Zaedah has returned from her desperately needed vacation with a case story for my faithful readers. I present chapter one for your consideration, with a promise to catch up on all the Fringy stories of my favorite fanficcers that I've missed while away.
Dedicated to Oreo, my momma's cat who passed away today. Y'all know how much the Crazy Ol' Cat Lady loves her felines.
Demagogue and the Daisy Girl
Once luck has been kicked, it never returns willingly. Like a mistreated puppy, good fortune huddles in a corner, glaring at its abuser until it grows big enough to bite back. And so began Peter Bishop's day. Because he'd been picking a random path between landmines, it was natural that he'd slip and set one off. And the morning saw the progress toward reconciliation with his father blown to bits.
Because he couldn't find a moon pie.
One of many odd requests Walter Bishop had made since tasting the fresh air of civilization, the marshmallow concoction was not among the items Peter brought back from the store. And the enraged scientist swore no work would be done should a moon pie not materialize before him. That Walter preferred his treat to come from the original factory which, being in Chattanooga Tennessee, made a walk from Boston impossible, didn't help. But it was Walter's dramatics that resurrected his son's teenaged angst. When the fickle lock on Peter's mouth came unhinged, several rather vulgar points made it past his lips before his feet had the good sense to carry him from the lab. Which did nothing to slake the old man's craving.
The puppy of luck was getting fiercer by the day.
.......
Beneath crisp sheets in the makeshift morgue, six bodies lay before Olivia's scrutiny. Through the closed door she'd heard muted shouting in the lab but found it less interesting than the mystery of these deaths. Walter was right; aside from being terribly dead, they were perfectly healthy. The thin trail of dried blood running down their ears suggested some kind of auditory disturbance. Based on Walter's cursory probing this morning, they'd established that no wounds, disease or specific organ failure were present. Other than the blood drippings, which Astrid was testing, there was nothing wrong with these corpses.
Commonalities were few but Olivia considered them significant. Charlie had noted that the victims represented different portions of the city's minorities in working class jobs; two were high school students, two were homeless, one was a trash collector and the last a bike messenger. And Peter pointed to their similar footwear, all wearing construction or hiking boots.
"What are we missing?" She asked victim number four.
"Nothing in the blood, apparently." Astrid strolled past the beds and handed Olivia her results. "A little marijuana for one of the students and chemo drugs showing in the municipal worker, but nothing else."
Tying her hair back in a hasty ponytail, Olivia rose from her stool and paced the room's perimeter. Counting the bodies as though one might have departed, she turned back to Astrid.
"Charlie called and said none were related, friends or even lived in the same part of town. Even the students went to different schools. But they all came together in the same field and collapsed for no earthly reason."
"Makes perfect sense," Peter chimed in from the doorway. "We haven't been on good terms with the earthly lately."
The blond agent's smile was fleeting but the light in her eyes held fast. "Are you done yelling at your father?"
"For the moment." Pushing off the frame, the younger Bishop entered the room, ignoring the cadavers. "Until he demands another dessert requiring a miracle."
Astrid collected fresh tissue samples and rushed out of the morgue. Moments happened between those two when left alone, she knew, and enjoyed promoting the fact. Meanwhile, the bodies grew deader under their gaze and Olivia stepped back to reclaim her stool.
"We need more information. Where they started their day, where they were going, why they stopped at that field."
Never one to sit when activity beckoned, Peter moved toward the door. "Well, Walter would remind us that corn has ears, so let's see if they heard anything."
.......
Forty miles north of Boston, neat rows waved to the black SUV in the dying summer breeze. Fall was quickly approaching and the tall stalks would soon be leveled. The crime scene tape, tied to the only upright things available, swayed along with the stalks. But the crime scene's immediate area was barren, trampled stalks and leaves browning under the sun. The bodies had been found by a boy cutting through the field to get home from baseball practice. His glove, dropped in his fright, remained on the ground next to an almost square hole. As Peter and Olivia searched, similar holes were found to form, when connected, a large rectangle.
"These were made by two-by-fours," Peter said while his fingers dug around in one of the holes. "Maybe a selling stand or a platform?"
The wind kicked up, threatening to pull Olivia's hair from the black elastic. Ignoring the disarray being produced, she turned a slow counterclockwise, taking in the silos in the distance, the sloppy V of geese overhead and the lack of traffic.
"Platform for what? You couldn't have seen it from the road."
Rising, Peter performed an opposing circle of his own, with an eye toward a different purpose. "Unless the point wasn't to be seen. Probably selling something stronger than vegetables."
"Customers would have to know it was here. And likely be local." Flipping open her cell phone, Dunham dialed Charlie's number. "It's me. Have your men set up a canvas of the area near the scene. Ask if anyone knew about drugs or guns being sold in the field."
Returning her attention to the flattened earth, Olivia found her companion hunched down over a crumpled paper. Using a stick, Peter turned the page over and then motioned for her to join him. Kneeling down, they read a homemade flier of cheap paper and faded ink.
"Come ye, Brother Death, to those who perpetuate Uncle Sin's purposes." Peter read the header aloud, though most of the actual text was obscured by the crinkles. What print still legible was a harsh, raving discourse on the 'defective' people and the author's new revelation.
"Could be some sort of preacher trying to gain a following." Olivia rose on protesting legs to step away from the vile paper. "Or maybe he already has."
"Maybe the five victims were defective?"
"Or maybe his religion involves ritual suicide." Dialing Charlie again, Olivia headed back to the SUV. "Charlie, also ask if anyone has family members suspected of joining a cult."
"Maybe they kicked the puppy too," Peter mused to the audience of stalks.
Chapter 2 shall be forthcoming. Thoughts are encouraged!