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Message-ID: <30989asstr$993071402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: writerzblocked@aol.com (Writerzblocked)
Subject: {ASSM} Harry Long, Psychic Detective 2  (mc)
Date: Wed, 20 Jun 2001 17:10:02 -0400
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Copyright by Writerzblocked, 2001.  All rights, well, you know. Repost and
archive to your heart's content, just don't charge anyone for it or I'll have
to send Harry after you. You all know the rest of the drill by now.  I'm not
big on headers and/or labels, so anyone reposting may feel free to add whatever
MF, MM, FF stuff they think is necessary.  



CHAPTER 2

I opened an eye, only to be greeted by the ungainly sight of telephone poles
whizzing by.  I must have moved a bit, because she immediately turned to look
at me.

"Oh, so you're finally awake."
"Not by choice, I assure you.  Be a good little girl and let me have another
pill."
"Oh, no, we're about halfway there and we've got to clean you up a bit."
"I don't know if that's a good idea..."
"Relax.  There's a small town up ahead that has a barber shop and general
store.  It won't take more than fifteen minutes."

I ran my hand through my hair and wondered how long it had been since the other
me had it cut.  Nurse Whale must've gotten rid of the Rip Van Winkle beard and
mustache while I was asleep in the hospital.  I wonder if she'd used a straight
razor.  It must have been awful tempting...  I was pondering the new me
reflected back at me in the window glass when I noticed the first one.  

Damn. 

"You know the absolute worst thing about traveling on the interstate system?" 
"No, what?"
"The crosses."
"Eh?
"Those damned little white crosses."
"What?"

I tried to close my eyes again, to go back to sleep.  I used to be able to
sleep really well in a moving vehicle - hell, sometimes that's the only time I
had the time to sleep - but my body wouldn't let me at the moment.  Probably
had something to do with the fact I'd only been awake about six hours over the
past two days.  

"You mean those roadside memorial markers?"
"Yeah."

She took her eyes off the road momentarily to glance over at me and adjusted my
seat belt like I was a little kid.

"Well, just don't look at them."
"It doesn't work that way, unfortunately.  All it takes is a glimpse out of the
corner of my eye."  So, I stretched the truth a little.  Anything to go back to
sleep for the rest of this trip.  But she wasn't buying.

"Well, if it bothers you that much, you can lay down in the back seat and stare
at the roof."

OK, that didn't work. So I tried another approach.

"Take those over there," and I pointed to two of them about a quarter mile
ahead on the right shoulder.  "A shiny wheel semi and a mini-van.  Two kids, a
5-year old cutie by the name of Mary and her infant brother, Zachary Philip
Jones.  Her pretty red head was found about ten yards to the right, just by
that large telephone pole.  Little Zac wasn't in his child seat and his mother
was riding with the windows down and..."

"OK, Harry, enough.  You can be a fucking bastard, you know that."
"Hey, something we can finally agree on.  Now give me a pill."

She was starting to waver.  If I pressed now, maybe...  But no.  An amazing
girl, Nancy.  I'm just really glad she's never managed to figure out exactly
how amazing...

Instead, she slowed the car down as we approached the next exit.  "Here we are.
 As soon as we're finished here, I'll give you a damned pill if you still want
one."

I'd made the trip between Houston and San Antonio a few times, but I'd never
managed to stop in Flatonia.  It's a nice enough little diversion, I suppose,
and "little" being the key word here.  Being afternoon, though, I imagine we'd
run into a good number of people - unfortunately.  She kept driving down the
highway we exited until we got just outside of the town proper and pulled into
a small rustic general store with a barber pole outside.  There was only one
other car in the dirt lot - a Ford Pinto - and it didn't look like it had been
driven in over 20 years.  Maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all.  

Inside the store - it actually had one of those actual bells that rang when you
entered - I noticed only one other person, a fiftyish, balding gentleman in
overalls sweeping up the floor.  He looked up as we entered.

"Hey, Agent Grummond, what brings you back here?  Not another witness, is he?"
"No, George, not this time."
"Good.  Marion's out of town for the week, so we couldn't put him up anyway."
"Quite all right, George.  All he needs is a haircut.  And I need to buy him
some food for a few days."

I looked at her sideways.  "Hey, wait a minute.  We agreed one day to San
Antonio and one day back.  I've got to get back..."
She rushed me over to the barber chair.  "We'll talk about this in the car,
Harry."
"No, we'll talk about it now, damn it!  A deal is a deal.  I'm not one of your
fucking moron suits that you can fucking push around whenever..."

"Hey, now, you just leave that language outside my store, whoever you are!" 
George was gripping his broom handle like Bobby Hull going in for a slap shot. 
"I don't know what kind of thing you two have going, but I run a proper shop
here..."

"Shut the fuck up, George!" I glared at him.  "This doesn't concern you."

I dunno if it was Nancy's hard slap across my raw face or my sudden realization
that, behind her, George was standing there with pained expression, eyes
dropped to the floor, tongue swirling aimlessly around in his mouth, which
brought me back.  I grabbed one of Nancy's arms and pulled her toward the chair
with me as I sat down.

For an awkward moment, I could feel she didn't know what to think, which was
probably just as well.  Maybe she was trying to decide if she should slap me
again, or maybe she was just realizing exactly how bad an idea it was dragging
me out here.  In any case, it gave me the time to do what I needed to do.

"Jesus, I'm sorry, Nancy," I stammered, as I put my hands partly across my face
and concentrated.  "I'm just...tired."

I dunno if she bought it or not, but after another second or two, I figured it
wouldn't matter.  After continuing to glare at me for a few moments, she turned
to George and softened.  

"I really must apologize, Mr. Cramer.  He's not been...well, lately."   

"Oh, it's quite all right,  Miss Grummond."  George was smiling brightly and
finishing up his sweeping.  "I just don't cotton to that kind of talk around
here. Don't even let Marion get away with it."  
"I'm glad you understand, Mr. Cramer," I ventured.
"Oh, think nothing of it, sir.  I've had fits of temper myself from time to
time..." he smiled, carefully setting his broom in a corner behind the big
chair.  "Mostly," he added with a smile, "on Sundays when the Cowboys aren't
playing too good."

God, it must be nice when all you've got to worry about is how your damned
football team does.  

Luckily for all of us, Nancy and I got out of there without any major problems.
 Cramer didn't give a bad haircut and he kept the conversation to a minimum,
which, though probably bad for his business, certainly worked out for him this
time.  And Marion might be pleasantly surprised the next time she lets loose
with a few ill-chosen words...

Speaking of unpleasantries, Nancy was kind enough not to drop the bomb on me
until the groceries were loaded and we were safely in the car. 

"What the hell was that all about, old man?  I swear you go out of your way to
piss people off."
"Hey, what can I say?  It's a gift.  And everyone leaves me alone."

She started the engine and started to pull out, trying her best to kick up as
little dust as possible, since Cramer had come out to see us off.  "Sometimes I
wonder if you have a conscience at all."

Looking back, I waved good-bye to George, still smiling the good smile.  "Hey,
I was raised Catholic.  I'm nothing BUT conscience."

"Speaking of Catholic," I spoke sideways to her as we headed back toward town,
"when were you going to tell me I was going to be held captive for more than
one day on this case?  The agreement was I'd read the murder weapons and you'd
drive me back home the same day."

"OK, so I lied.  It might not be that simple.  The reading in itself won't be
admissible, so we'd need corroborating evidence. Which means you might have to
read more than the knives.  Hopefully, you'll clue into something else from the
murder weapons that will give us more leads.  Ultimately, we might need to try
and sneak you into the crime scene and I don't know how long any of this will
take."

"Wonderful.  Haven't you been able to do anything on your own?"

"As I told you initially, this is a very bizarre case.  None of the suspects
claim to remember anything from the night before the murder until the day
after.  Strangely enough, the powers-that-be in the Church actually believe
them, though all the evidence points in their direction.  The knives came from
the convent's kitchen, they had access to the crime scene, and everyone else
with access have pretty solid alibis.  Unfortunately for us, someone ordered a
cleanup before calling the police, so the knives are really the only real
physical evidence we have."

"You'd think if they all did it together, they'd be their own alibis. 
Certainly makes as much sense as claiming amnesia."

"Pretty much what I thought.  The Church refuses to let them take polygraph
tests and have hired lawyers.  Personally, I think they ought to hire shrinks
instead.  Four very messed up nuns.  I'm surprised they didn't claim the devil
made them do it."

She kind of smirked at the last, but I didn't join her.  I've been cozy with a
few devils myself.

Just before we got back to the interstate, she unexpectedly turned into a gas
station.  Wonderful.

"Need gas.  You can stay in the car if you want."
"I plan to."

It's amazing how busy even these ratty service stations can get when they're
right off an interstate highway.  This one looked like it'd been here since
before the four-laner was built, yet there were easily twice as many cars here
as at the newer, humongous GasMart on the other side of the highway.  Just my
luck. 

I was staring at the slightly crooked lamp post (a white Ford F-250 had
rear-ended it, resulting in one minor head injury and a failed lawsuit) in one
corner of the lot, when a Jeep Wrangler with the top down pulled up to the pump
beside us.  In the passenger seat sat a petite blonde siren wearing a yellow
tube top and faded jeans.  She had an open can of beer in one hand and was
playing with the car stereo with the other.  Driving the vehicle was - and I'm
almost guessing here - a woman, sporting a buzz cut and wearing a flannel shirt
and jeans.  Topped off by a cowboy hat, she also had an open can of beer in her
hand as she stepped out of the car and up to the pump.  I've seen my share of
(and, again, I'm guessing here) lesbian couples in my time, so that part didn't
bother me much, but the fact that the blonde had adjusted the volume of the
stereo up as loudly as the thing was capable of was starting very much to annoy
me.  She (if not both of them) were obviously drunk.

I turned to look for Nancy, but these pumps were so antiquated that they didn't
allow for pump payment, so she had evidently gone inside to take care of the
bill.  Meanwhile, I continued to be assaulted by what sounded to be Johnny
Cash's evil female grandchild (figuratively, of course), accompanied by
twanging guitars from hell, all cranked up to the Nth degree.  At the very risk
of my aural health, I brought my window down and attempted to yell at the woman
to get her attention.  OK, so maybe it wasn't the nicest way to do it, but it
got the desired affect.  She stopped fiddling with the dial long enough to look
at me in a puzzled sort of way, kind of like a puppy might look at you when you
told it to stop chewing on your favorite slipper.  Unfortunately, it also drew
the attention of her companion, who really didn't look so much like a pup
anymore. From across the island, she glared at me, still holding that can of
beer like a trophy.

"You got a problem with something?!!" she yelled (she had to yell, you
understand, because Johnny's grandkid was still screaming at the top of her
lungs).  Then she took another swallow.  How anyone, even Texans, can be drunk
before noon, is something I may never understand. 

I shook my head and brought the window back up.  Nope.  No problem at all.  

Evidently proud of her defense of her companion (not to mention bad country
music) the big one leaned over the door of the jeep and gave the blonde a
passionate kiss on the lips.  Showing her gratitude,  the blonde not only
returned the kiss, but tugged at the flannel shirt, and with strength beyond
her size, roughly pulled her into the back seat of the vehicle. A moment later,
the cowboy hat came flying out of the back seat.  After two pairs of boots, two
pairs of jeans, and two empty beer cans later, Nancy finally got back and
started up the car.

"Sorry it took so long.  Seems like everyone in the county's here today."
"Oh, if they aren't, they probably will be," I sighed in a low voice.
"What?" she asked, struggling to hear over the music, which was as loud as
ever. 
"Oh, nothing important."
"Geez, where is that awful music coming from?"

I pointed to the jeep next to us, but all we could see from our vantage point
were two sets of legs moving around like swizzle sticks in a badly mixed drink.
 "I dunno, I'm getting kind of used to it."

As the car made its way out of the lot, Nancy couldn't help but look back at
the jeep, which was now drawing a modest crowd.  "Geez, people, get a room."

Several miles and minutes later, the sleeping pill took affect and I drifted
off.  Damned if I didn't hear country music...


"Write what you want, how you want, and don't worry about the rest of the
world.  If you do it long enough, eventually they'll catch up."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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