Sierra Woods - The Resurrectionist

“I tell you that kid is trouble.”

“How can a kid with his pants halfway down his ass be trouble?” I mean, really. Who takes a person like that seriously?

“You do have a point,” Sam said and watched as Burton skateboarded back to us.

“Later, dudes,” he yelled.

“See ya, Burton. Pull your damned pants up!” I called over the rush of the night. He raised his arm and flipped me off. Typical teenager. “He’s harmless.”

Sam shook his head, not convinced with my judgment of character. If he only knew how far I’d come, he wouldn’t question me now. “If you say so, but that’s the future of this country riding away on a piece of wood.”

If he only knew. Burton was a piece of the past trying to hold on to a future for the entire universe, and I was helping him. No wonder I was tired all the time.

“Let’s go.”

* * *

Two nights later we were back in Albuquerque. We had searched for two days before finding Roberto’s remains. It was a shame, too. All I could do was put what was left of this young boy on ice and see if we could figure out how to bring him back. The reverence that surged through me as I touched the small bones, placing them into the little cooler that would become his temporary coffin, surprised me. I pulled back and closed the lid as a wave of unwanted emotion washed over me. There was no time now for emotion.

The balance in this case was only partially restored. The crime had been committed, the criminal caught and the body recovered. Filberto was in a coma on life support with a significant brain injury and not expected to survive. I suppose that made my job easier. This was one case where a life-swap was certainly warranted, but the method by which to create the swap wasn’t in my hands yet. Paperwork and red tape. It all came down to who could argue better, your lawyer or theirs. I was betting on Liz, my little Chihuahua with the heart of a Rottweiler. All I had to do was wait.

I hate waiting.

* * *

Sometimes, I simply don’t understand the universe. Today is one of those days. Before I left the house, I spilled water three different times and in three different ways. That either meant something significant or my kitchen was more cluttered than I thought. But I made it in, coffee in hand, ready for all of the really important stuff I do around here.

I sat behind my desk trying not to laugh at the plight of the poor woman sitting across the desk from me. She could have been anyone’s auntie or grandmother, sitting there all prim and proper with her Sunday best on, and her glasses shoved pertly on her nose. There she sat, with pictures of Fluffy, her four-legged canine companion. Recently deceased. This wasn’t boding well for an improvement in my day.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Chapman, but I simply can’t help you.” Not entirely certain I would, even if I could. I wasn’t trying to be mean; it simply comes out of me that way sometimes.

“But you can do it. I know you can.” She held out a flier I had mistakenly made when I first started out. It was somewhat unclear, and I now regretted ever putting those pages together. One came back to haunt me now and then, and this was one of those times. Maybe this was where the spilled water came in. An omen. “It says so right here.” She shoved the thing across the desk to me.

“I know what it says, but this is old and the wording was poor. It doesn’t say that we life-swap animals.”

“It doesn’t say you don’t, either. I want my Fluffy back.” She was on the verge of tears, and I pushed a box of tissues toward her. Here we go again with the tears. “I’ll give you every last penny I have. My entire savings, if you’ll bring back my dog!”

“Please calm down, Mrs. Chapman, and take a few breaths.” I didn’t want to have her stroke out right in front of me, ’cause then I’d have to go back to nurse mode and do something heroic. I wasn’t in the mood. “Even though we know who killed your dog, in this case, Cesar, the Doberman next door, and you’ve kept Fluffy in your freezer, that doesn’t change anything. I simply don’t perform canine resurrections.” That was to the point and not quite as tactful as I could have made it, but the woman was wearing me down. I should have done it just to get her out of my office.

“It was my neighbor’s damned dog.” Her lips pressed tightly together. No love lost there. She’d run him down if she got the chance.

“Yes. Weren’t there numerous noise complaints made by that particular neighbor about Fluffy’s incessant barking?” I had the file in front of me and pushed that toward her, too. Not that she picked it up. She knew what was in it.

“It doesn’t justify murder. Fluffy was a terrier, and it’s part of the breed. Anyone who owns terriers accepts that.” She said it as if everyone in the world ought to know that terriers are barking maniacs. As everyone knows that fast food makes you fat. (Everyone knows that, right?)

“Yes, I know, but it doesn’t mean your neighbors do. And it still doesn’t give me the power to bring him back.” I stood. Fortunately, Mrs. Chapman took the hint. She gathered her tote bag against her middle as if it were a priceless object. The bag was about the right size for... Oh, gag. The smile on my face melted as another thought occurred to me. If she had Fluffy in there, I was gonna puke. After the last night I had, it wouldn’t take much. I was still trying to clean Filberto out of my brain. “If our conditions change, then I’ll be in touch.” I patted the file, indicating I had her contact information. I was going to shred it the second she left.

She nodded, didn’t say thank you, because she had nothing to thank me for. I wish she’d just go to the pound and get a replacement dog.

Kind of like boyfriends were for some women. When you lost one, you just went to the pound (the bar) and brought another one home. He could make you happy for a while, but may have a straying problem and some were better trained than others. There was just that pesky neutering issue...

I sat and dropped my head into my hands, closed my eyes and groaned.

“Tough day?” Sam asked from the doorway.

I didn’t even have to look up, but I did. “Understatement of the century.”

“Wanna go shoot something?” There was a grin hiding behind that well-controlled expression of his. There was a little secret behind his eyes, too, and I definitely wanted to know what it was. The temptation of having him around for so long was beginning to wear on my defenses.

“You got a new toy?” He’d mentioned something about it.

A twitch of the brows was all I got. Intriguing.

“Get me outta here before I shoot something I’m not supposed to.” I stood and grabbed my bag that was equally as large as Mrs. Chapman’s, but there was no frozen dog in it.

* * *

The firing range was a great place to let off some steam. It was a safe environment where no one was going to shoot back, and you could pound the hell out of a flimsy paper target. I love that.

Sam got out his new toy, and it was a doozy. A forty-five millimeter with a nice weight in the hand. I love a man with a smokin’-hot piece of...steel in his hands. Makes me shiver all over. Not that I’ll let Sam know that. Too many times in my past I let a man have control over me, and it is never, ever going to happen again. Control is something that is mine and mine alone. I don’t care how illusive it is. Denial has gotten me through many years of my life, so I don’t see a reason to stop using it now.

Now, I’ve gone through a number of weapons training courses, so I’ve shot many different kinds of weapons. Never stopped me from salivating over a new one, though. Kind of like some women are over shoes. It’s all about the accessories, right? Mine just happen to be loaded.