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The witch within
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Chapter 1:- 1
I’ve been ignoring dead people since I was seven years old. Well, for the most part anyway. There was a short stint a few years back (four, to be exact) when I welcomed the words of the dead. I was working as a police officer for the Boston PD, and nothing helps you solve a homicide like a deposition from the most critical witness involved. But that situation eventually exploded into a worse conclusion than the first time I had had allowed myself to listen. So I decided, once and for all, that I would never, ever, open myself to the sounds of the soundless. It wasn’t easy either. People don’t like to be ignored, even if they are dead. Eventually though, after a year or so of consciously blocking out the whispers and then the screams I achieved the silence I had craved. I’ve been so careful to preserve it that I haven’t even allowed myself to drive by the cemetery near my house, adding an extra ten minutes to any trip I take.
I’ve been ignoring dead people for so long I’m not even sure I could hear them if I tried; which is why I can’t believe that I am even considering Spock’s request.
“I don’t know Spock.” I lean back against the beer cooler and prop my foot up onto the liquor well in front of me. The cold metal of the cooler feels great against my bottom and I push myself further back onto it, so that more of my legs can touch it. Even though it’s late October, the summer hasn’t been willing to release its clutches on the air and the combination of the humidity and the heat from a kitchen coming off of an unexpected lunch rush has left my skin with a dewy coating of moisture. It also doesn’t help that Buck, the owner of the bar, runs his business like he lives his life; cheaply. This means that there is no way in hell we are going to turn on the A/C, and I’ll have to settle for the cooler. I push my auburn curls off of my face and look at Spock. He has soft brown hair that falls casually as if he’s just stepped off a yacht. His eyes are perfectly symmetrical and fluctuate between a rich brown and a soft green color. Today, they seem to have landed at a golden hazel. He might be considered attractive if it wasn’t for those damn ears. Spock’s real name is Brian Adler, but the slight points at the very top of his ears baptized him as Spock at an early age. The name stuck so well that his parents even refer to him by it every now and then.
“Please, when’s the last time you had your hands on a potential double homicide?” he pleads.
I let out a sigh. “We aren’t partners anymore. Shit, I’m not even a cop anymore.”
“Just come down to the morgue with me and see if you notice anything…unusual. Please Reg, I need your…skill.” Spock puts his hand on the side of his head and brushes his hair forward so that it falls over his ear. He does this when he’s nervous. Talking about my “skill” (as he calls it) make him nervous.
“Spock, I don’t know what skill you are talking about, but you know I don’t do police work anymore.”
Spock’s face blushes and he chews his lower lip. I knew from two years of working with him as my partner that this meant that he was about to lie.
“Reggie, please. I’m begging you. I’ve never asked you for anything.”
“That’s a lie,” I say flatly.
“OK, you’re right. But if you do this for me, I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.” (More lip biting.)
“That’s an even bigger lie.”
“Reggie, this time it’s a legit case. I really think there is something here. I just need your help.”
“Bigger still. Look, do you want a drink? ‘Cause that’s what I do now. If you want someone to talk to dead people for you, you’re going to need to look somewhere else!”
Spock sits back from the bar for a second, resting both of his hands on either side of his head. He’s been making the trek at least once a month from Boston to my sleepy town thirty minutes north to ask me to help him on one case or another. He has somehow managed to ask me to talk to dead people at least fifty times without actually mentioning the words “talk”, “dead”, or “people” in the same conversation. In fact, to date, we have never spoken about it at all. It might’ve been the heat, but I was irritated and I wanted to make him uncomfortable, so I decided to lock the words together in one quick sentence. It’s worked.
