Day One (42 page)
“Da.”
The cop’s gaze went soft. “And who might this be?”
“His name’s Danny, and I’m ... my name is Luellen.”
The cop raised his eyes back to hers but kept his head tilted—if anything, he was trying to hide the red patch on his neck. “Well, you might as well call me Skin. Everyone else does.”
November 19 - late
M
y thoughts swim, rainbows of flame filtered through antique glass. Floating on a raft of air. Images, observations ... my whole life is a sequence of observations, randomly ordered and clouded by sensation. A loose, fluid sound, cold and damp. I blink and discover the light, warm to the sound of a needle piercing my neck. It feels like water flowing uphill. Floating among bubbles. Voices through the end of a tube, recordings on wax cylinders. The moose comes out of the trees. I blink again, and swallow. My throat opens and emits a red, round sound. I taste hot pepper.
“Tell ...”
The voices, distant. I can’t feel them, can’t see them.
“Please.”
A face, sudden focus from out of the dark, out of the light. A shaft of forehead, an eye shaped like wind, the rattle of a drum. “Take it easy, Mister Kadash.” I understand the words. “We’re rolling now, okay?” They smell like apples. Words shaped like apples. A dash of salt with the cayenne.
“We’re rolling ...”
“Please.” I think it’s my voice. “Please tell Ruby Jane ... find her. Tell her ...”
I float away, raft of air, unable to remember what.
November 22
KLAMATH FALLS, OR: Local police are seeking help from the public in identifying the body of a man found dead on Green Springs Highway late Tuesday night. The man appears to have suffered a gunshot wound to the chest, though the official cause of death has not been announced, pending autopsy.
The victim is described as six feet tall, in his early fifties, with short, steel-grey hair and a medium build. He was discovered in the ditch by a group of teenagers driving along the road shortly after midnight. No identification was found on the body.
Police theorize the man was the victim of a robbery. He was found without cash, keys, cell phone, wallet or other identifying items. A statewide alert has been issued.
Writing is often seen as a solitary act, and there’s no doubt writers spend plenty of time inside their own heads. Even those, like me, who write in public—the coffee shop, the library, the nearest pub—spend an inordinate amount of time focused on the keyboard and on the hermitic act of creation. Despite that, I find the collaborative aspects of writing to be among the most rewarding. Interactions with readers, other writers, friends, and colleagues keep me as sane as I am likely to ever be. Sometimes it’s kicking around ideas, sometimes it’s commiserating, but mostly it’s just sharing a love of the written word.
I’m not sure what I’d do without my friends, fellow writers Brett Battles and Rob Browne. Daily IM buddies, and drinking buddies on those too rare occasions when we find ourselves in the same city. They’re never more than an email or a phone call away when I need them. And not to be overlooked are Tasha Alexander, Kelli Stanley, JT Ellison, and Eric Stone—confederates and confidants all!
On the research front, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Dr. Steven Seres, who coached me on acute trauma care, particularly the effects of gunshot wounds. Whatever I managed to get right on the medical front is thanks to him. Whatever I got wrong is all on me.
Thanks as always go out to Janet Reid for her hard work on my behalf and for her deadly shark’s teeth, perhaps not so sharp as she might like us all to believe. Thank you also to Tyrus Books publisher Ben LeRoy and editor (and Sheriff) Alison Janssen for being smart and delightfully nerdy, and for their vision and risk-taking. I am humbled to be part of the of Tyrus family.
I thank my good friends and fellow writers Candace Clark, Andy Fort, Corissa Neufeldt, and Theresa Snyder, who beta-read
Day One
and offered invaluable critiques.
And last, but not least, I thank my lovely wife Jill, who puts up with my tics and weirdnesses and gets mad when I kill off her favorite characters, but who manages to love me nonetheless.
BILL CAMERON
lives with his wife and a menagerie of critters in Portland, Oregon. His stories have appeared in
Spinetingler, Killer Year, Portland Noir,
and the forthcoming
First Thrills.
He is a member of Friends of Mystery, International Thriller Writers, Sisters-in-Crime and Mystery Writers of America. Visit
www.billcameronmysteries.com
for more information.
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