eyes and the possibility of outing us all.
Then the feeling came again, the wave of wrongness . I didn’t have the right words for it, but it was like fingernails on the blackboard of my senses. A disturbance in the air, a shift in the invisible alarm shield we all wear around us that tells us when everything is okay.
Right then I knew for sure that it was so not okay.
This was beyond weird. I’ve always been an intuitive kind of person. I mean, even apart from the mermaid thing, I’m a woman. And a cop. Experience hones your instincts to a razor point. But this was different. It was sensual, like I could smell the change in the air.
My mind whizzed through the possibilities of what was freaking out my radar.
Maybe Doug was out of the van and coming in here to help? But I didn’t think so. It was not The Plan and Doug’s not one to jeopardize a mission without a good reason.
I realized whatever it was, it wasn’t getting better for me standing there trying to smell it.
I had to start moving. I closed the cold drawer as softly as possible.
Blondie and I were moving as one as I retraced my steps.
Back out through the morgue, automatically picking up a Have you shared your wishes with your loved ones? pamphlet with my spare hand as I passed through. I thought about Mom.
Should I be telling her what’s going to happen in three weeks?
I chastised myself quickly, remembering I had way more to deal with right now than what kind of funeral I want when I finally bite the dust.
I’d project managed interfering with a body, I was stealing a corpse, and I’d suddenly developed some primal sixth sense that was telling me somehow but for certain that something menacing was waiting for me in the dark.
I was still a couple of hundred yards from the van when I heard something. Singing? I was half-way across the bramble and could see the van when it happened.
Five years I worked homicide in the city and I never got shot.
Not that I wasn’t in dangerous situations, many times. But I was always too quick.
My first time, I thought, as I sank to my knees like a folded piece of paper.
Always important to try new things.
Blondie slid off my shoulder as I hit the dirt.
I was in agony, but couldn’t work out where I’d been hit. The world was awash with pain. I was supine and vaguely aware of scrunching my knees up to my chest as I retreated into some fetal hug, thinking: I’m supposed to have three more weeks.
The pain was inside my head, and in my ears, like some demented thing.
I must have taken a hit to the head. That’s gotta be bad.
Then I couldn’t think at all.
The pain was getting worse, building to a screaming zenith and underneath the blind rage I was feeling at being hurt this way was a matching frustration that I couldn’t work out where the hell they’d hit me. I was worried about Blondie, I was worried I was making too much noise, I was worried someone would find me…
Then it was over. Very suddenly.
Doug was beside me, cradling my head in his hands and he’d done something else too but I was still picking my thoughts up off the nearest gooseberry bushes and couldn’t work out what the hell he did to make the pain stop. He shushed me by putting a finger to my lips and it was only then I realized I was moaning.
“Shush. Stop. Rania, stop. Look at me girl. Look at me, you gotta stop.” I could see his lips moving but I couldn’t hear him right.
And then I realized what he’d done. He’d put something in my ears. Like a dog with a flea collar on, I tried to brush the things away. They were some kind of ear plugs, hard plastic knobs rammed deep inside the ear canal. But my arms weren’t working like they should. They were flapping around uselessly, oblivious to my commands.
Doug turned my face to his impassive one and motioned not yet .
Then he gave me the wait signal, pointed to the van, and heaved Blondie over his shoulder. He darted over to the van really fast and low for someone so
Then the feeling came again, the wave of wrongness . I didn’t have the right words for it, but it was like fingernails on the blackboard of my senses. A disturbance in the air, a shift in the invisible alarm shield we all wear around us that tells us when everything is okay.
Right then I knew for sure that it was so not okay.
This was beyond weird. I’ve always been an intuitive kind of person. I mean, even apart from the mermaid thing, I’m a woman. And a cop. Experience hones your instincts to a razor point. But this was different. It was sensual, like I could smell the change in the air.
My mind whizzed through the possibilities of what was freaking out my radar.
Maybe Doug was out of the van and coming in here to help? But I didn’t think so. It was not The Plan and Doug’s not one to jeopardize a mission without a good reason.
I realized whatever it was, it wasn’t getting better for me standing there trying to smell it.
I had to start moving. I closed the cold drawer as softly as possible.
Blondie and I were moving as one as I retraced my steps.
Back out through the morgue, automatically picking up a Have you shared your wishes with your loved ones? pamphlet with my spare hand as I passed through. I thought about Mom.
Should I be telling her what’s going to happen in three weeks?
I chastised myself quickly, remembering I had way more to deal with right now than what kind of funeral I want when I finally bite the dust.
I’d project managed interfering with a body, I was stealing a corpse, and I’d suddenly developed some primal sixth sense that was telling me somehow but for certain that something menacing was waiting for me in the dark.
I was still a couple of hundred yards from the van when I heard something. Singing? I was half-way across the bramble and could see the van when it happened.
Five years I worked homicide in the city and I never got shot.
Not that I wasn’t in dangerous situations, many times. But I was always too quick.
My first time, I thought, as I sank to my knees like a folded piece of paper.
Always important to try new things.
Blondie slid off my shoulder as I hit the dirt.
I was in agony, but couldn’t work out where I’d been hit. The world was awash with pain. I was supine and vaguely aware of scrunching my knees up to my chest as I retreated into some fetal hug, thinking: I’m supposed to have three more weeks.
The pain was inside my head, and in my ears, like some demented thing.
I must have taken a hit to the head. That’s gotta be bad.
Then I couldn’t think at all.
The pain was getting worse, building to a screaming zenith and underneath the blind rage I was feeling at being hurt this way was a matching frustration that I couldn’t work out where the hell they’d hit me. I was worried about Blondie, I was worried I was making too much noise, I was worried someone would find me…
Then it was over. Very suddenly.
Doug was beside me, cradling my head in his hands and he’d done something else too but I was still picking my thoughts up off the nearest gooseberry bushes and couldn’t work out what the hell he did to make the pain stop. He shushed me by putting a finger to my lips and it was only then I realized I was moaning.
“Shush. Stop. Rania, stop. Look at me girl. Look at me, you gotta stop.” I could see his lips moving but I couldn’t hear him right.
And then I realized what he’d done. He’d put something in my ears. Like a dog with a flea collar on, I tried to brush the things away. They were some kind of ear plugs, hard plastic knobs rammed deep inside the ear canal. But my arms weren’t working like they should. They were flapping around uselessly, oblivious to my commands.
Doug turned my face to his impassive one and motioned not yet .
Then he gave me the wait signal, pointed to the van, and heaved Blondie over his shoulder. He darted over to the van really fast and low for someone so
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