Friday Fiction for July 30, 2010

It’s my turn to host Friday Fiction this week, so look below for the Linky tool and the list of great stories for you this weekend.

One of my Faithwriters & Facebook friends, Tim George, posted a quote this week that went, “Faith-based fiction is nothing but pious platitudes and saccharine sweet fluff for people who want to be shielded from the realities of life.” (Note: this is not his opinion, but one he was sharing as part of an ongoing discussion) In many cases, that is what the main Christian publishing houses will accept for printing, but to categorize all Christian fiction or Faith-based fiction as bereft of the realities of life is itself patently unrealistic. Some of us seek to write stories that reflect not just characters trying to live the ideals we believe in, but in a realistic depiction of the world we live in. What encouragement can it be if our characters exist in a universe that lacks the situations real people deal with every day? The reader will think that, “Of course it’s easier for this character to live the Christian life – they live in a world modeled after a 1950s era Disney movie.” Evil exists in our world. The Bible showed it. The “heroes” of our faith through history have needed to live with it. We have to live with it. Our characters have to live with it, if we want our stories to not correspond with Tim’s quote.

This week’s chapter from “Precocious by Consent” is a look at a world that isn’t saccharine sweet fluff (and also offers a bit more insight into last week’s chapter).

Chapter 19

Wednesday morning

Sid looked at the two printouts arranged side-by-side on the desk in front of him. To the left, the Missing Person Report for eleven year old Elena Zazueta, last seen Halloween two years ago. To the right, the report for thirteen year old Rosalie Emerich, last seen Thanksgiving weekend of the same year that Elena had vanished. Early suspicions in Elena’s case had leaned towards non-custodial parent abduction, since her mother had vanished a couple of months before the daughter disappeared.

Rosalie had been classed a runaway, following reports that she and her parents had fought over her older online boyfriend that holiday weekend, after which she had stormed from the house. Attempts to find the boyfriend had gone nowhere, and a ten-thousand dollar reward had been posted by a community group for any information leading to her safe return. They should have noted if that online boyfriend was on Facenet. I bet he was playing her the whole time, just waiting for the occasion when she would be ready to call him to pick her up.

The coroner had almost instantly ruled out either girl for the identity of the body in the grave. The recovered victim was from African heritage, and they were still waiting to see if dental records would identify her. Did you think it was funny to leave us evidence of you being an “equal opportunity” serial killer?

Elena had been taken from Prescott, Arizona, while Rosalie had last been seen in Chandler, Arizona. The search to align the map found under the grave began from those locations, but there were other investigators working that project.

He made a phone call to the Phoenix office, passing along the information that the two missing girls were now believed to be linked to his investigation, and requesting renewed follow-up from that angle with the girls’ families and friends. Maybe if we dispel any romantic notion of two young lovers running away together, or a mother reclaiming her daughter, some of their friends will have something new and useful to tell us.

He hung up the phone, not envying the agents that would shortly be visiting the families. He’d had a similar visit with Lara Schumacher’s parents after learning the girl had been taken by the Facenet Killer. Hope tries to hold on, even as desperation takes over. There’s still a tiny chance she may get away, but we know it’s unlikely. Maybe he just gave us photos of two missing girls just to mess with us, but if these girls were still out there somewhere, he’d have to chance that we’d find them alive before finding this grave, and catch him in his bluff. It’s been a year and a half; if there’s anything left of these girls but bones, I’ll be surprised.

He had another call to make, and checked the note in his smartphone for the number.

The phone rang twice before it was picked up. “Hello?” a muted female voice answered.

“Is this Lloyd Timmons’ room?” he asked.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“This is Special Agent Powell with the FBI.”

“Oh, hello, Agent Powell. Yes, this is Lloyd’s room. My husband is asleep at the moment, though. Can I give him a message when he wakes up?”

“I was calling to see how he’s doing today, and to ask if he feels up to going over anything he might remember from Sunday night.”

“I don’t know how reliable anything he could tell you today might be. When I got here this morning, he was telling me about his visit with Ilsa last night.”

“Who’s Ilsa?”

“Ilsa was a murder victim he investigated a few years ago. When he first became a homicide detective, he started imagining conversations with the victims as some kind of mental aid in the investigation. Most of them, he stops having the conversations once the case is solved, but for some reason, he still imagines talking to Ilsa.”

“So, what was different about this one?”

“Ilsa had the same condition as Katya.”

“Hmm. I see. What was it about his ‘visit’ last night that leaves you concerned?”

“He told me she touched him, and even climbed onto the bed and went to sleep beside him, like a frightened child might with a parent. I’ve never heard him refer to anything but discussions with any other victim, and he never really had a problem differentiating between the fantasy and reality. This morning, he talked about her like she was really here.”

“Have you talked to his doctor about this?”

“He says it could be the pain medication. He said some people have very real-seeming dreams while on it, but that he was going to keep him under close observation for a few days, because it could also be a symptom of head injury from the explosion.”

“Okay,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I’m going to try and get by to see him today, but I’ll keep it a social visit for now. Is there anything we can do for you while he’s recovering?”

“The kids are here now, and are staying with me, so I think we have things pretty well covered, but thank you for offering. Right now, I think prayer is about the best thing anyone can do for us, so that’s all we’re really asking anyone else for.”

Yeah, I’ve been so impressed with how well prayer has been working on this case so far. “I’ll pass along the request. Don’t hesitate to call, though, if you see anyone that you think looks out of place, makes you feel suspicious, or you just need to have a little extra feeling of security close by. I’ll make sure someone gets there fast.”

“The Sunny Grove PD already has people watching the house and Lloyd’s room, though I don’t really think it’s necessary.”

“Keep my number handy anyway.”

“I will, Agent Powell. The nurse is here to check on Lloyd, so I need to get out of the way. I’ll tell him you called.”

“Thank you. You take care, Mrs. Timmons.”

“You, too, Agent Powell.”

He ended the call and looked around the room. How many of these people believe in prayer? Is it even worth passing along the request?

“Sid?”

He spun around in his chair to face his associate. “Got something?”

“We’ve pinpointed the map. It’s an area southwest of Chiriaco Summit, off Interstate 10 east of Indio.”

“How far are we talking?”

“It’s about one hundred and seventy miles from here. There’s a small airport at Chiriaco Summit, so we could cut some time that way, if you wanted.”

He shook his head. “I’m guessing we’ll need vehicles to get from the airport to wherever the map leads us, and I don’t believe at this point we’re going to accomplish much getting there an hour or two earlier.” He drew in a slow breath and released it. “Get the field team ready, and have the local authorities meet us someplace convenient. Let’s shoot for being on the road in a half-hour.”

“Yes, sir.”

He unclipped his tie, and dropped it in the desk drawer before calling his wife. Even if traffic was flowing smoothly all the way out of the metro area, they were still looking at three hours out and three hours back, plus whatever time it took to find and collect whatever evidence might be there. It’s going to be another long day.

Friday Fiction for July 23, 2010

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Christina B, at With Pen in Hand. Look for the Linky tool and the list of wonderful reading over there.

“Precocious by Consent” has crossed the 25,000 word mark, with loads of story left to write. Detective Lloyd Timmons was the main character in the first book, “Precocious by Design.” Lloyd uses a technique of imagining conversations with the victims of the crimes he’s investigating, and Ilsa was the deceased in the first story. These conversations take a strange twist in this chapter.

Chapter 18

Tuesday night

Lloyd only knew that it was late. Just how long after visiting hours had ended, he couldn’t tell. Faye had offered to bring him a talking clock, but he hoped he wouldn’t need to wear the bandages that much longer. The next time a nurse came in to check on him, he’d ask her the time – if he was still awake.

The medication they gave him dulled the pain, and he supposed that was an improvement over how he’d feel without the meds. His left pinky finger itched, which he found bizarre since said digit was no longer attached to his hand. There’s something just plain evil about feeling an itch, when there’s no place to scratch it.

Finding a comfortable position to try and sleep was an adventure in and of itself. There wasn’t any side of his body that didn’t hurt more with his weight pressing it against the mattress. You’d think they’d create a hospital bed that would accommodate injured bodies better.

You’d think an Army veteran and long-term police officer wouldn’t get half his hand blown off by an amateur bomb in a cheap stereo.

Sort of like how a professional performer leaves the train station with the wrong client and gets herself killed, Ilsa?

We all make mistakes, lieutenant. Mine cost me more, but look what it accomplished. What did yours accomplish?

It’s too early to tell, Ilsa. What might we have said yours accomplished that first few days after your murder?

It accomplished getting me inside your head, Lloyd. Why haven’t you let me go, like you have the other victims you’ve imagined talking to?

I don’t know. Maybe my pastor’s warnings are coming true, and I’m slipping from just imagining these conversations, into some form of psychosis.

Are you starting to believe I’m a real ghost haunting your mind?

Again, I don’t know. I can’t understand why I can still imagine talking with you, but I can’t get Celia or Lara to form in my mind the same way.

What do you think happens to us when you let us go?

I imagine you walking through a door into eternity, where your spirit is already residing anyway.

No one ever told me what waits for me in eternity, Lloyd. What can I expect when you let me go?

I believe our spirits will stand before God and be judged for the lives we’ve lived.

How do you think Lara and Celia will fare in judgment?

They were just young girls. I can’t imagine God condemning them for anything they might have done in life.

What about me? How will I fare?

Ilsa, I –

You don’t want to say it, do you? I was a prostitute. I did things you believe are morally wrong. Is this why you don’t want to let me go, Lloyd?

I still see you that way I first saw you. Even knowing what I know now, I can’t let go of that image of an innocent girl raped, murdered, and thrown away over the side of a freeway.

But I wasn’t an innocent girl, lieutenant. I was a prostitute that catered to men considered the most socially reprehensible deviants in society. What waits for me, Lloyd?

God is the Righteous Judge, Ilsa. Only He knows what waits for you.

If this is just an imaginary conversation, Lloyd, then why do you skirt my question so much? Is it so hard to put what you’re thinking anyways into words?

I’m afraid hell waits for you, Ilsa. I don’t want to let you go because I don’t want to think about you spending eternity in hell.

Ilsa formed in his mind, standing at the left side of his bed and looking at him. Maybe I stay around because I’m also afraid that hell waits for me. Of all the men I knew in my life, Lloyd, you were the only one that really cared about me, without regard to what you might get from me in return, even when you learned what kind of woman I truly was. Why?

Because once upon a time, I had a dream where I stood near Jesus, surrounded by men ready to stone a woman for adultery. As I watched, He knelt down and wrote out in the sand every sin I’d ever committed. He looked into my eyes for just a moment, and I had no doubt that He absolutely knew I was guilty of each and every thing He wrote. I moved away, like every other man in the group, until it was just Him and the woman standing there. He let the woman go without condemnation, and as I watched, He looked to me in the distance, saw my pain, and then with a single sweep of His foot, wiped out the entire list. When I think about that dream now, Ilsa, the face of the woman is yours.

She touched his two missing fingers. A dream like this one, Lloyd?

He shook his head. More real than this.

She climbed onto the bed and snuggled up against him, much as his own daughter had done when she was little. With great care, she wrapped his wounded hand in both of hers. Is it worth it, Lloyd?

Is what worth it?

You once asked me if the results made my death worth it; what about your hand? Are your injuries worth the results?

It will be, if my involvement in this case helps stop this killer.

Lloyd?

Yes, Ilsa?

When I dream about having a father, he has your face. I wish I’d grown up with a daddy like you.

I wish you had, too, Ilsa. Maybe then, we would have never had reason to meet.

Friday Fiction for July 16, 2010

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Joanne. Stay cool and comfortable at your computer, and head over to An Open Book for this week’s great reading.

When I started thinking about the plot for Precocious by Consent, one of the themes that occurred to me was Katya’s discovering what she had missed in her childhood. Those of us who were blessed with good parents and wonderful childhoods can easily take so much for granted, so I started wondering just what trivial things might seem so much more important to someone who had never had them.

For a reminder, Katya was born with a forced genetic condition called Paedomorphosis. Although she is an adult, she retains the physical size and general appearance of an adolescent girl. She has been recruited to help lure a serial killer into the open, and her undercover work involves having been placed with the Adamsons as a foreign orphan. Because the killer is very adept at ferreting out law enforcement posing as children on the internet, not even the Adamsons are aware she isn’t really a child.

Chapter 17

Tuesday evening

Katya followed the Adamsons through the large department store. Mom had decided a young woman needed a more diverse wardrobe than what little she had brought with her from Romania, or the couple of outfits they had already bought for her. Several pairs of jeans rested in the cart, a couple of dresses, a variety of blouses and shirts, socks, three pairs of shoes, two packages of panties, and three training bras.

Not that I will ever need to wear a bra. The only way my breasts will ever get any larger than they are now, is if I have them surgically enhanced.

“Let’s see,” Mom said. “You need a backpack for school, too, don’t you?” Without waiting for an answer, she steered the cart towards the luggage aisle.

Their path took them by the toy section, and Katya glanced down one aisle to see two younger girls excitedly browsing the Fancie dolls and accessories. I could have collected those silly dolls any time since the Agency was taken down, so why am I worried about it now? She hurried to catch back up with the Adamsons, even as they turned down the aisle with the backpacks.

“Which one do you like, sweetheart?” Mom asked. “It needs to be sturdy, of course, but that’s no reason you can’t also have one that suits your tastes.”

She looked up and down the assortment of backpacks, thinking she should choose one that would seem appealing to a middle-school aged girl. Instead, her eyes fell on one in a pale blue color, very close to Gary’s favorite color. She slid it from the display hook, and gave it a better examination. She held it up to the Adamsons. “I like this one.”

“That one seems awfully plain and utilitarian,” Dad said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have one that has a bit more flair to it?”

“I like this one,” she repeated. “It reminds me of home.”

He gave her an understanding smile. “I guess I can’t really argue with that, can I?” He took the backpack from her and dropped it in the cart.

Mom stroked her hair. “Are you feeling a bit homesick, Cathy?”

She nodded. In ways you probably wouldn’t expect. The bed seems awfully empty without Gary in it, and I miss being where I can just be Katya, instead of playing the role of Cathy.

“Honey, why don’t you go look at electronics or something, while we do a little girl-specific shopping?” Mom said to Dad.

“Afraid you’re going to embarrass me? I am a doctor, you know,” he replied.

She gave him a gentle push. “Yes, you’re a doctor, but Cathy isn’t, and there are some things that a young girl would rather not talk about in front of a man.”

Katya fought to keep from laughing out loud. If you only knew…

His huff was anything but serious. “Well, fine. I can be trusted with the intimate medical issues of more patients in my lifetime than I can hope to count, all over the world, but I can’t handle shopping with my daughter.”

“It’s all right,” Katya said, tugging gently on Mom’s sleeve. “I don’t mind. He will see what products we buy anyway, and I’m not embarrassed to discuss them in front of Dad.”

Mom gave her a regretful smile. “I would have been mortified to talk about such things in front of my father at your age, but I guess I need to learn that you’ve come from a different generation and even culture than I did. Are you sure you don’t mind?”

“I’m sure.” This is one area where complete honesty is necessary. “I should have my period in another week. It is certainly nothing I need be ashamed of, is it?”

“You’re that regular? When did you experience menarche?”

“I do not understand. What is ‘menarche’?”

“When did you start having periods?”

Okay, complete honesty isn’t going to work here, after all – I can’t tell her that was longer ago than the age I’m supposed to be. “A couple of years ago.”

“You started young. I suppose, then, that we don’t need to have a discussion about what you can expect when it happens.”

“Mama told me all I needed to know, and prepared me for it.” I wonder if Mama knew the whole of what was in store for me? Did they tell her or any of the other mothers what they had planned for all of us girls?

Dad took the pragmatic approach. “I guess we should just let you go pick out what you need and be done with it, instead of standing around in the luggage aisle talking about it.”

They headed back towards the Health and Beauty department, which took them by the toy department once again. The same two girls still stood at the Fancie display, as if the decision of what items to buy were of monumental importance. Katya hesitated, turning a longing look towards the assorted dolls. This is silly – they’re just foolish toys. Even the age I’m pretending to be, I would have outgrown Fancie dolls.

“Cathy, sweetheart?” Mom said. “Is something wrong?”

“I never had a Fancie doll,” she said, quietly. Why did I tell her that? I could have had one any time in the last few years.

“Did you have any dolls, sweetheart?”

“I was allowed a baby doll,” she said, suddenly feeling a mixture of anger and sorrow. “Just one. I never had any other dolls.” Toys were for children that were allowed to have a real childhood, not for girls being raised to just act like children for men who enjoyed their illusion of ripping away a child’s innocence.

“Aren’t you a bit old for a Fancie doll?” Dad asked.

Mom sent him a soft shush. “When I was your age, Cathy, I would close my bedroom door, and get my Fancie dolls out to play with when no one could see me. I wish I still had those old dolls – they might be worth something now, as much as Fancie has changed over the years.” She turned the cart down the aisle. “Every girl should have at least one Fancie doll in her life, and every mother should have the joy of helping her daughter pick out her first one.”

Friday Fiction for July 9, 2010

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by none other than Patty over on her blog, Patterings. Patty started the Friday Fiction weekly event, and handed it over to Karlene when other concerns kept her away from it. We’re glad to have her back with us this week, so make sure you visit her blog and let her know how much we appreciate her.

“Precocious by Consent” has been on a back-burner for around a year now, and I’ve been wanting to get back to it. In that, I read back through what I’ve written so far to get back into the flow of the story, and to get reacquainted with the characters. While Lloyd and Katya are returning characters from the first book, “Precocious by Design,” this mysterious character in Chapter 8 makes his debut appearance in this excerpt. We’ll see more of him as the story progresses. Previous excerpts from this WIP are: Prologue, Chapter 2, Chapter 5, Chapter 7, and Chapter 10.

Precocious by Consent

Chapter 8

Sunday morning

The white utility van stood out among the family vehicles in the nice neighborhood. Parked along the curb in the middle of the block, though, it barely rated notice from the residents going about their business. The magnetic signs on the doors identifying the van with Ameritel Communications insured few would think twice about the presence of an unfamiliar vehicle in the area. The man in the driver’s seat lit up a cigarette and took a deep drag of the smoke.

I should quit, he thought, regarding the slender white roll of paper and tobacco. This is unhealthy and expensive. He chuckled, taking another puff. On the other hand, it’s not like I expect to retire and die of old age anyway. Savoring the smoke before exhaling, he blew a lazy smoke ring out the window. It’d be easier to quit if I didn’t like these American cigarettes so much.

The garage door across the street opened, and an older couple loaded two sets of golf clubs into the trunk of the car before backing out of the driveway onto the street. The man driving looked at him, and he returned a smile and a polite nod. When the garage door had closed, the car headed off down the street.

With another puff of the cigarette, he watched the car recede in the rear view mirror. Would you have waited for the door to close before driving off if I had not been here?

Three houses in front of him, a husky teen-ager pushed a lawnmower through a side gate, and started work on the front lawn. The kid wore headphones, and periodically made rhythmic movements as though dancing to whatever tune played on the device. When I was your age, I danced with a mop at a neighborhood bakery, to music on an old radio much too large to carry around. He smiled at the memory of a simpler time in his life, and wondered if he would have paid any more attention to a strange vehicle in his neighborhood than the dancer paid to him.

The front door on the home across the street and behind him opened, and he watched in his side mirror. Two boys ran for the SUV in the driveway, followed by two adults who easily could have been their parents. He continued to watch as the dark green Toyota pulled out and cruised by him with the boys making faces at each other in the back seat. Comparing the license number to a text on his phone, he blew an exasperated plume of smoke out the window. That was it, but where is she?

The movement of the garage door of the same house drew his eyes back to his mirror. The mid-sized sedan backed out of the garage, and waited in the driveway while the door closed again. After a minute or so, an older woman came out the front door, wearing a nice outfit and carrying what appeared to be a large Bible. A girl followed her out, and the woman pulled the door closed before offering her hand to the child. This could be promising, he thought.

The woman held the car door while the girl settled into the back seat, and then took her place in the front seat. She was just pulling her seatbelt across her chest as the car passed his van, and he did his best to avoid looking like he was watching them.

The girl in the back seat was looking all around, and for just a moment glanced at the van. That was all he needed to see the face, and he stifled the satisfied smile. It is you, Ekaterina. Why are you back here in California, and playing the child again? What are you up to, lapochka?

The car disappeared around the corner, and he crushed out the remainder of the cigarette. He keyed in a series of numbers on his phone, arranging the payment for the information, and shifted in his seat.

A car pulled in behind his van. The police cruiser in his rear-view mirror didn’t have the lights going, but he still placed his hands on the dashboard in plain sight as the officer walked up to the window.

“Good morning, sir,” she said. “One of the residents noticed you’d been sitting here a while. Are you having a problem?”

He gave a good-natured laugh. “It’s their problem I am here for,” he said. “We’ve had a few complaints of a dead zone in this neighborhood, so I’m waiting here while my co-worker checks things on the tower. When I get his call, we’ll know he’s fixed the problem.”

“Any idea how much longer that will be?”

He shrugged. “It depends on how much needs to be done on the tower. I’m hoping we’re done soon; I’d like a cup of coffee and a bathroom.” His cell phone chimed, and he shielded the screen from the sun’s glare to read the text message. Transfer complete, the confirmation message informed him. “That’s it; we should be done here. Do you need anything else, officer? Would you like my supervisor’s name to verify our work order?”

She shook her head. “That won’t be necessary. If you’re done and ready to get out of here, then that should satisfy the residents.”

“Thank you, officer.” The old tricks still worked; be cooperative, but not too cooperative. “If you have any problems with your Ameritel service, don’t hesitate to call us.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I have Pacific Wireless, so I don’t think it would do me much good to call you.”

He gave her a big smile. “If you have problems with your Pacific service, call us; I’m sure we can set you up with a competitive plan and better service, if you’re interested.”

She threw him a dismissive wave. “Have a nice day, sir.”

“You too, officer.” He started the van, and eased away from the curb. Departing the neighborhood for the main street through the suburb, he turned into a doughnut shop and went inside. If by any chance the police officer followed him, she would find him enjoying a cup of coffee after using the bathroom. He would even offer to buy her a doughnut, if she stopped in.

Friday Fiction for June 25, 2010

Friday Fiction is hosted this week by Laury on her “Fill Your Paper…” blog. There’s already a good turn-out there, so be sure to visit for some great weekend reading.

I’ve been working on a short intro-type story into an idea I’ve been mulling over for a long time, but it’s not finished yet. Instead, I’ve decided to post a short excerpt from “Lana’s Pack.” In this scene from chapter 13, Marshall Bittman has been charged with tracking down and retrieving two dogs that were stolen from a research facility. While not having caught up to the dogs yet, he has become suspicious that he and his team have not been told the whole story on the dogs. He returns to the facility to confront the head researcher, Dr. Emil Sonders.

Baron

From Lana’s Pack

He was waiting in the office on Wednesday morning when Dr. Sonders walked in. The scientist regarded him with a questioning look. “Deputy Marshal Bittman; to what do I owe the pleasure? Have you recovered my other two dogs?”

“No, Dr. Sonders, I have not, though we do know who has them.”

“If you know who has them, then why aren’t they back here where they belong?”

“Sit down, Dr. Sonders, and let’s have a little chat about those two dogs, shall we? Do you have any idea what your dogs were up to yesterday?”

He sighed impatiently. “How would I know anything about what they were doing yesterday?”

He handed over a newspaper. “A little boy was abducted in Morro Bay, and despite the fact that the woman they were with knows nothing about handling dogs, they tracked down the child, got him away from the pedophile, returned him to his mother, and held the pervert for the police.”

The doctor’s smile was smug. “I would have expected nothing less of them; Freki and Geri were developed and trained as search and rescue dogs, though we anticipated putting them through field trials up at Elmendorf Air Force Base in Alaska. Our aim was to produce such working dogs that are autonomous once given their tasks. Dogs are able to move faster than their human handlers, and to go places humans cannot go; if they are able to analyze the situation and to react appropriately without a human constantly directing them, they can better serve their mission.”

“I don’t suppose it occurred to you that your dogs ability to act this independently was important to mention to us, did you?”

“I gave you what you needed, Marshal.”

“Did you now? I’ve learned a lot about Freki and Geri in the last twenty-four hours, Dr. Sonders, and some of what I’m now suspecting seems like information I should have been told right from the start. Tell me, doctor, is there a valid reason why I have two people who claim to have heard one of these dogs talking, and I have a third that would not be surprised if she had?”

“I’m not authorized to discuss this with you.”

“You gave these dogs sufficient intelligence to understand human speech, and to respond in kind, didn’t you? You know, doctor, when we figured out the Malamutes were traveling with someone else, we assumed she was another accomplice. It didn’t occur to me until last night that she might be nothing more than a good Samaritan that the dogs recruited to help them. If they can talk, they can ask for help, can’t they?”

“They can also instruct victims, inform rescuers of conditions, and coordinate between themselves as needed.”

“In my line of work, Dr. Sonders, it’s what we don’t know that burns us every time. We didn’t know we were dealing with dogs that are capable of rational thought and communication, trained to work as a team to achieve a goal.”

“I told you these animals are classified by the Government; while you might have argued a convincing need to know, you didn’t have the proper clearance level to have been given the full scope of the project.”

“So now I know anyway, and I’m very unhappy about the circumstances. No more nonsense and double-talk, Sonders; I want to know the full scope of what I’m dealing with here.”

The man took a deep breath and regarded him for a moment, considering the demand. “Come with me, Marshal.” He led the way to an elevator and keyed in the code to access it. They rode it down to a basement level, and when the door opened they stepped into a large kennel area. “We have been charged by the Department of Defense and the Department of Justice to develop dogs for various purposes. We have drug dogs that can not only sniff out most commonly smuggled narcotics, but they can also tell their handler what they detect. We have dogs for the military and homeland security capable of discriminating different kinds of explosives, scenting fugitives out, working autonomously to take down armed suspects, you name it.”

“How do these dogs compare to Freki and Geri?”

“Baron, come here, please”

A Belgian Malinois trotted up and sat at Sonder’s feet.

“Baron, is Mr. Bittman carrying a weapon?”

“Gun,” the dog said. “Clean.”

“You’re carrying a gun that has not been fired since the last time you cleaned it.”

“Dear merciful God,” Ray said. “What in heaven’s name have you done?”

“What we have done, Marshal, is create the next innovation in keeping law enforcement officers safe. Baron doesn’t need to frisk a suspect to know if he’s armed; he can smell the metals used in most weapons and accurately identify them better than eighty percent of the time. He can identify the most common street drugs, tell the officer what liquor someone has been drinking, if they are sweating out alcohol or chemicals, track suspects by scent, sight, and sound – including, I might add, eavesdropping on suspects or bystanders to obtain tactical information, and react intelligently to the dynamic threat situation. Get used to the idea; within the decade teams like yours will include a dog like Baron.”

“And our Government is okay with this?”

“Who do you think paid for these projects? Well, except for the Malamutes; that was my own project. Many search and rescue dogs are owned by private citizens who volunteer with police or emergency services as needed. I chose the Alaskan Malamute for the pilot rescue dog program for their strength, endurance, intelligence, ability to work in teams, and almost obnoxious independent streaks. To have heard that Freki and Geri performed so admirably under real world conditions is just the ultimate proof of the concept.”

Friday Fiction for June 18, 2010

Welcome to Friday Fiction, which I get to host this week. Be sure to find the Linky tool at the end of this post, to either enter your submission for the week, or to read the other submissions.

After the rather serious nature of “Maelstrom’s Eye,” I thought I would go with something lighter this week. I wrote this short story a couple of years ago, and it takes place in the time between “Cardan’s Pod” and the first sequel, “Marta’s Pod.” It was mostly written to play a bit with life inside the Pod’s Family Room, and the dynamics of relationships within the Pod. I hope you enjoy it, and the extra look it gives of Eva.

Second Love

By Rick Higginson

Suzanne watched as Daniel carried the laughing two year old around the Family Room pool. She had to remind herself that the boy was Josh and Marta’s son, and not the progeny of the Pod itself. All of them tended to dote on the boy, and it was difficult to tell at that moment if Marcel Cardan enjoyed the horseplay more, or if Daniel did.

Marta’s successful pregnancy and her delivery of a healthy normal child had given all of them a measure of hope. They could have children, and their children would have the choices that were open to the average American child. The prospect of having their own families within the Pod was no longer the fearful idea it had been before Joshua Cardan had joined them.

Daniel passed Marcel to Erica and headed towards the far bathroom. Suzanne waited a moment, and then crawled towards the same bathroom. He was just positioning himself over the floor-level toilet as she moved passed him to the shower.

“Would you scrub my back when you’re done?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”

She squeezed the trigger on the hand-held shower head and adjusted the temperature to her preference. She sprayed the fresh water through her hair, displacing the brine that still dripped from the tips, and then rinsed her body. Pumping some shampoo into one hand and applying it to her hair, she switched hands to work the other side of her head. It would be nice, she thought, to be able to stand or even sit in a position that allowed the use of both hands at once. Keeping her torso weight on one arm while lathering with the other accomplished the purpose, but not with any comfort or efficiency.

“You know,” Daniel said from the edge of the shower floor, “I seem to be everyone’s favorite back-scrubber. I got asked to scrub Leanna’s, Timothy’s, Rebecca’s, Mark’s, David’s, and Gretchen’s backs yesterday.”

“You don’t have to scrub mine if you don’t want to.”

“I like scrubbing yours.” He took the washcloth from beside her, applied a large spot of liquid soap from the dispenser, and lathered it on her shoulder blade.

She folded her arms under her head and dropped flat to the floor, relishing the weight he put behind the effort. When he reached over her to scrub the far side of her back, she rolled away from him, grabbing his support arm to make him drop atop her. It was uncomfortable lying on her back, but she pulled his face close to hers.

“Suzanne, what are you doing?” he asked with an amused smile on his face.

She kissed him; the effort clumsy and awkward on the shower floor, especially with her arms soapy.

“We’re not supposed to be doing this,” he said.

“Does that mean you don’t want to kiss me?”

“No, it means I don’t want to know what Eva is liable to do if she catches us.”

“Well, for starters I would tell you to quit hogging the shower. There are others of us who would like to use it,” Eva said from behind him.

Daniel scrambled to put a more polite distance between his and Suzanne’s bodies. His arms slipped on some soap and he fell on her belly.

Eva shook her head and laughed. “Daniel, what is the main rule in the Pod?”

“Never argue with Eva,” he said, still trying to find an acceptable position in the confines between the two mermaids.

“Are you going to argue with what I tell you?”

“No, Eva; you should know me better than that.”

“Good; now kiss Suzanne, finish the shower, and you both come speak with me when you’re done.”

“Huh?”

“Kiss her, and hurry up. I want to get my shower before dinner, and the other shower is already occupied, too.”

Suzanne smiled up at him. “You heard her; she said to kiss me, and you know you can’t argue with Eva.”

“I don’t understand; she’s not mad at us?”

“We’re eighteen now; we can be more than just friends if we want to.”

He searched her eyes, comprehension dawning on him. “You’re sure about this?”

“There have been many things in our lives that I haven’t been sure of, but you have never been one of them. My first memories were playing together with you, and I’ve never felt closer to anyone than I feel to you. Eva never let us be too close before, but we’re old enough now. I can’t imagine wanting anyone but you, and if Josh and Marta can make a relationship work in this crazy place, we can too.”

He smiled. “Do we need to call Diego to make it official?”

“Diego is a wonderful man, and the wedding he performed for Josh and Marta was beautiful, but who is the only one whose approval really matters?”

“Eva,” he said, glancing out towards the raised pool. “And if Eva approves?”

She took the washcloth from him. “If Eva approves, then I want to skip the movie tonight.”

***

Eva rested in her raised pool, overlooking the Family Room and watching the various activities of the Pod below. Suzanne and Daniel were taking longer in the shower than normal, but she expected they were using the relative quiet of the room to discuss some things. They wouldn’t do anything improper in the bathroom, if for no other reason than it was just too uncomfortable for their bodies to try such things on land.

She gave them a few minutes more, and then slid down the slick spillway that returned the filtered water to the main pool. Swimming submerged until she drew close to the bathroom, she launched herself from the water up onto the floor, sliding just a bit before stopping. “You two are certainly taking your time in here,” she said, crawling through the door.

“We’re sorry, Eva,” Suzanne said.

“It’s all right; I know it can be difficult to have a serious conversation with the entire Pod around. Have you decided anything?”

“We want to be a couple, and we want to ask your approval,” Daniel said.

“Mm hmm; you’re both eighteen now. You don’t need my approval.”

“We’d like you to give it to us anyway. We want to commit to being a couple for life.”

“That sounds like something you should speak with Diego about instead of me.”

“Eva, Diego isn’t in charge out here; you are,” Suzanne said. “We don’t care whether anyone in his world recognizes our commitment. Diego’s type of wedding is part of a world we can’t belong to, and if anyone is going to declare us a real couple, it should be the person who has always been here for us.”

She nodded. “When and where would you like to make this official?”

“Right here and right now is fine with us, if it’s okay with you.”

“You want to make that kind of statement in the bathroom?”

“Why not? At least in here it’s just us three, and you have to admit, this is probably the most honest room on the island.”

“If that’s what you want to do, then, it’s fine by me. Suzanne, you’re certain Daniel is the one you want to spend the rest of your life with?”

“Yes, Eva; I’m certain.”

“Daniel, you’re sure about Suzanne?”

“I’ve always been certain about her, Eva. You should know that.”

“I know, but I think I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask you to specifically state it for a moment like this. You have my approval. You take care of each other, and don’t you dare disappoint me.”

They started heading for the door.

“Daniel? Before you go, would you mind scrubbing my back?”

***

The Pod watched the movie, interjecting jokes and comments throughout the feature. If any of them wondered why Daniel and Suzanne were absent, they had not expressed their questions aloud. That’s as it should be, Eva thought, not paying attention to the movie at all. Suzanne and Daniel had always been each other’s first love, and they were entitled to a little private time together to dance as a couple.

Just off to one side, Josh drifted in his pool chair with Marta floating in front of him, her torso up onto his lap and causing the chair to sit much lower in the water than it was designed to. When she thought no one was watching, Marta looked up at her first love and made a teasing gesture at him. His response indicated there would likely be some late night dancing in the Family Room pool after everyone else was thought to be asleep.

Eva sighed, resigning herself to the idea that she would never have a first love. Even as she did, she realized she was looking at it gathered below her. She doubted the chance would ever present itself for her to have what Josh and Marta or Suzanne and Daniel had, but if it ever did she knew what it would mean.

No matter how wonderful someone might be, the Pod could never be her second love.

Friday Fiction for June 11, 2010

Friday Fiction is hosted this week over at Fiction Fusion, by the ever-imaginative Sara. Look for her epic “Dark Phoenix” story, and the links to more fiction, over on her blog. Good stuff, Maynard.

“Maelstrom’s Eye” draws to a close this week, tickling the word-count widget at 10K exactly. It’s not often I end on such a nice round number. I hope you find the ending as satisfying as I do. If you’ve waited until the story was finished to get started, you can begin with Part 1, and read through to the end.

Maelstrom’s Eye

Part 9

Deliver me from bloodguiltiness, oh God, Thou God of my salvation: and my tongue shall sing aloud of Thy righteousness. Oh Lord, open Thou my lips; and my mouth shall shew forth Thy praise. For Thou desirest not sacrifice; else I would give it: Thou delightest not in burnt offering. The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, oh God, Thou wilt not despise. ~ Psalm 51:14 – 17

Long my imprisoned spirit lay, fast bound in sin, and nature’s night. Thine eye diffused a quick’ning ray, I woke the dungeon flamed with light! My chains fell off, my heart was free. I rose, went forth, and followed Thee. ~ from “And Can It Be?” by Charles Wesley

***

Celia watched out the window as her father guided the car into their neighborhood. It had been a good service – the worship time, the teaching, and the fellowship afterwards, and it had given her much to think about for the coming week. Still, she was a little disappointed that Carl hadn’t changed his mind and shown up for church.

They turned down their street, and Papa slowed the car for a group of kids playing ball in the middle of the road. The boys barely moved out of the way to allow the vehicle to pass, turning annoyed looks towards them in response to their play being interrupted. One even acted as though he was going to hit the car, until he caught the glare that Papa gave him.

When they drew close enough, she watched Carl’s house for any sign that he was outside working, hopefully in a brighter mood than he’d been the evening before. Instead, she noticed the rivulet of water running under the gate from the backyard, down the driveway, and into the gutter along the street. “Papa, let me out here, please,” she said.

“Here? We’re almost home, mi’ja. Why do you want out here?”

“Something’s wrong, Papa. Mr. Anders never lets the water run long enough to run out of the garden and into the street.”

He pulled the car to the curb and let her out. “Do you want me to come in with you?”

“Go ahead and take Jimmy home, Papa. I’ll call if I need any help.” She turned and hurried as fast as she could in her dress shoes, fishing the keys from her purse on the way to the door. She knocked once and called, “Mr. Anders?” Waiting only a moment for a response, she then unlocked the door and let herself in. “Mr. Anders?” she called again, into the entryway.

There was still no response, and she didn’t take the time to close the door before heading deeper into the house. The lights were off in the living room, and she glanced down the hall towards the bedroom and bathroom. Both doors were open, and she walked down far enough to peek in both, announcing her presence before she did.

Returning to the living room, she noticed the flicker of light in the dining room, and crossed over to that door. “Mr. Anders?” she called as she reached the door. “Carl?”

He was sitting at the network terminal with a pair of headphones on, and still had not noticed her arrival.

“MR. ANDERS?” she said, hoping she was loud enough to be heard over the headphones.

He cocked his head slightly for a moment, and then turned to look at her. Removing the headphones, he spun around in the chair. “Oh, Celia. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Are you all right? I saw the water running down your driveway, and was worried that you might have hurt yourself or something.”

He looked towards the backyard. “I completely forgot I’d left the water running. I guess I should turn it off, or at least move it.”

“You stay put – I’ll turn the water off.” She went out the back door, and twisted the handle on the water faucet fully clockwise. Now that she knew he was all right, her concern was turning to anger. She returned to the house, and regarded him with a crossed-arm stare. “Now, what were you looking at that was so important that you forgot the water, and didn’t pay any attention when I knocked and called to you?”

“Your church service,” he said quietly. “I watched your church service this morning, and then started listening to last week’s service.”

“Our church service?” she repeated back to him, and let her arms drop limp to her sides.

“Mi’ja? Is everything okay?” Papa came through the living room and stepped up behind her.

Carl didn’t even seem to notice the arrival of her father. She lifted one hand to stave off any further interruption. “You were watching our church services on the network?” she asked.

“Can a heart really be made clean again, Celia? Is it truly possible that my spirit could ever feel right?” There was a hopeful pleading in Carl’s voice.

She started to answer, but found her own voice choked back by emotion.

“It is possible, if that is the desire of your heart,” Papa answered for her, sounding so much different than his usual manner of speaking. He took a step forward. He wasn’t wearing the face of the disciplinarian father. Instead, he was the compassionate Papa she remembered from those times when she had needed such understanding the most as a child. Tears ran down the worn cheeks – something she rarely witnessed before. “Is that what you want, Carl?” he asked.

“Why would you care? You made your feelings pretty clear the other night.”

“God showed me this morning that I needed a right spirit renewed in myself as well. How I treated you was wrong, and I must ask your forgiveness.” He extended his hand towards Carl. “I care, and even if I didn’t, God cares. Do you want a clean heart and a right spirit?”

“More than anything,” he said, and tentatively took the extended hand.

Papa pulled him to his feet and into an embrace. “Then take His hand just like you took mine.”

Celia wrapped her arms around both men, offering silent prayers for the moment. Carl felt tense and resistant, while Papa kept the embrace gentle but firm. The struggle was obvious, and so also the moment when the younger man yielded. The tension faded from his muscles, and he buried his face in her father’s shirt, weeping.

“Welcome home, mi’jo,” Papa whispered.

***

Maelstrom’s eye looked down, scanning the surface below for any threat to the safety and security of the Western Coalition. Despite numerous attempts to neutralize her abilities, she remained a powerful weapon against anything below. Her defenses protected her offensive capabilities from any weapon on Earth. In her twelfth year of operations, though, a marble-sized meteorite punched through her hull, destroying vital power control circuits. The damage created a cascade effect of system failures, leaving the platform severely crippled. Maelstrom’s eye never looked up, though analysts debated whether she would have detected or reacted to such a small object in space.

Far below the wrecked platform, a five year old child walked with her grandfather. The old man smiled and took her hand, teaching her words in Spanish as he showed her how to select ripe tomatoes from her Daddy’s garden. She had her mother’s eyes.