M Sellars: Love Is The Bond

“You…” the rest of the sentence was nothing more than a squeaky garble as she yawned again.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to wait up,” she said in a far more intelligible fashion.

“I missed you.”

“How sweet.”

“Okay, it’s a little early, so before this gets any mushier, what’s up with this call?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I thought this whole thing was supposed to be for the specialized stuff.”

“Or emergencies.”

“You never told me that part.”

“I didn’t?”

“No.”

“Must have slipped my mind then.”

“Yeah,” I grunted. “So this is an emergency?”

“Apparently.”

“How so?”

“Flu epidemic.”

“Yeah, that’s old news. What does it have to do with this?”

“Crime scene technicians get the flu too.”

“All of them?” I asked with a note of disbelief.

“The ones who know how to use a camera it seems. There’s a bit more to it than taking a few point-and-shoot snapshots you know.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Anyway, Ben said they were short-staffed across the board.”

“But, still, it’s a bit quick to be calling you out, don’t you think?” I pressed. “Didn’t they have anyone more experienced on the list?”

“Aye, this is really getting under your skin, isn’t it then?”

“No.”

“ Cac capaill, ” she mumbled.

“I heard that,” I said in reply to her under-the-breath Gaelic epithet. “And, where I come from we say ‘bullshit’.”

“Horse shit works too.”

“Okay. Yeah, so I’m not excited about it. But you already knew that. Even so, that didn’t answer my question.”

“You mean about experience? I guess. Maybe,” she replied, and I could almost hear the shrug in her voice. “Ben said he called four others before he got to me. I can’t help it that I’m the only one who answered the phone.”

“You didn’t.” I corrected her over my shoulder as I carefully filled the travel mugs. “I did.”

“Minor detail.”

“Oh yeah? Next time I’ll just let the machine get it.”

“I’ll only hit you harder.”

“Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?”

“Aye.”

I plopped a trio of raw sugar cubes into one of the mugs then screwed the lid tightly onto it before continuing. “So you’re telling me no one else answered?”

“That’s what Ben said.”

“Lucky you.”

“Aye. Lucky me.”

I stepped through the doorway and nudged Felicity’s arm with the metal and plastic vessel. She looked up from the street guide she was intently studying and turned her head toward me.

“Here,” I said. “This might help get rid of the accent.”

She looked at me and simply shook her head then accepted the proffered mug and immediately took a swig. In a quick motion, she held it back toward me at arm’s length. “Needs sugar.”

“It’s in there,” I told her as I turned and headed back into the kitchen. “Just give it a good swirl.”

“You didn’t stir it?” she called after me.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You’re in a hurry, right? Besides, why dirty up a spoon?”

I heard her let out a heavy sigh. “How many then?”

“Three.”

“This is a big cup. It needs at least five. Maybe six or seven.”

“You’re sweet enough already. You got three.”

“Hah hah” was her exaggerated reply.

“So, do you have everything you need?” I asked, coming back out of the kitchen with my own mug of the brew. I had already donned my coat, and now I peered at her over the rim of my cup as I took a drink.

“Where are you going?” she asked after sizing me up.

“With you.”

“Why?”

“Because I ‘find it interesting’.”

“Rowan…” she huffed. “I’ll be fine. I can do this without you.”

I reached down to pick up the larger of the two camera cases she had sitting on the table then slung it over my shoulder and headed for the door.

“I know you will, and I never said you couldn’t.” I stopped in the living room and turned back toward her. “So… Are you driving or am I?”

My wife rolled her eyes at me then muttered, “Damned Pisces.”

“Damned Taurus,” I replied with a grin.

She simply sighed again and shook her head. A moment later she took hold of the other equipment bag, hefted it onto her own shoulder, then started forward and brushed past me while saying, “Aye, we’ll take my Jeep. I think I’ve got some sugar packets in the glove box.”

“Heya, Felicity,” Ben called out, nodding toward my wife as he put himself through the excessive gyrations necessary to slip his bulk beneath a bright yellow strip of crime scene tape. “Sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out like this.”

“It’s no problem, then,” she returned.

Once he’d unfolded his frame, he continued walking toward us. “Jeez,” he continued. “We’ve never had anything like this happen before. I had ta’ make five calls just ta’ get the okay ta’ bring in a freelancer.”

“That bad, huh?” she queried as he came to a stop in front of us.

“Yeah. We’re so fuckin’ short-staffed it’s a wonder some asshole hasn’t stolen the entire city,” he grumbled. “And now this. Shit, if this whole scene wasn’t such a cluster, I’d just stick a camera in someone’s hands and have ‘em take snapshots. I’m really sorry I had ta’ call ya’ out on this.”

“Aye, Ben, it’s okay. Not a problem,” Felicity repeated.

He abandoned seriousness for a moment and allowed his face to spread into a slight grin. “Damn, I love it when ya’ do the accent.”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Ben,” my wife quipped. “I don’t have an accent. You do.”

He chuckled and then leveled his gaze on me. “So, what the hell are YOU doin’ here, white man?”

“Nice to see you too,” I replied.

Homicide Detective Benjamin Storm stood six-foot-six, and a quick glance at him was enough to show he was no stranger to the weight room. He was casually dressed as usual, clad in a pair of faded denim jeans and a loose-fitting, charcoal grey, fisherman’s sweater. His gold shield was hanging around his neck on a thick cord, and his nine-millimeter Beretta was nestled beneath his left arm in a worn, leather shoulder rig.

Now that he was close enough for us to see his face, it was obvious that he’d probably been dragged out of his own slumber just as unceremoniously as had we. Still, even with his rumpled appearance, he made an altogether imposing figure. Of course, it probably didn’t help that at this particular moment the three of us were standing here in the oblique shadows of a motel parking lot watching our breath condense on the chilly breeze.

Harsh red and white splashes of brightness flickered across the scene from active light bars atop emergency vehicles, their on and off glare lending a patina of chaos to what would seem an otherwise somber night. The familiar background din of static and tinny voices prevailed from police radios, running the gamut of low range volumes.

Although Ben had recently begun to show a minor bit of greying, he still possessed a collar length helm of almost completely jet-black hair. That, his complexion, and his dark eyes combined with his rugged features to leave no doubt as to his full-blooded Native American heritage. If any doubt still existed, however, the nickname he had just tagged me with was a direct product of that history as well.

We’d been friends longer than I cared to remember, and the tongue-in-cheek banter had been a part of our dynamic almost from the word go. I would call him “Chief”, “Tonto”, or even “Injun”. He would counter with “Kemosabe”, “white man”, or “paleface”. He even went so far as to give Hollywoodesque Indian names to Felicity such as “Firehair” or “Red Squaw”.