Death Whispers (Death Series, Book 1) (7 page)

Baldy
stepped away from John and me, giving us a look that I never wanted
to see on an adult's face, revulsion mixed with fear. I hadn't
noticed before but now I saw a semi-circle of wary faces. What
had
they
seen?

I glanced at John who said in a low voice, “We're
screwed.”

Ya
think?
Just
the kind of proof I was avoiding.

The
dog was sitting up but still looked injured. Its eyes followed me
like I was all that mattered. My creepy new reality.

Wonderful.

A cop moved through the small crowd with a
notebook in hand.

“You boys there,” we looked up, his name tag
read Garcia. “Step away from the dog.”

We did, the dog dragging behind me with a limp.

Garcia-the-cop approached the dog reaching his
hand out, the dog growled low in the back of his throat, showing
teeth. Garcia backed away, his eyes remaining on the dog, he brought
out his pulse.

After he depressed his touch pad he looked up
again, “I've pulsed animal control. They'll be here soon.”

My heart sped, I didn't like the dog being taken
away.

“Okay,” Garcia said. “Somebody start
talking.”

Baldy
stepped up, wringing his plump hands, “I was driving along, doing
the speed limit, when this dog just appeared out of nowhere,” he
spread his hands wide to show how it was just one of those things
.
“And these two boys,” he gave us an accusing glance, (wasn't
this turning out special), “were on the other side of the road and
I had to avoid
them
.”
He gave that last word special emphasis, as if us walking on the side
of the road was a crime.

Garcia opened his hand, “Identification,
please?”

Baldy gave us an unfriendly look and handed over
his driver's license. I felt the pressure building and tried to rein
it in. When I was upset it was way worse to manage.

John looked down at me. “What's the matter?”

“That guy's a turd. I wanna get out of here.”

“Yeah he's a dick.” John gave a chuckle, “But
we have to see this thing through and act like the dog thing wasn't
talent, just coincidence. You got me?”

I
nodded, I got it alright. I didn't know if AFTD was talent,
but
it was annoying.

Garcia and Baldy had their heads together, one a
cue ball, the other an eight ball.

Finally, the cop turned to John and me. “Mr.
Smith here,” he motioned with his notepad to Baldy, “said that
you did something to the dog?” He raised his eyebrows.

How to answer without getting my butt in a sling?

John spoke before I had a chance, “Caleb's a
major animal lover,” he said.

I kept the shock off my face. That wasn't exactly
accurate, but...

“That's
not what Mr. Smith said: 'he was',” he looked down at his notepad
for the exact quote, “...'sure the dog was dead.' Then you touched
it and everything 'got funny' and the dog was suddenly alive again.”

“Can you explain that?” he asked.

Actually
no.

John
looked down at me with an “I tried” expression. Lying sucked,
let's see how creative I could be.

“John's right.” Garcia turned to John,
seemingly taking him in for the first time. “I couldn't seem to
help myself, seeing it lying there,” I looked down at my shoes,
hiding my expression, giving myself time to continue, “I don't know
how it got better.”

That
was mainly the truth. Before today, I didn't know dying things could
also “call” to me,
image
me. Everything, every being was unique: an insect was not a dog, a
dog was NOT a human being. I held Garcia's stare and he seemed to
decide something, “You boys live around here?”

John answered, “Yeah, Caleb lives right there,”
John pointed over the top of the rise, “and I live about half a
mile from here.”

Garcia held his pen poised over the notepad,
“Names?”

“Caleb Hart.”

Garcia's head jerked up and he looked at me more
closely, “The scientist's kid?”

“Yeah,”
I answered with a marked lack of enthusiasm. “Now that's a cool
relative to have,” he commented with a smile.

“I guess.” Whatever, he was just my dad to me.

“John Terran.” John said, effectively getting
me off the hook of dealing with the awkward,
your-parent-is-kinda-famous moment.

“Okay, you kids get in the police car and I'll
give you a ride home.”

“What about the dog?” I asked. The dog looked
up at me and whined softly. As if on cue, animal control arrived. A
ginormous gal poured into an unflattering light tan uniform barreled
through the crowd accompanied by a skinny partner. Two more opposite
people you'd never see. The dog's posture immediately changed, he was
alert.

I was bothered by the dog's suffering so I reached
out and several things happened at once, Garcia tried to pull me
away, the huge animal control gal cleared her evil-looking baton from
her utility belt and John pulled me back. I missed purchase on the
dog as Garcia did on me. The dog eluded the baton with an attached
noose, parking himself behind John and I.

Garcia said to me directly, “I don't want any
trouble and I already told you boys not to touch that dog.”

“I thought I could help, he seems to like me,”
I said.

“Let animal control do their job, son,” Garcia
said.

Ignoring
him, I put my hand on the dog thinking...
sleep.

“That's it!” Garcia said. He strode the two
feet over to where John and I stood and took us each by the arm to
his patrol car. I chanced a look behind me and saw the dog knocked
out cold. Garcia was tallish, my feet skimmed the ground as he hauled
me and John to the car where we were unceremoniously dumped inside.

He pointed his finger at us. “Stay put.”

We watched him walk away. He lingered with Baldy
for a short time who nodded his head vigorously, casting dirty looks
at us whenever Garcia turned away. Then he spoke with animal control
who were collecting the dog. Skinny was the “collector,” and
Humongous was “supervising” this process while standing
importantly with Garcia.

Garcia
jogged back to the patrol car. John and I were surveying the inside
of the patrol car and I deemed it pretty gross. I could see remnants
of goop all over the back of the seat, floor and handles on the door.
The black upholstery didn't hide it either. There were dried patches
of “mystery fluid” in strategic locations. The contents of lunch
began to rise in my stomach. John reacted similarly, hunching in on
himself so less of him touched his surroundings.

Good
luck with that one.

Garcia slid into the front seat and turned around
to look at us. “I am required to take your statements with your
parent or guardian present,” Garcia said, in a matter-of-fact
voice.

Sounded
like he had said that a few times. My parents were gonna have a
turtle when a police car pulled up in front of the house!

Thoughts
swirled in my head like: how did I stop that dog from dying? Why
didn't I need blood to do it? Was that a coincidence at the cemetery?
Or, because it was a person (before) and it was “fully dead,”
I
needed something extra? I didn't have those answers. As I put my head
between my knees to quell the dizziness that threatened I knew
tonight I'd read some more about paranormal abilities and Jeffrey
Parker. It was time to get up close and personal with AFTD, I needed
to rule it, not the other way around.

CHAPTER 6

Garcia surveyed my house briefly. “That's
unique.”

It was a ranch style with cream-colored arches
across the facade, covered in stucco, really different for rainy
Washington.

We followed Garcia and Mom came through the door
and under the open archway before we had a chance to get to it.

Garcia
seemed to “get it,” putting his hand out in an inoffensive way
like,
everything’s
okay.

“The kids aren't in any trouble Mrs. Hart.”
Garcia began, but my mom cut him off with a dismissive wave of her
hand. “Ali's fine.”

“
Okay...
Ali
,”
he paused, “they witnessed a vehicular accident in which a dog was
hit and I need to take down their statements with an adult present.”

Mom's face looked relieved that some catastrophe
(she was always ranting about my safety, which got to be annoying)
had not befallen us. She stepped backwards, to let Garcia pass. While
she waited for us to trudge through, I watched Garcia look around our
house. It smelled like cookies and bread, those were good smells.
John gave the air an experimental whiff too.

The Appetite Beast was alive and well.

Garcia sat down on the psychedelically colorful
couch.

“Do you care for anything to drink, Sergeant
Garcia?” she asked, checking out Garcia's name tag.

“Ah, sure, thanks.”

Mom usually made cookies once a week. Jonesy liked
to show up just as they came out of the oven.

As if I had just conjured him up, he walked
through the door.

“Hey Caleb, what's with the cop car outside?”
he asked loudly so there was zero chance to deflect it. The words
landed like a bomb in the middle of the room, John cringed.

Garcia turned to Jonesy. “Caleb witnessed an
accident so I am taking his and John's statements.”

“No kidding? Well, I'm going to stay for this!”
Unfazed by the cop in our living room, he proceeded to ask mom what
she'd made today.

“Peanut butter, chocolate chip cookies.”

“Yes!” Jonesy pumped his arm up and down.
Garcia sorta looked down, smiling.

For
Jonesy, Garcia just happened to be in my house where Mom made cookies
and there may be a cool story as a bonus. John just looked at me and
shrugged,
what
do we do with him?

Garcia took a long gulp of water, then turned to
John and I, Mom perching on the armrest of the couch.

“Okay
Caleb, tell me what happened,” he glanced down at his notepad
briefly, then looked up, “you heard a 'screeching,' then, you saw
Mr....” he tapped the notepad, “Smith's 2023 champagne-colored
Ford Grun strike a dog.” He looked at me, then John.

“Is this accurate boys?”

I was opening my mouth when Jonesy busted in with.
“Did the dog die?”

I
gave an inward grown, my peripheral vision telling me John was trying
to alert Jonesy to shut up. That never worked. Getting Garcia away
from thinking about the strangeness of the dog was epic-fail with
Jonesy bringing attention to it. I looked over at Jonesy happily
stuffing cookies and slurping milk.

“Yeah, that's accurate,” I replied.

Garcia gave me the “cop stare.” Adults want
kids to fill those awkward silences. That's where I'd get tripped up.
Mom was giving me a puzzled look. She knew something was going on.

“
Now,
it's interesting that you mention the dog.” Garcia began,
(actually, Jonesy had) “because Mr...” he rolled his eyes up,
“... Smith
,”
he
remembered, “said that he was certain the dog had been killed.”

My heart sped, my hands immediately dampening.
“No... no, he was still alive, barely.”

“Okay... Caleb,” he paused, giving a small
smile, “there were some witnesses who said that you,” he glanced
down at his notepad (man, was I beginning to hate that thing), “
'laid hands' on the dog and it began breathing again.” Looking
directly at me with a piercing stare out of eyes which blended with
the pupil, I was suddenly reminded of Brett. He had those eyes.

“Maybe
he was dead for a minute...” I began, choosing my words slowly,
“but he must have revived or something.”

Garcia didn't even pause, “One witness said that
the dog's breath had gone out of it before you reached it. That when
you touched it, there was an 'energy' around you.”

My head snapped back up. What? Was that possible?

“The witness is an Aura Reader, Caleb.”

I was screwed! They identify paranormals. I am
sure I had my panic-face on. John was as pale as a ghost (hardy
har-har).

“You know, Sergeant Garcia,” Mom's voice was
all sweet, but dude, I knew that tone!

“
Caleb
is a minor
(that
word came out sounding vaguely like lawsuit, I noted with grim
satisfaction), and hasn't perpetuated any crime, so I'm not sure that
this line of questioning is justified.”

I
heard: stop bugging my kid or I'll make you sorry.

Garcia looked at Mom thoughtfully. She tilted her
head to the side and a large, gold hoop swung forward, peeking out of
her thick hair, twinkling in the late sunlight streaming through the
window. I had a sudden stab of love for Mom, standing up for me. I
decided to man-up, I wasn't little anymore.

I broke the silence. “I have Affinity for the
Dead.”

It
sounded like a disease, ya know: I have cancer, I have two weeks to
live
.
I wasn't going to die. I was going to start living
now
and stop being scared. The Js looked at me like I was insane.