This is probably the most common question that any professional writer (or any writer really) gets asked. And the answer is usually the same: You read, you write. But beyond that there are some questions you need to answer for yourself.
The first, and most important, is why do you want to write? Most people don’t want to be writers. They want approval, recognition, money – all things that there are easier and better ways to get. Pretend, if you would, that your future self showed up on your doorstep tomorrow and told you that you’d never get published, your work would never be shared outside of whatever reading group you joined, and you would die in a house fire that would also consume all of your works, preventing any from being published posthumously. Would you still write?
If the answer to that is yes, then the next question you need to decide on is what type of writer do you want to be. There’s an attitude among those that make a living at writing that unless you’re drawing a paycheck then you aren’t a “real” writer. And they can’t be blamed for this. It’s a tough racket and you need to tell yourself something to feel good about it. But it’s also hogwash. Emily Dickinson didn’t make dime one off her writing and if you want to tell me she wasn’t a writer I’d say you deserve a slap in the face. Conversely, Stephen King is a writer and he’s got more money than Algeria.
So do you want to write for you? Or for someone else? The most successful writers ultimately write for themselves, but spend years writing for other people. Stan Lee spent decades writing what other people told him to write until he got so fed up he finally wrote one book the way he wanted and was stunned to find that it was an outrageous success. But he wouldn’t have been able to do that if he didn’t have the tools writing for other people had given him. Another writer I’m acquainted with spent years writing copy for a wood catalogue (wood, as in planks of) until he finally developed the skills he needed to successfully write his own stuff. Trust me, spending a few years figuring out how to make wood sound interesting will sharpen your pencil better than an MFA.
My only advice in this regard would be that if you want to make a living writing, never write for anyone else unless they are paying you. Otherwise, thank them for their time and go back to your copy editing job. Can’t find a job writing? Find a job that’s interesting (EMT, lawyer, teacher) and write about that.
If you want to write for yourself, your task is really no less difficult. Although, if you’re in this situation your either an insomniac or you’ve carved out a chunk of time every day to write, you’ll ultimately be beset by doubts that you are wasting your time. And that may be true. There are over 7 billion people on the planet, a good chunk of which want to be writers (or perhaps just creators). What makes your voice unique? What do you have to say that isn’t being by said by everyone else?
Even thinking about the enormity of that task makes me want to cry a little. You’ll spend years in solitary work trying to answer that question. When you find the answer, though, it will be no different than the monk who awakens from his daily meditation to realize he knows who he is. When you figure out who you are and how that informs your writing, validation from outside sources just doesn’t have the meaning or weight it once did.
So there’s the simple fact that what type of writer you want to be has a lot more dimensions to it than the type of financial success you want to achieve. So start with deciding what type of writer you want to be, which is about as complicated a question as deciding who you want to be as a person.
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
Every culture has a story of the Wolf. Sometimes it’s the black dog. Sometimes it’s called the hellhound. But it’s always the Wolf.
Like the flood, each of us carry the memory of the many nights our ancestors sat around the fire, wolves at the edges. When you close your eyes in your warm bed, sometimes you can feel the cold, the wind cutting through the furs you wear. You can hear the whispering of parents as they pull their children close, the shuffling of those unlucky enough to be at the edge of the firelight with nothing more than sharpened sticks to protect themselves and the tribe. No one is sure if the Wolf is there as a friend or hunter. But the Wolf is there.
The winter has been so long no one remembers when it began or can imagine it ending. Everyone around the fire has survived it, but so has the Wolf. We have that in common. Food is scarce enough that sometimes the Wolf sits near the fire, hoping to find scraps. Sometimes it leads our hunters to prey that the Wolf can’t kill alone. Sometimes it waits in the dark and snatches children away, only the cries of the mothers and shouts of the fathers to mark the disappearance.
Humans understand that a thing can be many things. We learned that lesson long ago. And the Wolf taught it to us.
Rafi glanced at McPherson in the rearview mirror. “We are being followed.”
“Since we left Iobairt.”
“I did not notice until after the funeral.”
“You’re getting better at this, Rafi.” He took this as the compliment the analyst intended. “Why don’t you find us a place to get coffee. It’s a long way back to Slakterquay.”
Rafi located a cafe on a corner near the small district that passed for Urquhart’s downtown. The car following them, a 2-door coupe with no grill and tinted windows, predictably followed his turns until they arrived.
The inside of the coffee shop contained the typical crowd; a tired mother, nursing a massive coffee and small baby, a queue of jittery addicts waiting for refills, a number of individuals working on laptops. Rafi breathed in the American privilege, then stepped into his place in line. Moments behind, a man followed him in, speaking loudly and obnoxiously into a mobile. He was a gora in t-shirt, fleece, cargo khakis, and spotless trainers. From his association with the analyst, Rafi could tell these items were expensive, which highlighted the bucket hat that did not fit with the rest of his outfit.
A short wait and conversation with a tattooed barista later, Rafi was leaving with a black coffee. Before he reached the exit, though, he heard the phone caller end his conversation with, “I’ll call you right back,” followed by a, “Can I speak to you for a moment?” Rafi took a few extra steps to make sure he conveyed a surprise he did not feel.
Years of politeness ingrained in him through threats of violence, first from his grandfather then from countless corrupt officials, informed Rafi’s, “Yes?”
Towering over Rafi, the man had the pudgy exterior of someone who was once thin, but had lost that to a sedentary lifestyle. Sitting in a cab much of the time almost resulted in Rafi sharing the same fate. Only his love for Delilah and their children kept him in the exercise regime that he barely had time for. This man, perhaps, had no one to love him.
The man extended a large hand, “Chet Busey.”
Rafi glanced at the extended appendage and said, “Pardon my rudeness, Mr. Busey, but I have a fare waiting.”
Chet smiled. “I understand. I’m an entrepreneur myself.” He continued as if Rafi had not just told him he was busy, “Could I speak to you and your passenger?”
“They are quite eager to be on with their business.”
Chet pulled off his bucket hat, revealing an unruly mop of light brown hair. “Isn’t that them?”
Rafi heard the small, tinny noise of the coffee house bell and looked to see the analyst step in. No longer wearing her unnecessarily large sunglasses, McPherson’s violet eyes flitted between Rafi and Chet, dancing in a way that suggested there was a surprise birthday party afoot. “Who’s your friend, Rafi?”
“This is Chet.” He resisted the urge to correct the analyst. This man was not his friend. “He wishes to speak with us.”
McPherson stepped away from the entry, then smiled at the brown-haired giant. “Nice to meet you, Chet. How did you know we were going to be here?”
The big man became flustered. “I, uh, may have followed you.”
Rafi heard the inhalation that marked McPherson biting back ridicule. “Oh? From the funeral?”
“Well, nearby. I don’t think any of the funeral attendants would have appreciated my appearance.” Chet put his hat back on and Rafi realized it was meant to act as a low-key disguise.
McPherson eyed the tall man, up and down. “I can understand that. Your sartorial choices leave a lot to be desired.”
The big man’s lips curled back. “What? No. I mean they wouldn’t have liked me being there.”
“Why is that?”
“Could we talk outside?”
“I’d prefer not.” McPherson headed into a room off the main service area. The wooden mosaic of the floor was relatively without blemish, suggesting that most of the establishment’s patrons took their coffee to go. The room was empty.
McPherson sat at a table and Chet immediately joined her, dispelling any pretense that he was here to speak with Rafi. Whether this was from knowledge of the analyst’s occupation or that she was his fare, he couldn’t say. He sat at a nearby table where he could listen to the conversation and watch the room’s entrance.
“So why not speak to us at the funeral, Mr. Busey?”
“Well, like I said, I didn’t,” Chet stopped, avoiding the trap of McPherson’s wit. “I didn’t want anyone to know I was there.”
“Why is that?”
“I had bought a home here in Urquhart before the Shangri-La fire, during the pandemic. I tried to hold onto the land after, but the town council took it back claiming eminent domain.” Chet could have looked unhappier, but Rafi wasn’t sure how. “I fought them. In the legal sense, I mean, but it was swatted down by a local judge. I launched an appeal, but they started building anyway. It’s been tied up in court since.”
“I can understand why that would be upsetting. Hardly seems fair.”
“Fair is for children,” Chet pronounced in a somewhat childish way. “I want what’s rightfully mine. Are you here to investigate the fire?”
“I’m here to look into an arson death.” If Chet noticed the verbal legerdemain, the analyst rode over that with, “Why did the town seize your land?”
“They said the land needed to be used for community purposes, citing the deaths and destruction of the fire as an emotional wound to Urquhart. One that out-of-town homeowners wouldn’t be able to heal.
“Which is rich. I lost friends in that fire.” Chet did not appear saddened by his statement, but his anger continued to rise. “Important people, guys who make fortunes, change the world.”
McPherson’s eyes became like pools, opaque as her sunglasses. “There wasn’t an evacuation?”
“The fire moved fast. I was headed to San Jose when it started. By the time I got turned around, the fire had already burned through most of our houses.” Chet gritted his teeth.
“‘So the other owners were also from out of town?”
“More like out of state. A number of us who wanted to keep working together during the pandemic bought second homes here. We wanted our own quarantine bubble.”
McPherson was about to reply when a tall employee, cheeks nearly as red as their hair, poked their head in the room. “Excuse me, but if you’re going to stay, please make a purchase.”
Rafi cooly sipped his coffee as he watched Busey turn to the barista. “Look, this is very important. Please just give us a few minutes.” He added sharply, “A few uninterrupted minutes.” Under his withering stare, the employee disappeared back through the doorframe.
Busey blinked and shook his head before returning to face McPherson. “As I was saying – “
McPherson interrupted him with a cool smirk. “Go buy us a cup of coffee.”
“What?”
“Mr. Busey, I’m not working for you. I’m listening to you out of courtesy. If you want to keep talking, then – please – go buy us a cup of coffee.” McPherson placed the tip of her right finger on the table as if something in front of her had gone missing.
“I don’t understand.” Busey hooked a thumb at Rafi. “What about him?”
“He has coffee.”
“Yeah, but he works for you. Can’t he – ?”
McPherson moved to stand. “Well, Chet, have a day.”
“Wait.” Busey held up his hands. “OK, give me a minute.” With an expression like a hurt puppy, Busey got up from his chair and departed into the other room. When he returned with two cups of coffee, Rafi hid his smile behind sipping his own.
“There.” Busey set one of the coffees he was carrying in front of McPherson.
Without touching the beverage, McPherson prompted. “You were saying?”
Busey collected himself, then, “As some of us from the Valley – “
“The Valley?”
“Silicon Valley?” Chet asked, tone questioning McPherson’s intelligence for not knowing this. “Anyway, we bought homes out here during the pandemic. We wanted our own quarantine bubble, a place where we could collaborate together.”
“Is that all?”
“Well, there were social reasons.”
“Social reasons,” McPherson echoed, staring as if the words created some invisible construct between her and Chet that she examined before continuing. “So you bought up a bunch of homes and changed the town dynamics when it up-ended the housing market. Not to mention increasing rents for everyone who didn’t own their home.”
If McPherson aimed any guilt at Busey, he swatted it away with an easy, “Hey now. I didn’t drive up rents for anyone. I just bought a house.”
“So why don’t the people of Urquhart want you at Randall Waynes’s funeral?”
“They don’t want me around at all. Particularly the police chief and his pet preacher. They don’t like that I’ve been fighting them on the redevelopment of Shangri-La into Iobairt.” Chet leaned back in his chair. “I met Randall Wayne one time. It was right after I had driven all the way from California to tell the city council to stop building, that what they were doing was illegal.”
“Ah,” McPherson said, smiling at the alleviation of her own ignorance. “So that’s when you met Wayne?”
“Yeah. In the city hall parking lot. He tried to intimidate me into leaving town.” Busey puffed up his chest. “He made a lot of not so subtle threats. I nearly clobbered him.” Having seen Wayne before his incineration, Rafi seriously doubted that Busey could have done much against him.
“I see.” McPherson’s gaze pierced Busey, the tall man slowly deflating under it. “Did he ever do anything that was actionable? That you could take to the police?”
“No. But I got the feeling things were headed that way.”
“And yet you’re still here. Very commendable.” Busey sat up a bit straighter at the inspector’s praise. “Yet the fire was quite some time ago. Why would you think I was here to investigate that?”
“Well, I mean, you said you so.”
“No, I said I was here to investigate an arson death. Randall Wayne and several of his companions died traveling here from the coast. The car they were in burst into flames.” McPherson watched Busey very carefully as she made the last statement.
“I knew he died but,” he stopped, sipped his coffee. “Well, it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy.” He shrugged. “When you were driving around Iobrait I guess I thought you were from an insurance company. I’ve been trying to get someone out here to look into the fire, but you’re the first person I’ve seen from out of town.”
“So that’s the nearby you followed us from.” McPherson shook her head. “I’m afraid that we aren’t insurance inspectors, Chet.”
Busey crinkled his brow, seemingly unable to accept that a reason that he hadn’t thought of could exist. “Then who do you work for?”
“I’m afraid that’s confidential.” McPherson stood up. “But I wouldn’t count on getting your land back from the town.”
Busey’s confusion upgraded to alarm, his features coming together in an angry pucker. “What? Why not?”
“I’m not sure there’s going to be a town left when I’m done.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” The dull entitlement that had been in Busey’s eyes turned into a blaze of indignation. “Who are you?”
McPherson stood up, coffee untouched. “My name is Aggie McPherson. I’m a spectral analyst.”
Busey’s eyes narrowed and he grinned at the analyst, as if he finally understood her game. “Then can I hire you?”
“I only take on one client at a time, Chet” McPherson buttoned her jacket. “But I could recommend a colleague. Or perhaps a sympathetic member of law enforcement?”
Busey moved to stand, but the mention of police paused him in his chair. “Uh, no, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
McPherson hid her eyes behind her round sunglasses. “That’s what I thought.” The analyst’s smile broadened. “Good luck, Chet. But I’d head back to the Valley if I were you.”
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
No one wanted the job, so we picked by lottery. Out there in the woods, we did it by choosing straws. Normally, the guards would choose, but when it came to the witch’s house, they stood aside. They were guards, not executioners.
Tommy got the short straw, so he was sent in. It was a bright, clear October day. The guards took him off the chain and he smiled, free and standing in sunshine for one moment. The door to the witch’s house was as dark as midnight, though, and he disappeared through the liminal space of the threshold.
We waited. We waited as long as we could. While we did, the guards ordered us to clear out underbrush, gathering wood for the night’s fire and to make sure a lightening strike didn’t burn down the house. There wasn’t another one for miles around and no one wanted the witch without a home. That would leave her walking through the forests, with no way to find her. Since the plague, we needed to know where she was, even if it was just to avoid her.
When the sun started to go down, the guards ordered us to gather up. No one protested. We carried our bundles of wood and shuffled back to camp, our chains clinking all the way.
No one ever saw Tommy again. That night, though, we found where the witch had lain the panacea by the fire. It was a good deal.
The town had indeed rolled out for the funeral. Even before they returned to the cemetery long lines of cars formed to impede their progress. Eventually, the plot that was their destination became clear by the headstone with its decorations, big and small, lolling up the green hill’s gentle elevation. Rafi did not often dwell on death, but admitted to himself that this was a lovely place if one wished to be interred.
As if Wayne’s death had its own gravity, the burial plot was surrounded by rings of people, all in somber dress. The road nearest the site was filled with cars, the closest being a long black hearse, with police cruisers in front and behind. The rest of the vehicles, Rafi noted, appeared to be of the huge variety Americans preferred.
McPherson requested he park far from the ceremony. There was little choice with all of the traffic, but Rafi was glad to park where his taxi would not be scratched or dented by careless drivers. As he put on the parking break, McPherson hopped out. She walked around to driver’s side and stared through the glass, prompting Rafi to roll down his window.
The analyst smiled and asked, “Well?”
“Indeed, I am well. I feel no need to get closer to the private business of this man’s death.”
McPherson leaned away from the car, making certain he had a view of the crowd and vehicles surrounding the funeral. “I’d hardly call it private.”
While the analyst had a point, Rafi also saw the many white faces that topped black clothes, a stark contrast without a gradient between them. He shook his head, “Urquhart has already demonstrated it is not welcoming to outsiders.”
“C’mon, Rafi. We won’t get too close. I need an extra set of eyes.”
“For what?”
“To see the things I don’t.” McPherson said this as if it were obvious.
“Very well,” Rafi conceded, stepping out of the car.
Fortunately, the analyst chose the top of a knoll under a poplar tree, far from the crowd. From under it, the pair had a clear view of the proceedings.
Curious, Rafi asked, “What will we learn from here?”
“Oh, c’mon Rafi. This is a classic moment. We’re strangers watching a funeral from afar, standing in the shade of a tree. Try to enjoy it.”
“Enjoy what?”
“The mystique, the mystery, being in the moment. Whatever you want to call it. Now shut up and watch.”
To Rafi, the crowd was largely one indistinguishable blob, an ouroboros of mourning that surrounded the casket. The only exception was a man standing in the center with the coffin and the hole it was soon to be placed in. Taller and thinner than most in the crowd, he also wore a stole of white, red and gold. All of this marked him as some kind of holy man. With a full head of gray hair, he had no need for a hat to protect his head from the spring sun, but raised both hands as he exhorted the large crowd. His voice was almost audible from where Rafi and the analyst stood.
“That must be Pastor Neumann,” McPherson said. To Rafi, as rough as it could be, McPherson’s voice always carried a somewhat musical nature, as if she were thinking of a song. Now, though, it was flat, toneless. Rafi decided he did not like this Pastor Neumann.
“Whelp,” McPherson’s voice returned to its normal legerity. “I don’t see anyone else skulking about. That’s disappointing.” For the first time, Rafi took his eyes from the crowd and looked across the cemetery’s open areas to find that the analyst was correct. They were the only ones at the event not participating. Why this was disappointing to McPherson, he couldn’t say.
The pair watched the funeral which proceeded in the way of most funerals; gathering sad faces, some weeping, some empty, words of promise from a holy man, the lowering of the casket, then an eventual dispersal of the crowd. What made this different than any other mourning ritual Rafi had witnessed was the presence of so many police, never to be trusted in any country he had traveled through. Even at their distance, Rafi felt he was gathering stares from these men. This was not strange to him. However, as the crowd began to separate and become individuals again, Rafi felt others stare as well.
While Randall Wayne was clearly important to the town, Rafi surmised he must have had no family in Urquhart. No grieving wife or children were a part of the receiving line. Only the pastor and the police chief shook hands and muttered words of commiseration to departing mourners. No surprise to Rafi, who had witnessed Randall’s charm.
When only a few mourners remained McPherson popped off the tree she was leaning against and began the long walk to the gravesite. Neumann murmured to each of the individuals as they passed him. One or two, he embraced. The policeman, though, had removed his sunglasses, so Rafi saw his angry glances at their approach. Rafi tried to keep his rising heart rate under control, feeling his hands dampen as they got closer.
With the last person off, McPherson closed the distance and Niall faced the pair. Rafi noted his glare was much more intimidating than the reflective shield of his glasses. The big man turned to McPherson and said, “What do you want?”
The pastor turned to them with his head of gray hair. For a man who appeared advanced in age, his shoulders filled out his black suit, making him nearly as imposing as the police chief. Not as tall as Niall, he still towered above McPherson and Rafi. Unlike his law enforcement counterpart, though, Neumann smiled widely, revealing straight, white teeth. “Now Chief, that’s not a very Christian attitude.”
“These two aren’t Christian,” Niall’s reply was immediate and certain.
“Well, we won’t change that by being rude.” The pastor extended his hand into the nebulous region between Rafi and McPherson. “I’m Pastor Charles Neumann.”
McPherson took his hand, Rafi grateful to have the decision removed from him. “Please to meetcha,” said the diminutive analyst. “I’m Aggie McPherson. This is my associate Rafi Mohan.”
Niall layered his next words with derision. “Spectral analyst. Goes after spooks and specters.”
Neumann chuckled, almost too loud for a cemetery, as he took back his hand. He indicated their surroundings with his eyes. “Well, you’ve come to the right place.”
McPherson returned the smile, which to Rafi’s surprise held some warmth. “You believe in ghosts, pastor?”
“I believe in the Holy Spirit,” he replied. “So I believe in the unseen.”
“I think that’s quite a bit more than the chief here.”
The Pastor sneaked a smirk at Niall. “I think you’ll find that many in Urquhart are haunted.”
McPherson perked up at this. “How so?”
“Aren’t all of us haunted by past deeds and mistakes?” Neumann swung his gaze between McPherson and Rafi. “I think you two might be familiar with that.”
“Don’t you know it,” McPherson replied without hesitation. “Most of the time it’s not places that are haunted, it’s people.”
Neumann nodded knowingly. “All too true. So what brings you to Urquhart?”
Niall growled, “Don’t waste time with these two.”
Fuzzy brows coming together, Neumann frowned at his comrade. “There’s no need to be rude, Niall.” The chief only grunted lowly as the pastor continued to McPherson, “So what can we do for you?”
“We’re visiting because Randall Wayne was fleeing a number of crimes when he died on his way to Urquhart.”
“What?” The holy man turned to Niall. “Did you know about this?”
“I know what they’re claiming. I checked this morning. There weren’t any warrants out for Wayne.”
Neumann leveled his gaze at Niall. Under the pastor’s penetrating stare, the police chief rolled his shoulders in his uniform. He added, “He may have been the person of interest in a number of high profile robberies.”
“And you didn’t tell me about this?”
Niall stood straight, eyes straight ahead. “I didn’t know. And being a person of interest doesn’t mean he was guilty of anything.”
“And who was he a person of interest to? The Feds, the X’Komish, the Slakterquay PD?” Rafi found his eyes going between the two men as Neumann spoke, wondering at a holy man’s casual knowledge of possible trouble-seekers.
“The Feds think the X’Komish and the woman they have in custody are responsible.”
“Oh,” McPherson dragged out the word. “That’s not true. There’s nothing that indicates that the X’Komish were responsible for the thefts.”
“They are sheltering a primary suspect,” Niall answered.
McPherson spoke to the pastor. “She’s in a reservation hospital because she’s dying of heavy metal poisoning. She’s X’Komish, so they’re trying to give her treatment rather than having her die in jail.”
Neumann shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I’m confused. What does this have to do with specters? Or our town?”
McPherson shrugged. “Hopefully nothing. But Wayne was a suspect in several thefts of a seemingly impossible nature, with very high payouts. When confronted with this information, he immediately headed here. He died when his car burst into flame on the highway.”
“Yes,” the pastor spoke the words as someone who saw the body. “I thought that was an accident.”
“Not likely,” McPherson went on. “Did you know Randall Wayne was a member of the Legion of Silver Shields?”
“Silver what?”
“Silver Shields. It’s a white supremacist group, headquartered near Slakterquay.” Rafi envied the analyst’s perfect pronunciation of the strange Norwegian word.
Neumann, though, brought his eyebrows together. “That’s unsettling. There are a number of our flock that have fled from Slakterquay to seek peace here.”
McPherson took off her big sunglasses so her violet eyes were clear to the pastor. “You’ve got a lot of former military out here.”
“We do. We’ve set up Iobairt to provide housing and help some of the more troubled veterans reintegrate into society.”
“Yeah, we saw the neighborhood earlier today. Spoke to Sergeant Coward.”
Neumann chuckled. “He of the unfortunate name.”
“All too true. Nice enough guy. Any former law enforcement living in Iobairt?”
Neumann pursed his lips, then, “No. All former military.”
“Really?” McPherson seemed surprised, not something Rafi was accustomed to seeing. “Because I did a little asking around before we headed this way. A lot of the people who moved in after the fire were former law enforcement. Mostly from Southern California, but from all over the country as well.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“I thought you said there weren’t any former police living in Urquhart.”
“You asked if there were any living in Iobairt.”
“Quite right. But with housing prices being what they are, how do police afford it? The veterans have help, but with the merry band of Silicon Valley disruptors buying up homes during the pandemic, how would cops afford to live here?”
“It’s true the coastal elite have bought up a lot of real estate, but the fire caused home prices to crash,” answered Nuemann.
McPherson tilted her head, examining the pastor from a new angle. “That doesn’t make sense. Supply and demand would suggest the fewer houses there are, the more they would cost.”
“I don’t know much about economics, Ms. McPherson, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Just McPherson. Or inspector. Take your pick.” The analyst grinned as she said this, as if offering the pastor his choice of fabulous prizes.
“And I understand not getting economics.” McPherson emphasized the second verb of her sentence. “But what I don’t get is how you don’t know about the Silver Shields when they’ve crossed paths with law enforcement many times. And a number of cops living here were asked to retire early after racial confrontations, excessive force, or dangerous behavior.”
“Now listen here – ” Niall attempted to interrupt McPherson but was cut off by the pastor.
“Well, now, it sounds like you know more about my flock than I do.” Rafi watched Neumann as his smile became rigid. “That’s embarrassing. But I still find it hard to believe that Randall Wayne was a member of this Silver Shields group.”
“Do you now? Well, I suppose that would be surprising to anyone. One of his buddies, Boswell Hull, got picked up with a van full of firearms near a church in Slakterquay.”
“That’s awful.” Neumann intoned solemnly.
“I read about that,” Niall added dismissively. “Someone phoned in a bomb threat. No one was hurt.”
Neumann raised his eyes slightly to the sky. “Thank Heaven for that.” He brought his gaze back to McPherson. “Well, inspector, you’ll pardon me, but my duties for today are not yet done.”
McPherson smiled and placed her large sunglasses back on her face. “Of course. Do you mind one more question?”
“Very well.”
“Do you know a man named Haddo Skull?”
At that, the pastor began a good laugh, but remembering he was in a graveyard, turned it into a cough into his hand. McPherson didn’t laugh, but watched him until he said, “Oh my, you’re serious. What a, uhm, unconventional name. No, I’ve never met anyone named Haddo Skull.”
Adjusting her dark glasses, McPherson watched the pastor. Then, “Well, thank you for your time.”
The pastor smiled. “On a dreary and sad day inspector, I can say that I appreciate your questions.” Next to him the police chief placed his own sunglasses onto his broad nose, reminding Rafi of a photo he had seen of MacArthur.
“Speaking of which,” McPherson added in the way Rafi had seen her do when she actually had many more questions, “for the new neighborhood, why did you pick the name Iobairt?”
The pastor’s face dropped into seriousness. “It came to me through divine revelation.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It speaks to the tree of life.”
McPherson paused, sunglasses seeming to vibrate with a minute electric current. “Actually, it doesn’t.”
At this contradiction, Neumann became as stone, his voice carrying a hint of the police chief’s obvious displeasure. “I believe it’s a kind of birch.”
“No, Iobairt is an old word, but I know it. It means sacrifice.”
McPherson let the word sink in, then smiled in a way that Neumann wasn’t anymore. “Well, we’ll let you get back to your duties.”
The pastor’s grin flickered briefly back to life. “Yes. Thank you.”
The analyst turned and walked briskly back in the direction of the taxi. Caught between forces, Rafi had to control an urge to flee back to his vehicle.
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Fatima’s only reprieve from leadership was her gender. She was glad that she did not need to bear responsibility for heading the council. Her brother would, by right of his birth, would take it instead. She wanted nothing more than to ride free on the horses, find a man she loved, and bake bread for the children they would have together.
Until their father fell ill and her brother, Asadel, became regent in his place. In an eagerness Fatima never expected, her brother heaped trouble upon trouble onto the council he led. Disputes were settled in his friend’s favor, gifts were sent to flatter his growing ego, even basic duties such as overseeing the herd began to go untended.
When it became too much, she disappeared one night, only to return as Filaq, lost brother to the tribe. Her father recognized her, answering the council’s questions of her heritage with a nod. A wave of his hand indicated he wished Filaq to be his regent.
While Asadel seethed, Faliq was welcomed as a fair arbiter, a wise master of the herdsman, and one who lived as humbly as the rest. Perhaps most admired of all, was the time Faliq spent with his father, even though he could not speak and communicating with him could be as difficult as interpreting tea leaves.
In his anger and jealousy at being usurped, Asadel began to spy on the new regent, even going so far as to follow when they went to pass water. Seeing Filaq crouch in the bushes, he strode forward to confront the sibling he knew to be Fatima, seeking to reestablish his dominance.
Few knew what became of Asadel. Even fewer mourned him.
