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"Searching For Elijah"
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By Lynn Carr
(aka Elaine Matson Reschke)
PROLOGUE
The scream pierced the early morning silence like the shriek of an angry leopard. He bolted upright in his bed, reached for his gun and looked around the room. No one was there. Then he realized: the cry had come from his own throat. No, from deep within his body. From memories.
He waited and listened for running footsteps in the hall. No one came. Exhausted, he fell back and began to shake. The sheets were damp from perspiration and the room was cold. He pulled himself from the bed, touched the thermostat and walked to the window. As he stood there listening to the familiar click of the radiator, he watched the crimson dawn spill across the Willamette.
It would be his first day back after a week at the beach. He wasn't ready to work: he wanted to go back to clam digging and surfing and climbing the wet rocks. Back to feeding the seagulls. He didn't want to reopen the case, to remember what had happened that night eleven years ago.
But Sam had come home. She said she knew her sister was still alive. Maybe she'd found new evidence; maybe she was right.
Reluctantly, he pulled himself from the window and headed for the shower. O'Malley would be calling soon. He'd ask if he had remembered to bring seashells for his granddaughter. It would be his excuse for finding out if Gordon had come back--or if he had decided to turn in his badge, buy a sloop and head on down the coast. Maybe he would someday; maybe he would. For now, he had a long and boring day ahead, catching up on paperwork and being briefed on another dull case he knew O'Malley would assign him.
And tonight he would be with Samantha for the first time in five years.
He dressed, removed a shoulder holster from the drawer where it had lain for over a week and strapped it to his body. He tucked his Smith & Wesson snub-nose revolver into the ankle holster that had become as routine a part of his dress as the watch Sam had given him years ago. He wondered why he'd kept up the ritual: he hadn't used it in months. He checked his Glock to see that it was loaded, shoved it into the shoulder holster and put the seashells in his pocket.
As he closed the door after leaving his apartment, he heard the phone ring: it would be O'Malley. He decided not to go back. Let him sweat, he thought as he ambled down two flights of stairs. The chief is an old woman; he needs to retire.
But in his heart, he knew it wouldn't be the same without O'Malley there. Maybe the chief was his reason for coming back.
Image: Premonition -
The day was long and boring, just as he predicted it would be. He had given the shells to O'Malley and enjoyed the expression on his face when he told him he had bought a sloop. He'd admit the truth someday--after the chief had fret awhile.
It was a quarter to four when he opened the lower, right drawer of his desk and looked down at the small, furry teddy bear--it had lain there for eleven years. It was dirty and matted and had one missing eye. He didn't know why he kept it; he should have returned it to the Ballards years ago. Perhaps he wanted it as a reminder of the promise he made to Samantha--the promise he never kept.
He spent six years working on the case, trying to find Sam's sister. In time, he was convinced she was dead although it was never proven: there was never a corpus delicti. Except for the bicycle, a black shoe was the only positive evidence found. There were no tire tracks, no buttons, no strands of hair and no signs of struggle--not even a witness to the crime. The shoe was found later.
He pulled the teddy bear from its resting place, turned it over and over in his hands and felt the pangs of regret well up inside him once again. Regret? Or was it guilt?
He decided to go home early and shower again before picking up Sam. Without motive, he pushed the little bear into his coat pocket and left.
He paused for a moment on the back steps of the precinct and watched the people in the park across the street. Traffic was beginning to show signs of the late afternoon rush hour, and somewhere out on the Willamette a freighter sounded its warning horn as it moved slowly towards the Columbia.
Too hot for October, he thought as he ambled down the familiar steps without looking down. He knew them well. He wondered how many times he had used them in the twelve years he had been a detective for the city of Portland, Oregon.
He wasn't a big man, but his body was hard and lean, and on better days he moved with the ease of a panther. His hair--bushy, but neatly trimmed--was the color of a lion and his eyes were deep blue-green. The determination of his square-cut jaw was a striking contrast to the softening of the dimple in his chin. His name was Wesley Gordon.
He crossed the street and entered the South parking lot, then remembered he'd been lucky: a space had been open in front of the building when he arrived that morning.
His car was stifling hot. He started the engine, rolled down the windows and flicked on the air conditioner. As he pulled away from the curb and rolled the windows up again, he decided to go back to the scene of the crime before going home. There was still time.
Gordon turned into the park, stopped the car and got out. He tried to recall the facts. Lazily, he walked across the lawn to the clump of trees where the bicycle had been found. He pulled the teddy bear from his pocket and stared at it as if he were expecting it to tell him something--to reveal some new piece of evidence they had missed. He sat down at the picnic table, the same one that had been there that night. It was old and grimy now and etched with love notes and initials. As his finger traced a heart pierced by an arrow, the events of that night eleven years ago returned. He had tried to erase it from his memory, but it all came too easily, as if it had been just yesterday.
* * *
The above is the beginning of a 226 page novel “Premonition” by Lynn Carr (aka Elaine Matson Reschke) presently published by Granite Publishing and Distribution LLC. It can be purchased by calling the toll free number 1-800-574-5779.
Or you will also find them under http://www.granitepublishing.biz.