Hallucinating.
Oh, no. It’s happening again.
CHAPTER TWO
THE MORNING FOLLOWING my hallucination, my face looks as though I’ve been on a three-day bender. I’d spent the previous evening listening to the radio, refusing to think about the experience. And as a result, I’d spent the night dreaming about it. After doing a quick perimeter check of the house to make sure all the openings are closed and locked, I go to the kitchen. This one room, at least, has begun to feel like home. And I’m feeling more like myself, and less like a disembodied spirit. Maybe the meds are finally out of my system.
Coffee is the only solution to quell the morning monster, and as I fill the press I wish I could inject it directly into a vein. Except that makes me think of drug abuse and Zoe and the Baxter Building, and all the rest of it. So when a knock sounds against the door I startle like a new perp in prison. Someone is trying to break into my solitude before I am ready to breach it myself. This person is using the knocker rather than the doorbell, making a distinct metallic clank.
In seconds my gun is nestled in my hand. I keep it out of sight when I crack open the door. An older white man, heavily built, with silver hair and shrewd blue eyes stands on the porch. His barrel shape, bristling eyebrows and alert expression remind me of a great horned owl. He has a bunch of yellow flowers and a plate covered with a gingham cloth.
“Hello,” he says. “I’m your next-door neighbor.” He gestures to the right with an elbow. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
Is he for real? I’m suspicious of strangers and must look doubtful, because he smiles, deepening the creases in his cheeks.
“I hope I didn’t wake you up. You don’t have to invite me in. I just thought you’d like some fresh flowers — these daffodils come from my garden — and my wife sent over some cookies.”
So then of course I feel like an idiot and I open the door a little wider. “No, it’s fine. I’m just a little disorganized now.” Wait, did he say he thought he’d woken me up? I realize I am still in my pajamas. And I have a gun in my hand. I close the door back down to a crack before he can step inside.
He says, “We really liked Sandy, the previous owner. Did you know her at all?”
“I’m her niece. She left this house to me.” Even to my own ears I sound defensive. But I still don’t invite him inside. Because, you know, pajamas. And firearm.
“We saw the van taking away all the furniture.”
“Her own daughter got all the contents. I got the building.” And that’s all you’re going to get, Mr. Nosy.
“Interesting.” He squats to place the plate on the porch, and lays the flowers next to it. “Come on over when you’ve got a little time on your hands. We’d love to make your acquaintance.” He stands. “I’m Judge Lincoln Rutherford — retired, so you can call me Link. My wife is Dr. Phoebe Rutherford. She still does the occasional therapy session at home, so she might not be available for a casual drop-in, but I’m usually pottering around. We’ll be seeing you.” He smiles again and walks off up the concrete stairs to the street.
I shut the door and rest my head against it, until the anxiety fluttering in my belly subsides.
Nice going, Lake. Barely here any time at all and you’ve already advertised your weirdness to the neighbors. And a judge to boot. You don’t do things by halves.
The voice in my head is sardonic and strident; it sounds like it belongs to somebody else. But it’s right — I shudder to think I’d almost threatened him with a weapon. And I realize I didn’t tell him my name.
No one is in sight, so I step out onto the porch and retrieve the cookies and flowers. I put both on the card table. I’m obviously not ready to meet people yet, not socially. Certainly not a shrink. I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, and none of them had been able to help me.
Plus, there’s too much to think about. The house and all it needs. The vision of yesterday evening. My static bank account. The money won’t last forever. And I don’t think it's enough to replace a foundation, or completely rebuild a roof. My aunt’s legacy, which seemed like such a godsend, is now revealed to be less of a sanctuary and more of a trap. With big leg-snapping teeth.
Like it or not, I need to look for a job, and there's only one thing I know how to do. But. That means going back into the underbelly, seeing the worst the world has to offer, and depending on people to have your back. And then maybe discovering that they don’t.
Yeah, I’m probably not ready to be a full-time detective again. But maybe I can be a consultant. Breeze in, offer expertise, breeze out. That seems less stressful. Perhaps an informal visit to the Astoria Police Department is in order. Meet the local cops, develop some relationships to help me when a position opens up for real, or when they need some extra help. You know, network. Like an actual professional person.
The APD shares a bunker-like concrete building with the fire department, and the two departments share a lobby with a single plastic chair and fake tropical plant. When I walk in at 1:13 and ask to talk to a detective, the woman at the front desk looks at me as though I have an eyestalk growing out of my head. But she eventually calls someone on the phone, and I find myself in a drab conference room with the senior detective, who
