A Pilgrimage to Death

by J. J. Cagney

  She walked to the kitchen and pulled down plates. Then, she removed her black leather biker jacket and hung it on the peg next to the back door.

  “Planning to take out the Harley?” Sam asked. He hesitated, then leaned against the kitchen doorway.

  Cici’s burgeoning pleasure at seeing Sam collapsed. He didn’t want to be here, with her.

  “I wasn’t sure when you’d be by. I thought about it, but I’m glad you’re here now. I rode it today, and my ankle’s not pleased with that decision.” She looked down, rueful at her boot-clad foot.

  Sam stepped into the narrow galley space and squinted out Cici’s kitchen window. “For the best, I guess. Looks like rain.”

  Cici peered out the window. “Meh. Those are hail clouds.”

  Sam chuckled, easing some of the tension that built in Cici’s neck, causing her head to pound. “You don’t know that. Why do you even say that?”

  “They’re all thick and gray, like snow clouds.”

  “Or rain,” Sam said. “Rain also needs thick, dark clouds.”

  Cici crossed her arms over her chest. “We’ll see.”

  Thunder boomed—a low, harsh rumble—and Cici sighed. Sam smirked.

  Cici finished pouring the tea and put the pitcher back into the fridge. She handed Sam a glass and then grabbed hers. After a sip, she wrinkled her nose and pulled out the agave syrup, adding a thick dollop to her glass. Sam shook his head before she could offer him any.

  “That’s nasty,” he muttered. “If you must drink it sweetened, why can’t you just add sugar?”

  She swirled the liquid in her glass. “Because the sugar doesn’t dissolve as quickly as this stuff. That means the last few sips are straight up sweet. But you’re not here to talk about my iced tea drinking habit. Let me tell you about my dream. It may be nothing, but…” Cici shivered.

  She settled her hip more comfortably against the other counter. “In my dream, we were behind a store—near the Plaza, I think.”

  Sam stood to his full height, eyes widening. “Any context?”

  “I don’t think so,” Cici said. She shook her head. “I don’t know. I don’t remember the whole thing. Just the part where…” She grasped the glass in her hand more tightly, letting her hair slide forward to hide her burning cheeks.

  “She’d bled out under her—a large puddle saturating her T-shirt and pants. All of a sudden, you stood next to me and you said…you said she looked like me.”

  Sam smacked his hands together. “Hold up. You saw this in your dream last night?”

  Cici nodded.

  Sam sucked his lower lip into his mouth. “I haven’t been brought in on a murder case since…”

  Cici inhaled sharply through her nose. Since last month when Cici nearly died on top of a mountain.

  Sam cleared his throat. “You think it’s from your sister?”

  Cici hesitated for a moment, then she nodded.

  “Tell me everything you remember,” Sam said, turning on his no-nonsense detective mode.

  Cici cleared her throat and explained the details.

  Sam listened, jotting down notes in his pocket notebook—a constant companion. This time, the flash of lightning brightened his face, causing his blue eyes to go momentarily translucent.

  A knock sounded on the door, causing Cici to slap her glass to the counter and sending Mona skittering out of the kitchen. Both she and Rodolfo barked, but it was half-hearted, just to let Cici know they cared about her and defending the house. Cici cringed to admit that the dogs never even stood up from their beds when the pizza guy showed up at her place anymore—pizza was a pretty common occurrence around here.

  Sam scooted around the dogs as he pulled out his wallet.

  The rain began to fall after they finished eating, and it poured out in thick sheets of sleety hail.

  Because just what Cici needed on top of scary dreams sent with telepathic precision into her mind was a dark and stormy night.

  “On the plus side, you were right about the hail,” Sam said. The small skylight in Cici’s kitchen pinged as the frozen pellets slammed against the tempered plastic, filling the small house with the equivalent of a tympani solo.

  Mona rested her muzzle on Cici’s knee where Cici had settled in deeper as she ate. Cici lifted her arms and pet Mona’s ears. The dog’s light brown eyes shown like fresh toffee in the lamplight.

  “You afraid, girl? Cici murmured as she rubbed her hand over the top of the dog’s head.

  Sam stood in the large entrance between the small kitchen and dining room, rubbing his hand on a dish towel.

  “Mind if I take some of the pizza home?”

  Cici shook her head. “Please.”

  Sam disappeared again and Cici heard him moving around in the kitchen. She stayed in her chair, enjoying the moment with her dog.

  “Nothing like a hundred-plus-pound ball of anxiety,” Sam observed as he returned to the living room.

  “Better for her to live here, where it rarely storms, than in, say, Houston,” Cici murmured, still rubbing her hand in soothing motions over the dog’s large skull. One thing about petting an animal—the repetitive motion soothed Cici near as much, maybe more, than the dog.

  “Got a point,” Sam said. “Not just about the fewer thunderstorms. Your dogs are the most pathetic weenies when it comes to heat.”

  “I’ve had enough death and bullets to last me multiple lifetimes,” Cici murmured, poling at the her crust. Mona eyed it hopefully.

  “You seem to find the worst dregs of our society—and lead them to either commit another crime or confess to an old one.”

  Cici shuddered, hating that her mind immediately bean replaying the events from last month. “Please don’t try to draw any connections that don’t exist.”

  “I’m not drawing conclusions or correlations, Cee.” Sam leaned forward, his eyes focused on her face and his tone sincere. “You don’t have to justify to me.” Sam held up his hands palms out. “I’m just telling you that your op-eds in the paper could be construed as inflammatory.”

  “And people could get their heads out of their rear ends and start treating each other with the kindness Jesus wanted. What happened to ‘Love thy neighbor’?”

  Sam snorted. He stood up and refilled his glass, then put away the pitcher of ice tea and slammed the refrigerator door with a resounding thump. He brought his own glass to the table and slid into the chair across from hers.

  “First, I’m proud of you for not saying ‘asses” like you wanted. That’s growth. Second, you do realize I work for law enforcement, right? I don’t see much good in people most days.”

  “Or weeks,” Cici grumbled. She rested her hand on top of Mona’s head.

  “Too true. My job’s about as opposite as loving a neighbor as you could get,” Sam said.

  “That’s because your neighbor is a mean-spirited man who refuses to believe there’s good left in the world.”

  Sam settled against the back of the tall chair again with a deep chuckle. He picked up his glass of tea.

  Mona’s ears perked at the next thick blast of wind, rain hitting the window panes hard enough to sound like small bombs detonating against the house’s glass.

  Rodolfo rose from his bed next to the small wooden table, his body stiff both from lying there for so long and from his recent surgery.

  “Hey, bud,” Sam said, reaching out to pet the larger of the two dogs. But Rodolfo stepped away, an unusual occurrence. The larger dog adored Sam and never turned down a pat.

  Now, though, his back fur ridged and he growled, deep and low—the most fearsome sound he made.

  Mona pulled out from under Cici’s hand and walked across the room, her toenails clinking softly against the wood. She sniffed at the door and whined. After another sniff, she pawed at the door and whined again.

  Sam stood and rounded the table. His face pulled into a look of concern that had him reaching for the gun still in its holster on the side table next to the couch.
/>   “You hear that?”

  “Yeah,” Cici said, her shoulders clenching. She clenched her jaw together to keep her teeth from chattering.

  Rodolfo growled again. He added a short, rough bark followed immediately by a coughing whine. The poor boy’s chest still ached from his recent arrow wound. Mere inches deeper or to the left, and Rodolfo never would have made it off the hiking trail, let alone to this point. Cici stood and went to the dog, placing her hand on his shoulder, where he liked to be touched. He leaned against her, a new occurrence since his surgery, but he kept producing the low rumbling growl and his muscles quivered under Cici’s palms.

  “Get behind the dining table,” Sam directed, his eyes never leaving the door. “Crouch there. I’m going to open the door. If something happens, run out the back and start screaming.”

  “Sam—”

  Mona pawed the door again as if she were digging. She settled in front, her tail swishing back in forth like a large, white, plumed fan, her nose pressed tight against the wood.

  Sam checked his weapon, swiping off the safety.

  “I have to see what’s out there, Cee. Please get behind the table.”

  “It sounds like—”

  Sam unlocked the deadbolt and flung open the door in one smooth motion, all while holding his gun at gut level.

  * * *

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