Robert Browne: Kill Her Again

“A fag?”

These were the last words Pope had expected to come out of Troy’s mouth at that particular moment, so he responded with a simple, “What?”

Troy tore himself away from the computer screen and made eye contact. “You want me to believe I was once a faggot? A homo?”

“I think the politically correct term is gay,” Pope said.

“I don’t give a fuck how you candy-coat it. This Nigel Fromme guy? I just did a Google on him and found some very disconcerting information. Turns out he was an artist. One of the hottest painters of his time.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“Not a thing,” Troy said. “It’s his sexual orientation that concerns me.”

“I take it he’s gay?”

“Gayer than a bucket full of butterflies.”

“So? What difference does it make?”

“Difference?” Troy closed his laptop, got to his feet. He was high school-basketball tall. “Let me explain something to you, Daniel. I come from a long line of God-fearing, gun-loving homophobes. Now, personally, I’m a little more progressive in my thinking. I don’t have an ax to grind when it comes to people’s choice of bed partners. You’re a guy, you want to bag another guy, shit, you want to bag a gerbil, that’s your choice. Whatever you do in the privacy of your home is your own business. But do me a favor and make sure it stays that way. I’ve got no interest in you unless you’re a big-titted blonde with no sudden surprises dangling between your legs.”

He moved toward Pope now. “So when I find out this Nigel Fromme guy was a full-on flamer, you can understand my concern.”

“Not really, no.”

Troy sighed. “If I believe all this stuff you’ve fed me about past lives-”

“ I’ve fed you?”

“-then I have to believe that my soul once occupied Nigel Fromme’s body, right?”

Pope shrugged. “That’s the theory.”

There had long been a debate in the hypnosis community over past life regression therapy. Was it real, or was it, as Pope’s grandfather, an old jazz musician, used to say, pure bushwa?

A lot of people in the field believed that even simple childhood regression therapy was bullshit. Nothing more than a combination of recall and imagination. But, to Pope’s mind, that didn’t necessarily negate its usefulness as a therapy. Recall and imagination could reveal quite a bit about a person.

For the record, however, it was Troy who had originally brought up the subject of reincarnation, after reading an article about it online. Pope’s own feelings about the matter remained noncommittal. He didn’t really give a damn.

“So if this Nigel guy liked to bat for the home team,” Troy was saying, “then my soul was batting right along with him. The same soul that occupies my body, right here, right now.”

Pope said nothing. Figured it was better to let that one go.

“In other words, you’re telling me I’m a fag.”

Pope stared at him, wondering if this was a joke of some kind. Troy having fun. Was Sharkey standing behind the door to the kitchen, laughing his ass off at Pope’s expense?

He didn’t think so.

Troy wasn’t the kind of guy who joked around. And computer geek or not, the man was unpredictable when he got angry.

“I’m not telling you anything,” Pope said. “That’s not how it works.”

“Oh? Then how does it work? Because the way I see it, either I’m a fag or you made a mistake. Which is it?”

There was a sudden chill in the room. Real or imagined, Pope couldn’t be sure. Feeling a presence behind him, he turned to find Arturo standing quietly in the doorway.

Not a good sign.

What had begun as an off-the-cuff, semi-stoned conversation during a late-night poker game had turned into an impromptu, after-hours hypnosis session that had now somehow morphed into a deeply offended and lethally angry Anderson Troy. And the only one Troy could find to blame for the insult was the messenger. The hypnotist. The guy who had put him under.

That, of course, would be Pope. Star of the Desert Oasis Hotel-Casino’s ever popular late-night lounge show, Metamorphosis. Twenty bucks and a drink. Discount coupons in the hotel lobby.

“You know,” Pope said, offering Troy his million-dollar stage smile, thinking he needed his glittery black tux to make it official, “this isn’t an exact science. Maybe I did something wrong, got some wires crossed somehow. If you like, we can try again, see what happens.”

Troy nodded to Arturo, who quietly returned the nod and left the room.

“I’m glad you see it that way, Daniel. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to replace this carpet again.”

The boy couldn’t remember any of it.

After Anna identified herself as FBI, the owner of the junkyard stowed his shotgun and muzzled his German shepherd, letting Anna pull Evan out of his hiding place and carry him back toward the house.

They were greeted at the chain-link fence by Royer, Worthington, and half a dozen sheriff’s deputies, who had come running, weapons drawn, at the sound of the shotgun blast.

The boy, trembling, kept his face buried in Anna’s neck. Rather than deal with the logistics of getting him up and over the fence, one of the deputies ran back for a pair of wire cutters and they simply made a hole big enough for Anna to step through.

She carried him across the rutted field, through the backyard, past the house, and on out to the Ford Explorer, where she waved the others away and deposited him on the backseat. He was crying, tears streaking his dirty face, and she could see that he was in shock, a shock that might be too deep to penetrate.

“It’s okay, Evan. Everything’s okay now.”

But it wasn’t okay and the boy knew it and he continued to tremble as the tears flowed. She figured he had to be close to seven years old, but his reaction to the trauma of this night made him seem much, much younger.

“I want my mommy,” he said in a small, shaky voice.

Anna’s heart seized up in her chest. “I know you do, hon; I know. But your mommy’s been hurt and she can’t be with you right now.”

“I don’t want her to go away. I want her to come back.”

“I know,” Anna said.

She’d lost her own mother to cancer when she was about his age. Remembered the feeling of helplessness, the disbelief. The ache.

“Bring her back,” the boy cried, then flew into Anna’s arms again, pressing his face against her chest, sobbing uncontrollably.

Anna held him, wishing she had a magic wand she could wave to make his pain vanish. But she had learned long ago that there was no magic in this world. There were no miracles. No do-overs.

Dead was dead and resurrection was the thing of fairy tales.

Anna’s biggest failing as a federal agent was her tendency to become emotionally involved in a case. She knew it could only lead to trouble-and certainly had in San Francisco-but she never hesitated to allow herself to empathize with the victims of crime. If a situation called for her to be a friend, a confidante, or even a surrogate mother, she was more than happy to fulfill that need.

If she had a calling, that was it. Which sometimes prompted her to think she should have continued with her education, rather than allow herself to get sidetracked into law enforcement.

She might be better off now, if she had.

Might even be sane.

As the boy cried against her chest, she pulled him close, rocked him, and quietly sang her favorite lullaby, the song her mother had sung to her nearly every night of her life before she was too weak to sit up:

Every little star

Way up in the sky

Calls me

Heaven in my heart

Wishing I could fly

Away

Drift off to sleep