Feisty Repartee

Psychevella Chapter II

Last week we started off with Bob's Bitter Herbs.

Next week, this lady is in the driver's seat.

Followed by:

June 30 - Chapter Four: Amelie

July 7 - Chapter Five: CalTechGirl

July 14 - Chapter Six: El Capitan

Here we go.

RING! RING!

No longer startled by calls in the night, the burly man merely rolled over, checked the bedside clock, released his grip on the Walther, and reached for the phone.

“Cahill,” he answered.

“William?”

Groaning inwardly, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, flicked the light on, and sat up straight. William was his first name, but since the age of five, he preferred his middle name of Mitch. After he joined the force most everyone he knew called him by his surname, everyone except his mother and her close friends.

“Mrs. Romano?”

“Sorry to wake you, my dear, but I have this neighbor…” she began.

“Are you okay? Is Ma okay?” His mother and Mrs. Romano had lived across the street from one another for forty years.

“Oh, my, yes, of course, William, your mother is fine, we played bridge yesterday afternoon. I was referring, son, to the neighbor to my right, that is as you are facing my house, to that right.”

Scanning his mind he knew the house. Johnny McFarland’s family had lived there. He and Johnny had been boyhood buddies. Mr. McFarland died in ‘Nam. Mrs. McFarland passed away six years ago. He knew an older woman and her grown son had moved into that house.

“Yeah, I know the house. Did you hear something?” Cahill tried to inquire gently, but he knew these old birds, his mother included, tended to get jumpy over their own shadows. He also knew the neighborhood wasn’t as safe as it had been when he was growing up, but it was still pretty decent. No drive-bys or gangsta crap haunting every corner.

“Well, no; however, Martha McCuddahey from next door is terribly concerned about her George.”

McCuddahey, that’s right. he thought to himself. The son was not much of a boy. At least ten years older than Cahill’s own thirty-eight, he called to mind an image of a short, fat, and balding egg-head-type who had relegated his mother to a small apartment attached behind the garage. According to Ma, it had been completely updated and remodeled as George had not wanted his mother in the house because there were three steps leading up to the front and back doors. Georgie-boy had been afraid she would fall. Instead, he had moved himself into the house.

“What about George, Mrs. Romano, if I remember correctly, he’s a grown man.”

“Martha says she hasn’t seen him since last night and it is very unlike him. They have dinner together every night, you know.”

“No, I didn’t know; however, if he’s been gone for more than twenty-four hours, she can file a missing person’s report with the department. Sgt. Harris is the one she’ll need to ask for. Did she check with his employer or his friends?” He offered.

“Well, that’s just it. George didn’t have any friends. When she called that big accounting firm where he worked, no one there had ever heard of him, but when she described him to the receptionist, the girl told her it reminded her of a guy there called Lenny Markowitz. When Martha asked to speak to Mr. Markowitz, the girl told her he had not been in all day.” She explained.

“Mrs. Romano, why me, why 2:00 a.m.?”

“I’m so sorry William, really I am. It was your mother’s idea. Martha came over earlier this evening and we have been trying to comfort her. We thought she was okay, but a little while ago she called and said she thought someone was in George’s house.”

“George?” he asked.

“Martha didn’t think so because whoever it was was creeping about with a flashlight.”

“Are you at Ma’s?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be over in a few.”

Twenty minutes later the grizzled detective approached one of the suburban enclaves surrounding the big city. For a moment he felt like a teenager again coming in after curfew. As he turned onto his old street, he cut the lights, killed the motor, and coasted to a stop. Easing out of his Blazer, he looked over his shoulder and noted the lights were on in his mother’s living room. Sticking strictly to the shadows he edged his way completely around the old McFarland home. He knew it well.

Checking the perimeter, he noted nothing amiss and absolutely no noticeable movement within. Easing up the steps he leaned against the frame of the front door and tried the knob, fully expecting resistance; however, it turned easily in his grasp and without a sound opened wide.

Glancing in he was immediately taken aback from the sudden opening of the door, as well as the slight shock of black slanted eyes eerily glowing at him in the darkness. The eyes belonged to a multiple armed gold-leafed figurine resting prominently in a niche in the foyer where Mrs. McFarland’s prized Roseville vase full of fresh flowers once stood.

Turning to his right, Cahill quickly scanned an immaculate formal dining room. Different table and chairs than he remembered and a menorah stood proudly on the buffet.

Stepping to the left of the entry, he walked into a sparsely furnished living room. A pair of high-backed wooden pews faced one another with a bench between them. Atop the bench sat an intricately carved marble figure holding a lifeless form. Pietà he whispered to himself.

Over the mantle hung a graphic rendering of the crucifixion. To the left of the painting was an elaborate gilded and bejeweled cross.

Cripes, he thought to himself, whoever lives here must be one hell of a confused religious zealot.

Slowly he made his way down the hall and into the kitchen when he felt his shoes sticking to the floor. In the moonlit darkness it appeared something was leaking from the fridge. Quietly he reached out and eased the door open when an object fell out and rolled onto the floor.

Bending over to investigate it more closely, he commented gravely “Georgie-boy, what the hell happened to you?”

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