Sierra Woods - The Resurrectionist

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The next morning, I felt as if someone beat the hell out of me when I wasn’t looking. Obviously, I hadn’t had enough meat yesterday. This girl needs loads of protein just to function in a normal manner. Well, my normal anyway. My stomach roars to life the second my eyes open. Dammit. I am so ruled by my appetite.

The life-swap had taken way longer than it should have last night, and as a result I was more ragged out than usual this morning. Having Sam present for the rituals obviously makes a difference, so I’m going to have to make sure he’s not out dancing naked under the full moon for the next one. My energy stores last only so long and must be replenished frequently.

After a shower I put on some jeans and a black T-shirt. The crystal amulet on a chain never leaves my neck (a little gift from the other-siders), so I tucked it inside the shirt. They didn’t give me direction on the crystal, but just said it was a source of power. Maybe it wards off bacteria, too, ’cause I haven’t been sick since I began wearing it. I tugged on scarred black cowboy boots I wouldn’t give up for anything and shoved a pair of sunglasses over my burning eyes. When I’m depleted of nutrients, my eyes turn funny colors. Scared a waitress half to death the first time that happened, hence the shades.

Coffee sustains me in my hour of need, which is every bloody hour of the day, so I swing by the coffee shop for a couple of those gallon-size coffee boxes. I keep one and share the other with the cops in the office.

They love me.

And I love ’em right back. They’re the good guys in blue. Entirely too many of them have lain down their lives for others and not been returned to this plane. My never-ending project is getting a few of them back on the force and sending their killers to the nebula instead of a cushy jail cell for twenty-to-life. Two good cops had been killed a few years back by a psych patient, and it’s been a high-profile case ever since. The venue for the trial had to be changed several times because there was such a public outcry on both sides. Fortunately, the cops have been on ice in my cryo lab since their deaths in anticipation of future resurrection, but I don’t know when, if ever, it’s going to get straightened out. Figuring out the legalities of this case still gives me a headache.

Can the mentally ill who murder be considered for life-swaps? Do they have real quality of life as they exist now? If not, then I’d like to play swap-a-cop for this particular bad boy. But how is one to know?

That’s the part that has always given me pause and a lump in my gut that won’t go away with an antacid. Truly mentally ill people may or may not be held responsible for their actions, no matter how heinous. If that’s the case, then I could not in good conscience perform a life-swap with this afflicted man and the two cops, no matter how much people begged. My personal moral code wouldn’t allow me to proceed. As far as I know, there are no Resurrectionists Guidelines to refer to in this kind of case.

Psychiatrists will fight to the death to defend either side of the fence, which leaves me sitting in the middle of it with splinters up my ass. So that’s where we sit until someone more important than me makes a decision. I’ve been trying to get the court to pass some new legislation that will speed up the decision, but so far I’m having no luck getting them even to look at it.

These are the issues we resurrectionists ponder every day. They may never be solved in my lifetime, however long that is, but I’ve got to try. Something won’t allow me to walk away from a situation I might be able to help with. Maybe it’s the way I’m made or part of being a resurrectionist. Others in my situation have few answers, either. Those of us who have heard the battle cry for resurrections always feel alone, even though there is a small group of support available.

“Hey, Dani.” A deep voice that gives me shivers at night got my immediate attention. Though I could have just sighed and listened to him talk, I have a reputation to uphold. Tough chicks aren’t just born. They’re cultivated.

It’s a lot of work.

“Hey, Sam, what’s up?” I usually leave the door propped open with a large piece of petrified wood, about the size of a bowling ball, I had found in my yard. Here in the desert, the stuff’s everywhere, and someday when he’s being a butt head (and you know he will be no matter how hot he is now), I’ll probably have to clobber him with it.

“Just reviewed your notes on the cop-killer case.” He held several files in one hand that contained my attempts to outline the legislation. In his other hand was a cup of coffee I’d brought. See? Bringing coffee is a good thing, no matter what it costs my budget. Makes for good relationships with smart men who carry big guns. Here was one with a 9 mil on his hip, and he ain’t afraid to use it. That’s yummy, in my book.

“Take a seat and tell me what you think.” Although I have my suspicions, I want to hear it from him. My powers don’t extend to mind reading, but I know Sam pretty well, and he’s giving off a negative vibe. Could be his years as an army Ranger, though. He’s one tough dude. That makes him a good resource for me, but he’s hell on relationships.

With a sigh he sat and parked the files on my desk. “I’m not a lawyer, but I don’t think they’re going to make a decision. At least not yet. The public isn’t ready for it.”

“Yeah.” Running my hands through my hair is a habit, and one I engage in now. One I’ll probably regret down the line when I experience androgenic alopecia and there’s more hair in my brush than on my head. “I wish there was a way around this. It could be the start of something big here. I hate waiting for New York and California to set the bar, and then we catch up later.” I wanted this, bad. Not just for me and setting a precedent in New Mexico, but setting one for all resurrectionists. We need to know. The families of those we resurrect need it, too. I tried not to think of how badly the families of the cops needed it.

Sam’s dark, dark gaze roamed over my chest and lingered for a second before his attention returned to my face. Not that I dislike that sort of attention, especially from him, but we have bigger things to focus on than the bumps under my shirt.

He pushed the files back to my side of the ugly desk that was a recycle from the precinct. “Sorry, babe.”

You know, I’m a fully liberated woman, but for some reason, I don’t mind him calling me babe. Mostly because he does it with affection, and knows that if he ever gets in my pants we’ll set the desert on fire. If anyone else tries it, I’ll rip their tongue out. Sometimes the sparks between Sam and me are visible at night. In a graveyard. Woo-hoo. How romantic is that?

“Thanks for taking a look at it.” Trying not to be disgusted and impatient, I shoved the file into a drawer.

“Did you get any sleep last night?” He’s got dark, dark eyes that don’t miss much. Of course the bags under my eyes are probably as big as sopaipillas and just as puffy.

“Some. I never get enough.” Never, never enough rest. Someone needs to invent a pill to replenish lost sleep. I’ll buy stock in the company.

“Did you eat this morning?” He was starting to get bossy, which I didn’t like. I’d gotten out of a controlling relationship with my ex-husband. I didn’t need a lecture from Sam. Having been born the oldest in a house full of women, he was born bossy. They let him get away with entirely too much and ruined him for any other women, hence his track record of disastrous relationships.

I shrugged, noncommittal. Something I learned from him. “Yep. The usual.”

Sam grinned. The man has a smile that could set me on fire. I must resist. “You’re the only woman I know who has steak for breakfast.”