled emotions of imprints left behind by all manner of people, gave her
too much insight. The relationships with mothers were often fraught, with fear, judgment, and sycophantic gratitude. It helped to hit home the reality that every parental bond wasn’t TV friendly. Many times, Bretta had stepped into an imprint and experienced a memory that left her glad to be a motherless waif.

  The police had taken the image of red hair and pointed to her own strawberry blond mane. Even when she was much younger and her hair was redder, to call her Ginger was a stretch. Her dad maybe, but her mother’s genes had fought a war and ably won.

  Her protestations hadn’t mattered. Too many loud men, and for all their shouting about the truth, they’d instead pushed her for excuses. Any reason, no matter how farfetched, could be a lifeline to a better outcome. No one wanted a drenched victim. Cases weren’t closed and careers made with that amount of taint on the evidence.

  The floor shimmered. The tiles seemed to shift and wave before settling into their normal pattern again. Bretta rubbed her eyes to clear them and yawned. Tiredness, most likely. It had been weeks since she’d grabbed a full eight-hour sleep. That and too much channeling always left her feeling drained.

  Or she could be dizzy due to lack of food. Her stomach reminded her loudly that it still needed feeding. Bretta shook her head as she saw the microwave had stopped without her even hearing it ding. Picking up an oven glove to protect her from the heat, she popped open the door and pulled out the bowl.

  The noodles were cold.

  No, not cold. The food was warm. As though it had cooked and then had time to cool most of the way back down to room temperature. Bretta frowned at the bowl in confusion for a second, then shoved it back into the oven and slammed the door.

  The clock on the side of the microwave confirmed her mounting fear. Almost two o’clock in the morning.

  In a split second, she’d lost four hours.

  “You want me to do what?”

  Bretta looked from one officer to another, confused. When she’d been called into this meeting, her emotions had gone on a joyous ride. While her mind urged caution, her body celebrated, insisting there could only be one reason. A contract. Full time. With regular paydays and protections. Perhaps even a union to watch her back.

  Turned out her head had been right to worry.

  “I channeled the imprint yesterday,” she said, scared for a second that everything she remembered was just a dream. Under cover of the oak table, Bretta pinched the skin of her leg hard. Nope. She was awake now.

  “You gave a very confused account,” DS Ivy stated. He jabbed his finger on the polished wood for added emphasis. “Two sets of memories, and we still don’t know whether they originated from the imprint at all.”

  Bretta looked over his shoulder at the mirrored glass. She could imagine a shadowy figure standing behind it, impassively watching inferior officers deliver her fate. The meeting was turning into a nightmare. After her work, last night and the gap of time she’d lost, sleep had been a hard commodity to obtain. Her eyelids felt a strong pull of gravity, dragging them down. Two imprints channeled already this week. If she did another, she would drown.

  “It’s very simple,” DS Ivy continued.

  Bretta tuned his voice out, dulling it down into a whining drone while she tried to think things through. She squeezed the bridge of her nose between her thumb and finger, closing her eyes. The memories from the night before flooded across her vision. So strong, so clear. If she channeled them again, her own would be flooded out. The clean lines would wash into indistinct watercolors. Pen and paper records soaking into gibberish under a flowing tap.

  “Your rules say that I’m allowed to take a week’s break between cases.”

  “The rules are for employees, you’re a contractor,” the DS retorted. “And the rules for contractors say if you don’t do your job, we can insist you do it again.”

  Bretta felt her head rush with the heat of anger. “If I was an electrician or a plumber, maybe,” she said. Her lip curled, and she stared down at the tabletop to hide it. Under the table, her hands curled into tight fists.

  “But this isn’t a leak or a blown fuse. If I channel an imprint too soon after the last one, I could lose my mind.”

  The smirk at the pun inflamed Bretta’s frustration even further. Her cheeks pulsed with heat, her heart was beating like she’d drunk a whole carafe of coffee.

  There was a knock on the door, and a moment later DI Able stuck his head into the room. Bretta exhaled in relief that someone sensible was joining the conversation.

  But sensible wasn’t in her corner either.

  “The police guidelines say that as long as you haven’t channeled more than one imprint in the past week, we can ask you to repeat one. It shouldn’t be an issue. According to our records, it’s been at least a fortnight since we called on you last.”

  The reasoned tone belied the challenge Bretta saw in the DI’s eyes. While on-call with the police, she’d signed an agreement not to moonlight. If she told them about her work on the side, the possibility of a job would disappear.

  Bretta brought her hands up on top of the table and forced them to uncurl, pressing her palms flat down on the desk.

  “The guidelines say that you’re allowed to use my services three times on spec,” she said. If she was going to risk her sanity for this job, then she needed to ensure she got something out of it. “Three times was up last night. If you want me to channel the imprint again, then you need to put me under contract. Full-time.”

  “It doesn't apply when you stuffed up the channeling, to begin with,” the DS spat back. Bretta ignored him, holding DI Able’s gaze steady.

  “I know that you had others going over that imprint,” she said firmly. Giving certainty to what was just a supposition. From the raised eyebrows, Bretta could tell she was right.

  Her heartbeat calmed down to a gentler beat. The hot flush began to evaporate from her cheeks. There was an advantage here if she could just work the right angle to press it home.

  “The others didn’t find what I did because they’re not as good. I’ll do the channeling again, I’ll find you the confirmation that you need, but I’m not going out to the job site again without a guarantee of a placement.”

  “I don’t know what you think you’ve got that we couldn’t find in any seedy bar,” DS Ivy said. “You’re not in a position to demand anything. If you don’t do the job again today—and properly this time—then your last invoice won’t be paid.”

  A tug of anxiety pulled at Bretta’s stomach at the threat. Her bills were mounting, her dad’s care was expensive. She was already living in the cheapest accommodation she could find.

  Fuck it. Play your hand.

  “You can’t find anyone as good as me in any bar,” she said, turning up the scorn to full force. “I’ve been channeling imprints since I was six years old. My dad taught me how and he was one of the first to go professional.”

  Bretta leaned across the table, looking from DI Able to DS Ivy and back again. This time she was the one to jab her finger on the table in emphasis. “I’m the best you’ll ever find, the only one who found the anomaly with that imprint last night.”

  DS Ivy opened his mouth to speak again, but Bretta stopped him with an upturned hand. “Don’t start to give me your excuses. You may not like what I found, but you know damn well it’s the truth. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have called me in here.”

  She locked eyes with the DI and didn’t bother to hide her lip curl this time. “If you didn’t think I was right, you wouldn’t look so damned scared.”

  A silence lengthened between them. Bretta leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest with studied nonchalance. There was no need for her to jump in and speak. She’d just played every card she had been dealt. Now it was the turn of the police to show their hand.

  DI Able broke first. A cough to clear his throat, then he looked over his shoulder at the mirror. Beside him, DS Ivy slumped lower in his chair. The man chose to stare intently over her shoulder rather t
han look her in the eye.

  “We’ll extend your current evaluation out by another three imprints,” the DI offered. “Paid in advance, whether we call on you after today or not.”

  Bretta looked down at her fingernails. It had been weeks since she’d last clipped them. Two had torn, hangnails forming to catch on fabric. Her teeth had nervously dispatched the rest. If she started to work with the police more often, she’d need to paint them with that awful tasting polish to wean herself off chewing them. It wouldn’t look professional to turn up at a job with her fingertips in her mouth.

  Three more sessions weren’t enough of a commitment to go to all that trouble.

  “If I do the job today, then I want a full-time contract. If you don’t agree here and now, then I’m walking out of here to go home.” She paused a beat, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Believe me, I won’t be back.”

  This time, Able didn’t bother to check over his shoulder. He nodded before Bretta could count to sixty seconds in her head.

  “A standard two-year contract,” the DI said. “Medical and dental included. Your uniform comes out of your first pay, and after today, you complete full basic training before you head out on another case.”

  Bretta’s emotions shouted with joy and jumped on the roller coaster for another celebratory circuit around.

  “Bretta, do you recognize this photo? This is you, and this is your father.”

  All the joy of employment had fled when it came time for Bretta to trudge up the trail on the side of the hill again. The fear had set in, making her pant more than the climb warranted. Four lost hours. The black hole where the events of those minutes should have lived threatened to suck her down.

  The threat had to be balanced against the need for a steady income. When it came down to it, Bretta clamped her teeth, steeled her gut, and walked into the imprint to do her damn job.

  “What about this? Hold this keyring in your hand.”

  Bretta shook her head, returning full force into her body and tumbling backward. DI Able slung an arm around her shoulder and held her steady. Once her shaking stopped, and her muscles stopped twitching long enough for her to stand, she shook him off. The weaker she looked after channeling, the less respect people would have.