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Authors: Tom Piccirilli
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at the top,” Flynn said.
Raidin’s features emptied of all human expression. He might’ve been alabaster, his face something you put on for a masquerade. “You believe this connects with the Shepard situation?”
“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “But maybe, in some way.” He was saying a lot of things Raidin already knew, but the cop was making him say them anyway. An understandable power play. His questions seemed dumb but the man definitely wasn’t. If Flynn wasn’t so sick to his stomach, he might be feeling anxious, even juked up. But Raidin wasn’t going to get very far under his skin today, and the man appeared to know it.
“The father’s been dead six months,” Raidin said.
That made Flynn lift his chin. He wanted to know more but didn’t want to question Raidin and get even farther on his bad side. Sierra would find out the facts. “Christina Shepard said he was ill but talked about him as if he were alive. So did the husband. She was afraid of what her father might do if she let her brother free.”
“Some families, they still lock up the mentally handicapped in their attics, chain children to the radiator for months at a time. They think they’re possessed by Satan. Diseased. Wicked.”
“I know,” Flynn said. “I’ve seen it.”
“He’s out of surgery, by the way. Shepard. Critical but stable. He won’t be responsive for a couple of days. Heard you wanted to talk to him.”
“He wanted to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you believe he tipped you about the brother?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he feels guilty about his wife.”
“Maybe he’s got a reason. Did you get anything out of him?”
It was a pushy question but Raidin didn’t mind. “No. His attorneys won’t allow him to talk, and we can’t exactly pressure a guy who has a bullet in his heart.”
“I guess I can see that.”
“Now, explain this scene with the boy in the emergency room.”
That was trickier. Flynn tried to be deliberately vague. He said he’d seen anaphylactic shock before and thought the boy was dying from it. Whatever the cause, the kid had been about a minute away from suffocating. Doing a good deed for an unknown reason made his actions dubious. Nobody was going to pin any medals on him. The mother would never say thank you. The docs would always give him the stink eye. Raidin kept watching.
“How’s the boy?” Flynn asked.
“Fine. He just had a bad asthma attack.”
They stood there like that for a while.
Then, again with the poking. The thin index finger, rapidly tapping, determining the thickness of Flynn’s sternum. “Half hour with your heart stopped, that’s a pretty long run.”
“I’ve been informed it’s nowhere near a record.”
“So what was it like?”
Flynn thought about it. There’d been no euphoria but no despair. No guiding divine presence but no abominable evil either. He’d seen his brother but he always saw his brother. Danny was forever prevalent in his mind. He’d seen an endless dark road, but every road seemed immeasurable when you were stuck on it.
“Pretty much just more of the same,” Flynn said.
FIVE
In the city, at the Paradigm, the dead dog wouldn’t shut up during the afternoon showing of
I Wake Up Screaming.
Zero commented on how hot Betty Grable was, what a shame a first-rate actor like Laird Cregar couldn’t break wider in his career because he was so overweight and how sad it was that Carole Landis bumped herself off when she had such a nice rack. Zero kept pawing at Flynn’s arm wanting Milk Duds. Flynn was starting to get a little annoyed.
He didn’t mind the dog talking all the time so much, saying a lot of the same things Flynn felt about the movie, in his own voice. But he damn sure wasn’t going to sit here feeding his Duds to the talking ghost of a French bulldog in booties.
You had to draw a line with the dead.
It made a kind of sense that the dog showed up. Flynn was open to hauntings.
Raidin’s features emptied of all human expression. He might’ve been alabaster, his face something you put on for a masquerade. “You believe this connects with the Shepard situation?”
“I don’t know,” Flynn said. “But maybe, in some way.” He was saying a lot of things Raidin already knew, but the cop was making him say them anyway. An understandable power play. His questions seemed dumb but the man definitely wasn’t. If Flynn wasn’t so sick to his stomach, he might be feeling anxious, even juked up. But Raidin wasn’t going to get very far under his skin today, and the man appeared to know it.
“The father’s been dead six months,” Raidin said.
That made Flynn lift his chin. He wanted to know more but didn’t want to question Raidin and get even farther on his bad side. Sierra would find out the facts. “Christina Shepard said he was ill but talked about him as if he were alive. So did the husband. She was afraid of what her father might do if she let her brother free.”
“Some families, they still lock up the mentally handicapped in their attics, chain children to the radiator for months at a time. They think they’re possessed by Satan. Diseased. Wicked.”
“I know,” Flynn said. “I’ve seen it.”
“He’s out of surgery, by the way. Shepard. Critical but stable. He won’t be responsive for a couple of days. Heard you wanted to talk to him.”
“He wanted to talk to me.”
“About what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you believe he tipped you about the brother?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe he feels guilty about his wife.”
“Maybe he’s got a reason. Did you get anything out of him?”
It was a pushy question but Raidin didn’t mind. “No. His attorneys won’t allow him to talk, and we can’t exactly pressure a guy who has a bullet in his heart.”
“I guess I can see that.”
“Now, explain this scene with the boy in the emergency room.”
That was trickier. Flynn tried to be deliberately vague. He said he’d seen anaphylactic shock before and thought the boy was dying from it. Whatever the cause, the kid had been about a minute away from suffocating. Doing a good deed for an unknown reason made his actions dubious. Nobody was going to pin any medals on him. The mother would never say thank you. The docs would always give him the stink eye. Raidin kept watching.
“How’s the boy?” Flynn asked.
“Fine. He just had a bad asthma attack.”
They stood there like that for a while.
Then, again with the poking. The thin index finger, rapidly tapping, determining the thickness of Flynn’s sternum. “Half hour with your heart stopped, that’s a pretty long run.”
“I’ve been informed it’s nowhere near a record.”
“So what was it like?”
Flynn thought about it. There’d been no euphoria but no despair. No guiding divine presence but no abominable evil either. He’d seen his brother but he always saw his brother. Danny was forever prevalent in his mind. He’d seen an endless dark road, but every road seemed immeasurable when you were stuck on it.
“Pretty much just more of the same,” Flynn said.
FIVE
In the city, at the Paradigm, the dead dog wouldn’t shut up during the afternoon showing of
I Wake Up Screaming.
Zero commented on how hot Betty Grable was, what a shame a first-rate actor like Laird Cregar couldn’t break wider in his career because he was so overweight and how sad it was that Carole Landis bumped herself off when she had such a nice rack. Zero kept pawing at Flynn’s arm wanting Milk Duds. Flynn was starting to get a little annoyed.
He didn’t mind the dog talking all the time so much, saying a lot of the same things Flynn felt about the movie, in his own voice. But he damn sure wasn’t going to sit here feeding his Duds to the talking ghost of a French bulldog in booties.
You had to draw a line with the dead.
It made a kind of sense that the dog showed up. Flynn was open to hauntings.
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