A Touch of Darkness
by B.C. Brown
Book Blurb:
Abigail St. Michael, a former cop, has joined the recently growing ranks of metaphysicals, individuals with abilities outside that of normal human nature. When a murderer stalks her town killing children, Abbey uses her ability of touch clairvoyance to hunt him down. Her only roadblock is that her murderer seems to have his own unique talent, the ability to ‘wipe’ his victims and their surroundings of any metaphysical energy. With little physical evidence and no supernatural evidence, Abbey is forced to rely on instinct and luck to solve the case. However both Abbey’s luck and instinct seem to have taken a permanent vacation as the victims keep piling up with the killer’s escalating blood lust.
Book Excerpt:
Lieutenant Jason Davis was a tall man with thinning auburn hair and a thick mustache that reminded me of a squirrel in desperate need of Rogaine. You might mistake him for merely being tall, but trust me I know tall since I myself am well over six feet; Lieutenant Davis was freakishly tall. If I had to gauge a guess-
Don’t ask; don’t tell.
-I’d estimate him around the seven feet mark. Once I’d heard he had been offered a basketball scholarship to some prestigious university because of his height, but he’d turned it down to go to community college and become a cop. Davis said it was because he liked police work.
Bullshit!
Nobody likes police work. We’re good at it, and nobody else wants the fucking job.
I’d said as much to him at one point, and he’d only shrugged and ambled away. If Davis didn’t answer a question or comment I’d make, I’d learned throughout the years, it was because he agreed with me but couldn’t say it outright. I’d never had that problem; I said everything outright – even when I should just keep my fucking mouth shut.
I watched Davis as he blew on his fingers, flexing them in the chill late night/early morning air, as I strolled up to him, smiling despite the ridiculous hour.
Really, why couldn’t criminals be more considerate and only commit crimes between the hours of nine to five, Monday through Friday? I mean, jeez, don’t they want a nice, normal routine like the rest of mankind?
“Good to see we haven’t ruined your amusement, Abbey,” he growled.
All right, growled was probably too strong a word for Davis’s voice. For such an incredibly tall man, he had a high-pitched and soft voice, but I knew the tone he implied; it was an ability I’d picked up over the years.
FYI: Always know your boss’s tone.
I stared at the man and brought my croissant up for a big bite. I tore at the buttery, flaky bread with gusto noticing how the golden yellow of the crust contrasted with the chocolate creaminess of my fingertips, the crumbs dusting the dark mocha of my palm like graham cracker crumbs atop hot chocolate. I’d taken off my glove to eat the croissant. The damn thing dripped buttery goodness and I didn’t want to get butter all over my glove as I chowed down.
I knew this great little bakery down on 19th street that had the best breads and pastries.
Oh, too die for, I tell you!
This sweet little German lady named Helga owned it. Yeah, I know that Helga is a bit typical a name for a German woman but, hand-to-God, it was true. I’d met the woman a few years back prior to entering her baking establishment when I’d helped catch her husband’s murderer.
Du-du-du-du: You are now entering a place, another dimension, known as The Twilight Zone…
The police had speculated that Irving Schleck had been mugged and then shoved down a flight of subway stairs not far from his home. These brilliant deductions by our fine men and women in uniform were made based on the fact that Mr. Schleck was located at the bottom of the stairwell and his wallet was missing.
Astonishing.
Elementary, my dear Watson, elementary.
It helped that, while the Schleck neighborhood was generally pretty tame, some unsavory elements had begun to creep into the once nice neighborhood a little more every year.
If it walks like a duck…
Davis didn’t think it was a duck, and he called me in. Of course, the quote-end-quote real police work had led the fine detectives to a dead end in the case. Davis only had permission to call me in on a case once all the real leads were exhausted.
No, that’s not sarcasm in my voice or anything?!
I’d gotten the call on my work cell. I actually have a second that I carried for just police work. For a while, my advisory jobs had become so hectic that the calls began to outnumber my personal ones. Davis had spoken to the police chief and gotten the force to foot the bill for a company phone.
Everyone referred to it as the “Bat Signal.”
I digress.
Davis called me in and, almost a week after the incident, I walked the crime scene for the first time. I was more than a little pissed. I was even more pissed when I arrived on the crime scene amidst a light drizzle.
Rain is a problem for individuals with my unique talents. Water washes away metaphysical energy as quickly as it washes away physical evidence. A violent event can get trapped for longer but eventually time and the elements fade the energy no matter how violent the event. I mean, I’m not still picking up shit from the Manson murders or anything.
Once I arrived on the crime scene, I was doubtful I’d pick up anything left over. I told Davis my doubts. He encouraged me to try, regardless; he always encouraged me to try. It was his special talent, I guess. So I slipped off my special-made gloves.
Clothing doesn’t always protect me from seeing impressions, but the gloves were a damned sight better than my walking around bare-skinned. That would land me back in the funny farm in no time. Trust me, I know, I’d been there once already. I had once brushed up against a woman who beat her two children on a twice-daily basis. I felt her glee as she did it; her happiness as she felt their little bones crunch under her/my hands…
Oh, God…
I digress.
Davis knew my doubts, but I did my job. I slipped off my sweet Italian, designer gloves and touched everything in sight. The railing, the stairs, the curb where he’d busted his damned head, and… nothing. Nada, zip, nein – no pun intended, Mr. Schleck. There was nothing left to see. I told my ex-boss as much, but I was wrong.
There was a cat.
Author Bio:
B.C. Brown was born with six fingers on each hand endowing her with super powers, thus enabling her to fight crime. When a freak Cuisinart accident severed the additional digits and her powers, B.C. was forced to fall back on her secondary talent – writing. Now she lives between the pages of a book – whether she has written it or not. Until she finds the surgeon to restore her fingers and powers, she has published three novels to date. She has also been included in two anthology collections. She enjoys writing mystery, paranormal romance, science fiction and fantasy but is always in the mood for a challenge to branch out. You can follow her crime fighting or writing at twitter or facebook.
Contact/Buy Links:
http://www.bcbrownbooks.blogspot.com
http://www.facebook.com/BCBrowns.Books
http://www.twitter.com/BCBrownBooks
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