Psychobyte (37 page)

Surfin’ Safari

A scream broke the silence. I jumped to my feet shoving the laptop onto the couch as I did.

“Harley!” My hand reached for my Glock and came up empty. Dammit. “Harley!”

Another scream.

I grabbed my spare weapon from the drawer under the coffee table and crept into the hallway.

“Harley!”

Sobbing came from the kitchen. A voice broke through the sobs, “Ellie!”

Entering the kitchen, I found Harley, pale and backed into a corner.

“What’s wrong?”

She pointed to a black hairy shape on the tiled floor.

My heart rate returned to normal. Relief washed over me. “I can’t shoot that,” I said, placing the gun on the countertop.

I’d like to. I hate spiders.

I held my hand out. “Come here.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. It’ll get me.”

Potentially.

“Watch it and I’ll get the fly spray.”

“No! It’ll run at me if you spray it.”

I stepped closer, eyeing the black furry horror on the floor. It squelched under my boot as I stamped on it.

Yuck.

Harley squawked and flew at me. I hugged her.

“I hate spiders.”

“Don’t usually see any inside. You going to be okay?”

She nodded, her smile returning. “Sorry.”

I picked up the gun. “Better put this away. Can we reserve screams for life-threatening situations?”

Twenty minutes later peace had returned, I continued with the painful process of writing.

“What’s it about?”

“What’s what about?” I asked, squinting at the screen. Clouds parted, sending a ray of sun across my line of vision. “No sun for days and now it wants to shine.”

“The story you’re writing—”

“What about it?”

“You’re not listening …”

I lifted my fingers off the keyboard and looked at her. “I’m listening. Ask me again.”

“What’s the story about?”

“Oh, that trip your Uncle Mitch and I took to the beach last summer.”

“Doesn’t sound very exciting,” she said, her interest diverted by the bright colors and chirpy music of a new television advert.

No, it doesn’t. Had to agree with the opinion of the seventeen-year-old. It certainly didn’t sound very exciting. Best it remains that way. Wouldn’t do for truth to sully the story and turn it into something more fun.

All the noise stopped. I looked up to find Mitch’s niece standing in front of me, one hand on her hip and the other twirling the remote control around her fingers. “Can I help you?”

“Why are you writing a story?”

Good question.

“Because it seemed like a good idea when Holly suggested it.”

She smiled. “Is it a good idea, Ellie?”

I shook my head. “No, it’s really not.”

“Show me?”

I spun the laptop to face her. She picked it up and sat on the couch. I wandered off for juice, coffee, or wine. I wouldn’t know which until it magically appeared in my hand. Anything wet would help the awful evening that stretched ahead of me.

Why did I think writing would be fun?

It’s like pulling teeth without anesthetic.

Unscrewing the cap on a bottle of Pinot Gris told me I’d decided on my poison of the night. Good choice, brain. Good choice.

The good choice was overridden by my mother’s voice. “You shouldn’t be drinking that.” My eyes rolled so far back into my skull I could see Mom with a glass of gin in one hand and a half full bottle in the other. Her opinion mattered very little.

Laughter filled the air and came closer, shaking the image of my mother until she dissolved into a gin-soaked puddle. I didn’t have time to wonder if the laughter was good or bad before Harley appeared in the doorway.

“Ellie, it’s so funny.”

“Good funny?”

“Yeah. But something needs to happen.”

“It’s a trip to the beach …”

Lots happened, I’m just not sure any of it is for general consumption. Okay, I know it isn’t.

Holly thought I should write a story for a competition she was running through her bookstore and as usual, wouldn’t listen to my protests about time constraints or my inability to write something that wasn’t a report for our files or an account of an investigation for the District Attorney.

“You should just write about work, your work stories are the best.”

“Thanks for the input, kiddo.”

“I’m serious. The stories you tell us about working with Kurt are really funny.”

Maybe funny is teenage code for horrendous. Had a feeling the kid would need a lot of therapy one day.

“I can’t write a story about a case … Holly said there are certain things I need to have in the story.”

She shrugged. “Put them in then. Come on, Ellie. Please. Tell that story of the time you and Kurt were in New Zealand. Didn’t you go to a beach?”

Images filled my head. None of them were story worthy: Lee and me and a golf course by a beach. I shut down the memory just as the flash from an automatic weapon caught my eye. Not that story.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, taking a generous swig from my glass. It’s not happening. “I’ll definitely think about it.”

Harley spun around and headed back down the hallway. “You should. It’ll be great.”

“You sound like Holly,” I called after her.

Her laughter bounced off the walls and collapsed in a heap of giggles on the rug. The laughter became insistent and more like the opening bars of ‘Wanted dead or alive’.

“Your phone!” Harley hollered.

Saved by Bon Jovi.

“Coming,” I called back.

Something flew at me when I stepped into the living room. My fingers snatched the object from mid-air. The ringing continued but this time, it came from my hand. Kurt.

I swiped my finger across the bottom of the screen. “Problem?”

“Potentially,” he replied. “I’ll pick you up in ten.”

Ten. That meant he was already on his way. “See you soon.”

I hung up, shoved the phone into my jeans pocket and downed the last of my wine. My night at home, struggling with Holly’s story idea was over. A little voice inside my head hollered, ‘Woo hoo!’

“You going out?” Harley asked from the couch.

“Called to work. You be okay? We can drop you at Gran’s if you like?”

“I’ll be all right,” she said, turning her head to see me. “Besides, Uncle Mitch will be here later, won’t he?”

“He sure will.” My watch indicated he’d be home in about half an hour. I’d miss him and that sucked. A quick text was in order.

I sent a text saying I’d been called out. Not a surprise. It happened more often than not. Criminals have no regard for our lives but on the plus side, job security.

Mitch replied quickly and said he and Harley would cook dinner and they’d save me some. Once again my excellent choice of a husband came to the rescue. I let him know there was a squashed spider body on the kitchen floor that he had to remove.

My eyes drifted to the teenager. For a moment, a memory of a different teenager standing in my lounge overlaid the present. Her smile radiated, her laughter jingled in the air like a dozen fairy bells. Carla. The memory glittered around the edges as it faded. I missed her laugh so very much.

Harley’s perky voice plunged through the remnants of my memory. “I’ll be fine. What’d Uncle Mitch say?”

“He said you can help him cook dinner.” A niggly squirmy unsure feeling grew in my gut. “I don’t like the idea of you being on your own,” I said. Overprotective much?

“I won’t be for long,” she replied with a smile. “Anyway, Mom and Dad are going to FaceTime me soon. So, I won’t really be alone.”

Mitch’s brother was in Germany on business and his wife had gone with him. We’d offered to take Harley for the month. A week in and it was going well. She was a great kid.

“Okay. I better get ready,” I said, looking around the room for my bag.

“It’s behind the couch,” Harley said.

“Thanks.”

From the bag I took everything I wore on my belt. I checked my weapon. Then snapped my holster onto my belt. I seated my Glock checking it was snug inside the holster and adjusted the fit of my belt. On the other side of my belt, I snapped spare magazine pouches and a black handcuff case.

“Isn’t all that uncomfortable?” Harley asked.

Until she spoke, I was unaware she’d been watching. “Nah. Got used to it years ago.”

“Is that why you always wear a heavy belt?”

I nodded and shoved my ID wallet into my left front jeans pocket. My phone lived in my right pocket. Harley handed me my FBI jacket. I pulled it on, not bothering to zip it up. I remembered something that I thought she’d enjoy and hurried down to my home office. From my desk, I picked up a box and carried it out to the living room. I set the box on the coffee table in front of the couch and opened the lid.

“Thought you might enjoy a pre-dinner snack,” I said, turning the box to face her. “I have a friend in New Zealand, she sent a care package over.”

Harley leaned forward and surveyed the bright colored contents. She reached in and took a yellow bag out.

“Pineapple lumps,” she said. “They look yum.”

“They are. You should try the Jaffas and the Whittaker’s L&P chocolate.”

“Really, what are they?”

“Jaffas are orange flavored candy-coated chocolate balls. L&P chocolate is white chocolate, kinda lemony and has pop rocks in it. So good!”

“Hey, there’s a cookbook in here.
Edmond’s Cookbook
. Maybe we could make something from this for dinner?”

“I’m sure you and Uncle Mitch could manage that.”

Car tires crunched on the gravel driveway. A horn blasted.

“That’s me, Harley. Be good. Don’t eat too much candy.” I gave her a quick hug. “Fly spray is in the cabinet under the sink.”

Opening the front door, I stepped out. Security lighting flooded the top of the driveway and illuminated Kurt’s car with crisp white light. I gave the front door a sharp pull. It closed behind me. The passenger door popped open as I walked around the vehicle.

“Hey,” I said, sliding into the seat and closing the door.

“Sorry to drag you away from the family,” Kurt replied. The engine rumbled to life.

“Where are we going?”

“Chesapeake Bay.”

“Why?”

“Two bodies in the water.”

“Boating accident?” I asked, fastening my seat belt and getting comfortable.

“I doubt it. State Police called us. One of the deceased is on our most wanted list.”

“One down …” I whispered. Scenery blurred beyond the windscreen. I leaned on the headrest and waited for more information.

“He was a bank robber, his partner is still at large,” Kurt said, passing several cars.

“And the other person?”

“No ID yet.”

“Lee and Sam?”

Didn’t see why we should have all the fun but then again why ruin everyone’s night.

“We’ll call them in if we need them. At this point, it’s two dead bodies.”

Guess that was reasonable.

Two dead bodies and a nighttime trip to the beach. Holly wanted me to write a story about a journey to a beach. I had a feeling this wouldn’t be any better than any of my other beach stories. She expected way too much from me. Join my writing group she said. It’ll be fun she said. My eyes rolled so fast last week came into view. I’m not a writer. I don’t want to be a writer. The night came back into focus, it was welcome but brief.

Visions of Danni Lane danced before my eyes, backlit by oncoming headlights. It took a bit of convincing before my brain accepted that not all writers were psychopaths. And not all writers based their characters on real people. And not all writers went about putting those real people into horrendous situations just to watch how they reacted.

“I don’t want to be a writer.”

“Conway? Say again …”

“Say what again?”

“You said something about writers?”

Ah, crap. That wasn’t in my head after all.

“I don’t want to be a writer,” I repeated.

“You’re a couple of years too late with that observation, Conway. You are a writer, like it or not.”

I thought for a moment. I’m a what now?

“I’m not a writer,” I said.

“Poetry qualifies.”

“Oh.”

Haven’t written any of that for quite some time. I stopped thinking about the writing thing. It wasn’t a good idea to carry on down that track. A familiar tune flowed from the radio.

“Kansas,” I said with a smile and turned up the volume until
Carry on Wayward Son
filled the car.