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From: writerzblocked@aol.com (Writerzblocked)
Subject: {ASSM} Harry Long, Psychic Detective 7 (mc)
Date: Wed, 20 Jun 2001 18:10:05 -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.  

WARNING - This chapter is pretty rude, including snuff and pedo, but, like the
rest of the series, not terribly graphic.


*******************************

CHAPTER 7

"What the hell are you talking about, old man?"
"I just thought that maybe..."
"Maybe nothing!  All Knox said is that I've got to get YOU back to Houston."
"I know.  But I thought that maybe you could use a little break. Surely, Agent
Garza could..."

You'd think that 30 years of being around some of the best intelligence types
our country had to offer would have given me some insight into the way federal
agents work, but I was getting desperate now.  And Nancy wasn't biting.

"Oh, yeah, like THAT'S the right thing to say, Harry.  You know how much this
case means to me, hell, what did we spend the last two hours talking about?"
"I know, but that was before..."
"Before what?"

Oops. Damn, what the hell was I thinking?  

"Ooh, before I learned the particulars."
"As in what?  You didn't give us a whole lot more than we already knew.  And if
you're holding something back, you know it's only going to make me press that
much harder."

Of course.  Why would I think otherwise?  It was very hard to keep from
smiling. Almost as hard as it was keeping control of this particular
conversation...

"No, not anything important. Just that, well, imagining the carnage and
actually seeing it are two different things.  It's a terribly messy case."
"Of course, but hardly dangerous.  We've already got the suspects in custody,
if what you say is true.  It's just a matter of making the case."

Couldn't argue that, without giving away too much.  Oh, well, it was worth a
try.  I sighed heavily.

"OK.  I know when I'm beat.  If you feel that strongly about it, I can catch a
bus and you won't even have to take the time off to drive me back."

I could tell she was thinking about it.  But, not too long.

"Well, Knox pretty much told me to make sure you got back. And I wouldn't feel
right if I didn't spend at least a little more time with you..."

I shrugged.  "Nonsense.  You've been right all along.  You're not going to get
this kind of opportunity again and if you don't jump on it now..."

"No.  I'd hardly score any points if I disobeyed a direct order."
"Who's to know?  You could just drop me off at the bus station."
"I'd know, Harry.  Besides, we haven't had much time to talk..."
"You could give me a call or IM me - as you know, I'm online almost all the
time..."
"...and I've been meaning to visit the VA Cemetery..."

She added the last almost as an afterthought.  Almost embarrassing, actually,
because it was something I'd been meaning to do for over a year now and I lived
in the damned city.  There was a momentarily stillness.

"Yeah," I said finally.  "OK.  It's probably something I need to do too."
"Last time I was there, they hadn't watered. The grass was dying."
"Probably because of the drought.  Water rationing."
You're probably right. I'd forgotten about that.  Still, they deserve better."

Again, there was that silence.  The good kind, this time.  Nancy's left hand
absentmindedly went to her hair and she started playing with the curls. 
Brought back another of those memories.  Again, the good kind this time.

"She used to do that."
"What?"
"Play with her hair when she was daydreaming.  It wasn't quite as curly as
yours, but she kept it longer. We used to tease her by calling her Frieda,
after the girl in the Peanuts strip."
"And I bet she hated it - the teasing, I mean."
"Just like you do, darling. Just like you do." I smiled. "But then, it wouldn't
be any fun otherwise."

She sat down at the foot of the bed.  "I wish there were more pictures."
"I know.  But they were pretty private people, and just about everything was in
the house..."
"Yeah, I know."
"Well, OK, not everything." I put the emphasis on the latter, enough to get her
to look up.  "Lucky for me."
She half-smiled, but I still missed the toothy one.  "Lucky for me too, eh?"
"So I guess that makes us both lucky."

Ugh. Now I remember why I don't like to have these kinds of talks. She glanced
at her watch.

"Well, I guess I'd better swing by the room and pick up the rest of your
things.  Give me about an hour or so."
I reached for the remote control.  "Will do. That'll give me just enough time
to see what kind of freaks are on the talk shows this afternoon."

As soon as the door closed behind her, I put the remote down and reached for
the phone.  The problem with hospital phones is that everything goes through an
operator and that just doesn't work well when you're trying to be discreet.  Or
devious.  Figuring on finding some pay phones in the lobby, I left the bed and
went to the closet. 

If someone upstairs is keeping karmic track of timing, I figure I've got a
lifetime of good breaks ahead, because I've certainly been on the bad end the
first part of my lifetime.  Hadn't even gotten both legs in my jeans when I
heard the knock on the door.  The damned ER in this hospital probably hadn't
seen as much traffic today as my room.  

"Just a moment!"  I screeched as I hopped into the other leg, suddenly
remembering why the other me went through his life 24-7 in his PJs.  Changing
clothes is just too damned inconvenient if you've got no one to impress.

Having finally conquered my wardrobe, I stumbled over to the door, only to find
that I went through my tortured quick-change routine for no one in particular.
The hallway was empty, save for a small package on the floor.  It was wrapped
in plain brown wrapping paper, and a handwritten note lay under it.  30-odd
years of being around intelligence types of one kind or another was enough to
make me hesitate to pick up anonymous packages, but I did slide the note out
from under it.

HARRY,

HERE IS SOMETHING I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT FIND INTERESTING. I HOPE YOU ENJOY IT AS
MUCH AS I DID.

RO

I searched my brain for anyone with those initials, but came up empty.  I
didn't want to handle the package, but the possibility of nurses or patients
walking by and being tempted bothered me more.  So, using the bedpan from my
room, I pushed it inside and closed the door.  Unfortunately, the wrapping was
loose and not taped and this process caused most of it to come apart to reveal
the barrel of a gun.  

Right away, I cursed myself for being thoughtful and courteous and mindful of
the safety of others.  Or I would have if I could have.  I mean, any nurse or
patient would have simply called the police and that would have been that.  

But not Harry Long. No, he had to go through hell for the third time in one
day. 

Damned meds.

Slender fingers spun the revolver. She raised it to her habit, looking down the
chamber as she slipped the lone bullet into place.

A nun with a gun.

Having been an altar boy in my early days, I've seen and experienced a lot of
perversions of the faith - both sanctioned and not - but Sister Catherine and
Archbishop Delgado were really in the middle of something extraordinarily
detestable here.  

I used to doubt the authenticity of my particular gift (or curse) earlier in my
life, but had come to settle into a sort of comfortable acceptance after a
time.  As a perverse parlor game, some of the more dubious lab testers would go
off behind closed doors somewhere and twist and pinch rubber bands around one
of their fingers or toes and dare me to point out the offending digit to them
by glancing at the band for a moment or two, sometimes going so far as to tell
me they'd only done it once or twice when they'd, in fact, mangle their entire
hands or feet in an effort to confuse me.  After a while, I'd refuse, of
course, and a few times they'd lied about it, but, by and large, I was pretty
much certain what I'd seen was real and as accurate as if I'd witnessed the
events in real time.  So, the deaths of Delgado and Catherine were real, I was
sure.  

So this...event must have occurred before the other. Had I seen this one
before, though, I think maybe I'd have begun to doubt my ability in earnest
again - that's exactly how unreal, how utterly, disgustingly cruel and hideous
this one seemed. 

The chamber was dimly lit, darkness broken only by a few well-placed candles
arranged about the room.  I'd seen sacristies earlier in my life, of course,
and times may have changed them over the 40 or so years I was last in one, but
that's what this appeared to be. Catherine was smiling, standing tall over the
others, the gun passing from one hand to the other.  Delgado appeared to be
fidgeting with his robes, cleanly purple and gold again, moving his hands
slowly and deliberately beneath them.  On the floor, I could see several shapes
positioned around the room, each moving slowly in their plain, virginal white
robes.  None of the boys could have been more than 14 years old.  

Slowly but steadily, the memories started creeping back from the dark corners
of my brain.  This was oddly familiar, yet confusing.  It was like this, but
unlike.  Father Carmichael was not here.  Delgado was here.  And
Catherine...and the laughter.

Somewhere, outside and far away, my stomach locked up and my bowel and bladder
emptied. But still it didn't stop.

Catherine bent down with one hand and placed the weapon beneath the robes of
the short blonde one.  Again, the revolver spun.  Obscenely, her hand worked in
and out, in rhythm with the boy's hands.  Up and down.  In and out. 

Up and down.  In and out.  Somewhere, nearby, Delgado grunted. 

In obvious ecstasy, the blonde one cried out finally, but not loud enough to
mask the click of the trigger.  

Catherine raised the gun up to her lips and licked the barrel clean, her free
hand roaming sordidly beneath her own black gown.  Nearby, Delgado grunted once
again.   And the laughter again.

The nun fell to her knees and kissed the now-sleeping boy full on the lips, her
tongue probing in and out.  After a moment or two, still on her knees, she
moved to the boy on her left and likewise locked her lips to his, her left hand
moving down to guide his hands under his robe.  Together, the three hands moved
as one.  Slowly, deliberately, her head moved down the boy's body until it
rested just above the hands, still rocking back and forth.  Again the revolver
spun and the barrel eased under and in.

In and out.  Back and forth.  Catherine's hand left the boy and returned to
it's place beneath her gown.  Her head lifted and her eyes closed.  Again,
Delgado grunted.

Suddenly, the boy's eyes opened wide and his legs shot straight out as if a
hellish iron had laid his body flat from the pressure and heat, and he let
loose with an anguished cry no doctor will ever be able to remove from my head.
 And the memories returned, all at once, and I heard the laughter, stronger and
more clear than ever.  And I knew.  I KNEW.

It was then I awoke, alone in the hospital room, laying flat on my back,
stinking from my body's betrayal.  But that wasn't important.  What was
important was that yet another innocent was dead.

And the laughter finally had a name.


"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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