Mirror, Mirror
Grave Dagger flash fiction #2
Lieutenant Sagewater studied his foggy reflection in the bathroom mirror. His face looked blurred, weary, aged. He hefted a hand towel, wiped steam from the glass, and gave his reflection a wry smirk.
All things considered, he’d rather be back in Stoney Cove.
He left the bathroom door ajar and sat on the edge of his bed. The hotel room was comfortable but spartan, a combination he found both functional and off-putting. He switched the bedside lamp on, a beacon of artificial light in the early-evening dusk.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, warning of an advancing stormfront. Twenty-four hours since he’d arrived in New Beltwain, with zero relief from the incessant rain. Low barometric pressure was at least partly to blame for his headache — coincidentally also twenty-four hours in duration.
Sagewater didn’t believe in coincidence. He dialed an outside line on the rotary telephone.
Special Agent Ravenhill answered on the third ring. “Ravenhill.”
“It’s me, Parker,” he said.
“Mason?” She seemed surprised. “I know you’re chomping at the bit, but we can’t move forward until Dalton and Theo arrive tomorrow.”
“I’d like to review the particulars again, before they get here.”
Her sigh communicated either patient indulgence or friendly exasperation. Sagewater couldn’t be sure which. Probably a bit of both.
“Anonymous phone call, two nights ago, at twenty-three-forty,” Ravenhill said crisply, the consummate professional in her Marshal role. “No eyewitnesses, but screams reported inside the new warehouse construction at Twin Rivers Metalworks. Subsequent search came up empty.”
Sagewater nodded to himself. “Except that, for good effect, the anonymous tipster added ‘the blood cries out.’ Convenient.”
He paused there; they were both well-aware of the ancient phrase, the implications, and its origin in Stoney Cove — over a hundred miles south and west.
“It’s definitely a ‘Speaker-with-the-dead’ scenario, which my GMS colleagues have never taken seriously,” Ravenhill said without inflection. “That’s why I’m bringing in Dalton and Theo.” She paused for a beat. “Are you having second thoughts?”
“No, something else.” Sagewater massaged the back of his neck. A peal of thunder rattled the windowpane; his headache was definitely worsening. “I don’t believe in coincidence, and I’m especially leery of coincidental timing.”
Ravenhill pounced. “Another ‘request’ from a certain inmate at Coldwater?”
“More like a demand,” he replied. Rain pattered against his window, harder now. “Cortland’s been hounding our precinct for three months. Everyone’s sick of her. Captain Tanner dropped the ‘personal favor’ hint, since I’m in New Beltwain anyway.”
“You think there’s a connection between ‘the blood cries out’ and our favorite felon’s high-and-mighty demands?”
Sagewater frowned. The idea seemed absurd when spoken aloud. “I’ll make a trip to Coldwater in the morning.” He took a deep breath, exhaled. “I don’t see how there could be a connection, but …”
“Trust your gut, Mason,” Ravenhill replied. “I’ll see you at the train station tomorrow. Fifteen-thirty hours.”
“Fifteen-thirty,” he replied. “Ten-four.” The phone clicked in his ear and he placed the receiver in its cradle.
Thunder boomed and his bedside lamp flickered off and then on. Twice.
An omen? Sagewater dismissed the idea — with prejudice. He put no stock in superstitions, and he didn’t believe in coincidence. And yet …
The blood cries out. He chewed on the bitter phrase, uneasy.
Sleep was a long time in coming, and his dreams did him no favors.