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.
From his taxi, Rafi watched the exchange between his boss and the formally dressed policeman become more heated. After McPherson touched the big ruddy officer a second time, the cop tried to smack her hand away. Only a quick retraction of the offending member prevented physical contact, causing Rafi to sigh with relief. The last thing he wanted was to have to bail McPherson out of jail in this gora town.
As quickly as she had walked to the burial site, the inspector zipped back to the car. Sliding into the backseat, she abruptly announced, “Well, I figured out what Wayne was doing with all that money he stole.”
“What?” Rafi looked at his boss through the rearview mirror. “How did you determine this?”
“This here town’s sheriff told me,” McPherson said in a cowboy sing-song.
“He admitted to you he was an accomplice in grand larceny?”
McPherson peered over the edges of her sunglasses, violet eyes meeting Rafi’s in the mirror. He opted not to point out he was being sarcastic to let her reply, “No. Wayne’s been been ‘contributing’ to the community. It sounds like he’s been contributing in some very expensive ways.” In what felt like one of McPherson’s non-sequiturs that almost every conversation with her involved, she asked, “Mind looking something up for me?”
Rafi had stopped asking why McPherson didn’t get a smartphone a long time ago. He got his out, checked his data reception, then said, “Certainly.”
“Do a quick search on fires in Urquhart, particularly around a place called Iobairt. Would have happened in the last few years.”
Rafi duly tapped in the words as he heard them (Ee Uh Birch fire) and reported to the inspector he found nothing. McPherson gently corrected him to the improbable spelling of Iobairt. With a few corresponding details, Rafi found several results. “Iobairt is a neighborhood in Urquhart. It was once named Shangri-La, but that burned down two years ago and was rebuilt as Iobairt.” He read on, adding, “A fitting name for a residential community in a place with such a strange name as Urquhart.”
“Yes. Urquhart and Iobairt are from the same root language.”
Rafi nodded, pretending to understand. “The wildfire was in 2024. It says that the fire nearly consumed all of Urquhart. Arson was suspected.”
“Dry seasons are getting drier,” McPherson remarked dryly. “Sometimes I think the human race has parked its car on the railroad tracks and doesn’t believe in trains.”
“We are all mad dogs and Englishman,” Rafi agreed, then returned to the article. “There was a homeless encampment outside of town and many think it started there. But the transients living there made into the wind, so none were apprehended. Few were hurt, but it cost the insurance companies very much money.” Rafi didn’t think he was an analyst, but he had been around McPherson long enough that this sounded suspicious.
“Why was it so expensive for the insurers?”
Rafi held up his mobile. “Do you wish to borrow my phone?”
McPherson replied with a definite, “No.”
Rafi shook his head and returned to the screen. “Ah,” he said, gleaning enough information before finishing the article. “Apparently many of the wealthy from out of state bought homes in Urquhart during the pandemic. As a result, home prices greatly increased.”
“I bet it also screwed anyone renting or with an adjustable rate mortgage.”
Rafi shrugged, shoulders nearly touching his cap. “So that is what happened.”
McPherson slid her wrist out of her coat sleeve to look at her very shiny and gem-studded watch. “The funeral still isn’t for a few hours. Let’s go check it out.” Despite an increasing sense of apprehension, Rafi tapped in the address and clipped his phone onto the dashboard to follow the route.
As a taxi driver, Rafi had done most of his work in Slakterquay, a town that had grown from a fur trading outpost to the Paris of the Pacific Northwest in less than two centuries. Like most things that grew, it didn’t unfold so much as sprawl, each piece being added by another generation that cared little for the plans of the previous one. Unlike Seattle or San Francisco, it had never been razed by fire. It was a bramble of thoroughfares, roads, byways and highways, snaking between the old cobblestones of Harborside to the shining high-rises of the Trade District, crawling all along the Astra River.
The Urquhart community of Iobairt was the opposite. Its roads were paved perfectly flat, their white curbs all a regulation height, demarcated at unwavering lengths. Each house was a single family unit, something that was strange enough to Rafi. (How does one waste such space with one family? Three, four generations of a family certainly. But one? Ridiculous.) The homes were set close together and as identical as the roads. Garages connected to a small two-story homes with one front door, the facade painted a tan kind of yellow with shutters and gutters a highlighting white, the same color as the fence surrounding each backyard.
The road that split around the Iobairt sign quickly rejoined at a T-intersection. Rafi looked both ways to see nothing but a repetition of this in either direction, tessellating out into an endless suburb. Despite Urquhart’s cool morning, Rafi felt his hands sweat against the wheel. Where was everyone?
McPherson only sat in the back of the taxi hiding behind her Bollywood sunglasses. “Go right?” she requested. This was a good a decision as any, so Rafi turned right. He was unsure if it was the homes’ identical appearance or because the neighborhood’s nature made it feel as if children could come running out into the road at any moment, but he went very slowly.
The neighborhood appeared to be circular in nature, internal branches going inward to cul-de-sacs and roundabouts, but little else broke the pattern of perfect pavement, white curbs, and identical homes. It was only a few minutes of this before McPherson said, “Stop here, please.”
The taxi obeyed Rafi as it always did and slowed to a stop. He looked into the rearview mirror again to see McPherson scanning the area. Whatever was different about this spot, if anything, he had no idea, but he did not wish to linger. The hope that this might not be the case was dashed when McPherson announced, “I’ll be right back.”
The door popped open with the sound of a vacuum seal and McPherson stepped out before Rafi could say anything. Much to his confusion, though, she didn’t go anywhere. She walked the long way around the car like a runway model, swinging out the tails of her Tuscany coat, flared open to show her white dress shirt and purple pants. Rafi had never seen anyone sashay before, but he was pretty sure McPherson was doing it then.
Then she did nothing. Even with the ankle boots Rafi knew she was wearing, McPherson’s black-bobbed head barely cleared the top of the car, leaving her to observe the neighborhood through dark glasses. He was unsure why she hadn’t simply exited the passenger door she was now leaning against, but it left him with a wide view of the placid neighborhood.
Rafi sighed, knowing this could mean they might be there for a time, and so reached into his glove box for his copy of Emma. He maintained a correspondence book club with his sister and this was a good as an opportunity as any to catch up on the chapters they were to discuss.
He was interrupted by a terrible and unfortunate cry from one of the houses. He silently cursed the predictability of some Americans when he heard, “Hey hajji, what the fuck are you doing here?”
Hearing those words, Rafi breathed deep, calming himself with a quiet prayer. While hajji might be an honorific amongst his countrymen, he knew it often wasn’t with the gora of his new homeland.
Looking up from the glove box, he saw a man stride down the driveway from one of the homes, beard moving around his wide mouth as if he were the specter of some angry muhtasib. However, none of Rafi’s past teachers were muscular men with tree trunk arms covered in tattoos, carrying a long rifle. He felt his throat go dry and his tongue become thick in his mouth.
To his horror, McPherson stepped between him and the bearded man, interposing herself directly in the path of danger and possible bullets. “Holdfast squire!” Rafi could see McPherson’s hands splayed out, standing in front of the man as she yelled.
Whoever this man with the painted arms was, he stopped at McPherson’s interposition. “What the fuck did you just say?”
“I don’t know where you think you are,” McPherson returned his shouts in a calm tone, “but you are in the United States of America.” Without turning from the giant bearded man, the analyst pointed back towards Rafi. “And we are your countrymen. We are unarmed.”
The man stopped, lowering the rifle as if the morning sun chased away whatever was clouding his mind. He blinked, then looked around him, the tan homes and repeating drives coming into focus. He returned his brown eyes to McPherson and asked, “What are you doing here?”
McPherson slowly lowered her arms, keeping her hands out of her pockets. “We’re driving around Urquhart’s newest neighborhood. Nothing worth being shot over.”
The man looked down at the rifle as if it had just appeared in his arms. “I, uh, I’m sorry.”
“That’s OK,” McPherson responded gently. “Where did you serve, Ranger?”
The man stuttered, “How did you – “
“The tattoo on your right arm is common among veterans from the 75th. There may be a lot of losers desperate for stolen glory, but I haven’t met one yet stupid enough to get tattooed for it.” McPherson stepped towards the man, making Rafi’s heart race even as he very slowly moved his hands away from his glovebox. “Plus, not a lot of homicidal shooters care about trigger discipline. And the safety’s still on. You know how to carry your rifle.”
The bearded man actually laughed and Rafi released his first long breath since the man appeared. Almost bashfully, once he ceased laughing, the painted man answered, “Iraq and Syria.”
“Tough crowd,” McPherson answered, then extended her hand, her fingernails monochromatic against the many colors of the man’s arms. “I’m Aggie McPherson.”
The man ably moved his rifle aside to take McPherson’s hand, “Bryan Coward.”
McPherson didn’t laugh, but Rafi could hear the smile in her voice as she responded, “I’ll wager that name got you some shit while you were in.”
“Yeah,” the bearded man gave a soft, pensive laugh. “It did.”
McPherson took her hand back from Coward. “So what’s this all about?”
Bryan of the unfortunate surname, but fortunately not a murderous maniac, became red in the face as before. However, as he bowed his head it became clear the crimson on his cheeks came from embarrassment, not anger. “I, uh, I saw you stop and your friend driving and it…”
“Oh,” McPherson snapped her fingers, “that reminds me.” She turned to bang on the top of the taxi. “Rafi why don’t you get out and say hello?”
Rafi took off his cap and slipped out of the driver-side door, keeping the car between him and the others. He offered a small wave and a, “Hullo.”
Despite his beard and muscles this Bryan responded so bashfully it was almost like a child. “Hi. Sir. Sorry about the scare.”
Rafi could see that whatever haunted this Bryan Coward had passed. He had known such men throughout his life, but few were capable of putting aside their animosity for those they had fought.
Rafi walked around the car to stand next to the analyst. To Bryan he said, “People who looked like me once tried to kill you, perhaps even almost succeeded. You once killed people who looked like me. Such things are difficult to overcome.”
The spiderweb of wrinkles around Coward’s eyes softened and his head dipped. “Yeah.”
Rafi realized that somewhere in this panic McPherson had removed her sunglasses and looking around. “You all alone out here, Bryan?”
“Uh, yeah.” He rubbed the back of his neck, looking even more abashed, if such a thing were possible. “My wife took our little girl to visit family in Spokane.”
Rafi sensed the loneliness in this man and knew how loneliness could become fear. Perhaps that was the reason he had been at his window with a rifle. However, rather than speak to that, his boss asked, “No, I mean, in this neighborhood.”
“Oh,” Bryan perked up at this, eyes moving up and down the street, grateful for the change of subject. “Yeah. Well, I mean, not completely, there are a few families that have moved in, but not many.” He slung the rifle as if this could hide it. “I shouldn’t even really have the rifle. Iobairt is going to be a community for veterans that are…”
He trailed off again, so McPherson finished diplomatically, “Having trouble?”
“Yeah. You know. Reintegrating.”
“Making transitions like that can be extremely difficult.” At McPherson’s words, Rafi snuck a sidewise glance at his boss. She still smiled, but it had become rigid, as if tasting her own bitter experience.
Bryan stood straighter. “Yeah. I’m one of the able-bodied, so I help out with physical therapy, mow lawns. Gives me something to do until I find a new vocation.” The last words came out as if from a brochure.
The corners of McPherson’s mouth went down as if she had heard a joke she didn’t understand. “Urquhart doesn’t strike me as a hotbed of economic activity.”
“Well, Pastor Neumann says its more important to get right with God before worrying about the next step.”
In what Rafi recognized as a carefully neutral tone, McPherson replied, “Does he?”
Watching Bryan was like watching a man wake up from a dream over and over again. “You don’t know Pastor Neumann?”
“Never met him.”
“Oh. Then how did you learn about Iobairt?”
“We’re in town for a funeral.” Even without her sunglasses on, McPherson’s face was a mask.
“Shit. Sorry, I mean, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s for Randall Wayne. You don’t know him?”
Bryan shook his head, snotted heavily through his nose and spit on the grass. “Never heard of him.”
“Huh,” was McPherson’s non-committal reply. “That’s interesting. I thought he had something to do with,” McPherson waved her dainty hand at the neighborhood, “all of this.”
“Naw,” Bryan shook his head. “I mean, I think there’s a couple of NGOs involved, but Iobairt is all Neumann and Urquhart.”
“Well, the sheriff knows him.”
“You mean Police Chief Urquhart?”
“Yep.”
“Well, I guess your friend must be important then.”
“Who?”
“The one who died?”
“Oh,” Rafi thought McPherson’s mischievous grin was wholly inappropriate. “Randall Wayne wasn’t a friend.”
“Family?” a confused Coward guessed.
“Oh, thank all the stars and sun, no.”
“Then why are you here for his funeral?”
“He was murdered,” McPherson replied so matter of factly that Rafi was glad he he didn’t have a mouthful of tea. “He was traveling to Urquhart when his car burst into flames on the highway. Now his funeral is being held here, so I thought we’d look around.”
Coward became so rigid that an invisible sergeant might have called him to attention. “You think someone in Urquhart killed him?”
“I think someone in Urquhart knows what’s going on.” McPherson made a show of looking up and down the empty streets of Iobairt. “Although not around here.” She snapped her eyes back to Coward. “Would you mind if I looked around? I don’t want to go peeking in anyone’s windows, but I heard there was a fire here a few years ago. I’m fascinated by old forest regrowth and it looks like there’s plenty just beyond the houses.”
“Oh, uhm,” Coward glanced from side-to-side. When he found no one else to answer he said, “I guess, sure.”
“Don’t worry,” McPherson winked at him. “I won’t go jumping any fences.” She turned to Rafi, “Why don’t you drive around? Get the lay of the land? This place corkscrews around itself.”
To cover his relief at not being asked to stay Rafi asked the painted man, “Would you mind if I see the sights of your beautiful neighborhood?”
Coward’s initial fierceness was now supplanted with a knotting of his eyebrows that was almost comical in its confusion. “The street layout is a little weird. Neumann says it’s to help our orientation. But…” He shrugged. “It’s a free country.”
“Idn’t it, though?” McPherson replied with a bright smile that diverged into a question. “You mind if I bum a smoke?”
Rafi had given up tobacco years ago, mostly because he could not afford it when he arrived in the United States. However, he realized he could detect the faint smell of cigarettes coming from the painted man. Even after several years the odor produced a faint compulsion to ask for one himself. He chose not to – Delilah would smell it on him later even after hours of driving back to Slakterquay.
The former soldier patted his chest with a, “Sure,” and produced a roll of tobacco that he handed by its filter to McPherson. This prompted Rafi to say, “There is no smoking in the taxi.”
The analyst only chuckled as if they were already at the funeral and someone had made a very dark joke. “I would never dare,” she said as she vanished the cigarette into a pocket of her coat.
Having taken it, she returned to the painted man, who Rafi could still not refer to as Coward, and said happily, “It was nice to meet you, Bryan.” She shook his hand once more before saying, “I hope we don’t meet again.”
With those words McPherson walked off towards borderland between the houses, leaving a perplexed and socially uncomfortable Rafi. The shifting of the American next to him told Rafi that he felt much the same. He confirmed this by saying, “That’s a strange…fare you’ve got there.”
“Indeed. I am unsure of what they are. I have worked with the analyst for some time now and I often do not know what is happening.”
“I thought you drove a cab?”
“Yes, but increasingly of late I find that I only drive for McPherson.”
“Well,” Bryan concluded, “good luck.” Much to Rafi’s relief, the soldier headed back into his home. As he got back into his cab, he had a strong suspicion the other man continued to watch them.
Rafi was pleased, though, that his drive around the neighborhood was not interrupted again despite his slow speed. However, after completing a circuit of the roads that encircled Iobairt, he found himself confused as he turned into its interior. The roads within were a strange mixture of straight lines, dead ends, roundabouts and very oddly shaped cul-de-sacs that made him glad his phone tracked his route.
Eventually, satisfied that he had driven about the entire neighborhood, he returned to the spot on which he had left the analyst. When she was not there, he verified that he was at the same address. With all of the turning about and he did not wish to leave her waiting in his confusion.
Certain he was in the same place, Rafi waited a bit longer until his concern outweighed the self-preservation that years of emigration had bred into him. While the tattooed man made him fear for himself, it also betrayed Urquhart as no welcoming place for strangers. While much of his income now came from McPherson, he had also come to care for the strange person.
Rafi parked his taxi parallel to a white curb that stood out starkly in the growing morning sun. With a great sigh of regret, Rafi stepped out, locking the doors behind him as he followed the analyst’s path. As he walked between two of the houses, he controlled the dread that weighed upon him, feeling the houses’ empty windows watching him as he trespassed.
Fortunately, Rafi did not have to travel far. Beyond the fenced in backyards of Iobairt there was only new forest, the ground still bare in spots, shrubs spotted amongst growing fir trees. Standing not far from one, barely taller than the tree itself, McPherson stood facing it, looking down as if it were a child that she were patiently conversing with.
By the time Rafi was close enough to hear that McPherson was actually speaking to it, she went silent. Putting both of her hands back in her pockets, McPherson walked the yards to him before stopping before his inquisitive gaze. She gave an enigmatic smile. “Time for us to get to the funeral.”
“What have you been doing?” Rafi found that he was angry that the analyst had made him come out and search for her, possibly putting both of them in danger, and for what appeared to be no reason.
“I was looking for signs of arson.”
Rafi pointed to the base of the tree McPherson had been standing at. “By tossing cigarettes at trees?” The white paper fluttered, caught between ground needles, its brown, leafy contents spread into the wind.
“You’re a lot more observant than you used to be, Rafi.” McPherson smiled in a way that might have made Rafi proud were he not angry.
“That does not answer my question.”
The inspector’s violet eyes became lidded as something of a cloud passed over her usually playful face. “I was conducting an experiment.”
“Were you successful?”
McPherson did something that was unusual for her. She appeared to be sad. “No.” Without further explanation she began to head back to the road where the taxi waited.
Still upset by his boss’s choice, on the walk back he asked, “Why were you rude to that man? He was already most upset.”
McPherson quirked her mouth up, slim eyebrows coming together. “What do you mean? I wasn’t rude.”
“You told him you hoped we would never meet him again.” Rafi waved his arms at the obviousness discourtesy of this. “Why would you say such a thing?”
Both fell into silence as they crossed between houses with McPherson only answering after they were back on the street. “Because something bad is happening here and I hope he’s not involved.”
“Oh,” Rafi replied as he unlocked the car, understanding the motive now but thinking her words still rude. He was attempting to translate this into speech when McPherson pointed at the smartphone he had clipped to his dashboard.
“What’s that?”
“It is a mobile phone. One of the many things you refuse to possess such as a car and good manners,” Rafi replied.
McPherson leaned forward, nearly bringing her small frame into the front seat. “No, what’s that on the display?” She pointed to the corkscrew of a map that the roads of Iobairt had highlighted onto Rafi’s phone.
“It is a map of the neighborhood. While you were talking to trees I did as you as requested and drove the entirety of this place.” If McPherson hadn’t detected it until now Rafi made clear, “And now I would like to leave, even if it is to go to a funeral.” He reached up to reset the destination to the Urquhart cemetery.
Before he could, though, McPherson slapped his hand away with a surprising fierceness. While he rubbed his hand in a demonstration of her continued rudeness, McPherson inched forward more, examining the device. “That’s not a map,” she concluded, looking at the circle with the twisting geometry of its interior. “That’s a sigil.”
“A what?”
The analyst’s brows came together in concentration, making Rafi feel very far away as she stared hard at the map. “It’s a symbol. It’s a representation of a desire or deity. Sometimes they’re used in occult rituals. Or to cover something.”
Rafi lightly swatted at his boss, causing her to retreat into the backseat. “Then it is failing at its task. Ee Uh Birch is plainly obvious to everyone.”
Falling back into the seat, McPherson fussed with her jacket and sunglasses, straightening both. “Iobairt.”
Rafi watched her through the rearview mirror to make sure McPherson was not about to launch a new assault into his territory. “That is what I said.”
“No, it’s pronounced,” McPherson stopped and heaved what Rafi regarded as a rather childish sigh. “Never mind. Can you save that image?”
“Of course I may save the image. I am not some traditionalist who refuses technology.”
“Good. Please,” McPherson emphasized the function word, “save it and print it out for me. I’d like to take a closer look at it later.”
“So now I am your tech support as well?”
McPherson battered her eyelashes, something Rafi always found unsettling. “Pretty please?”
Rafi sighed, starting the car. “We shall see if Urquhart has a library after the funeral. Or if it too is hidden.”
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
We decided to explore the derelict house. With its lone presence on the prairie right across from our suburb, how could we not, with its crooked shingles, shattered windows, and missing doors?
We were boys, even those of us that weren’t, growing up in the cold, straight world of men. Don’t cry, don’t run indoors, don’t be loud, don’t cuss, sit still in school, sit still in church, don’t talk back, do as you’re told.
There, though, across the highway we were told never to cross, sat something unowned, uninhabited, and unexplored. Something no adult had ever spoken of, but surely would not want us to touch.
We crept inside like burglars, as if some parental ghost of authority inhabited even this place, watching us. We moved from room to room, making sure each one was dead, finding only the remains of whatever the family that fled had left behind. When Eric broke the ancient headboard, it sounded through the house like the crack of a rifle, and everyone froze.
Nothing happened. There were no consequences. Then the laughter started and became a rampage. We broke everything in that house that hadn’t already been broken.
Hours later, dirty, dusty, covered in the scratches of our rebellion, glass in our hair, we rode our bikes home through clouds of spent mania.
We never went back. We knew we had taken everything from that place that it could give.
Niall Urquhart was a private man in a public position, something he believed he excelled at. As the police chief of the town that bore his family’s name, it was a skill he had watched his father and grandfather practice ably. He had seen them push off the X’Komish and state legislators, deal with cattle ranchers, their drunken help, and then court tourists by working with those same people.
Funerals, though, were the worst. He had been attending funerals for men and women he didn’t know since he was a boy. Most of them were strangers, people important to the town in some way, but had been little more than dinner guests to Niall, if that. Over the years he had gotten quite good at appearing stoic, a man who had his grief just within control, unsettled by death but not broken by it.
Thank God that Urquhart was drier than the coast. It meant at Randall Wayne’s funeral he could wear sunglasses and no one would think anything of it. Hell, the whole town was going to come out for this one. At least it was still spring, so wearing his dress blues wouldn’t sweat him out before the entire affair was done.
Walking through the final inspection of the burial site, he all but ignored Britton, his aide-de-camp, who ticked off checkboxes again, making sure that VIP seats were in proper places, the route for pall-bearers was clearly marked, and that the cannon was ready for the gun salute. He had, of course, gone through all of this before with and without Britton. Doing it one more time, though, was a good excuse to get away from Sheila while she busied herself at Finnegan’s with the preparations for the wake. He didn’t care much for the pub since he had quit drinking, but today he’d have to make an appearance.
Niall took off his mirrored glasses to polish them, catching his distended reflection there. His nose might be a bit red and the blue eyes a bit bloodshot, but he had to admit that his otherwise pale face still looked good underneath the bell crown of his cap. Age might have put some extra weight on him, but it had also added enough salt to his pepper hair. Sheila assured him that it made him appear distinguished.
Despite its calm lakes and beautiful mountains, Urquhart had always known its share of trouble. At least today it wouldn’t come from all the strangers that had been moved here since the pandemic. Or that’s what Niall thought until he was mildly surprised by a husky voice that reminded him of a hooker he had once known in Calgary. “Are you Police Chief Niall Urquhart?”
Niall wasn’t sure how this person had crossed all the open ground of the cemetery without being noticed, but he didn’t care for it. Judging by Britton’s sudden stiffening, the little fag was surprised as well. Typically, that would have made him feel better, but looking down at the small, dark-haired individual in the tan raincoat, he wasn’t sure that he wasn’t dealing with the same kind of thing.
He turned, bringing his broad chest, with its brass buttons and row of ribbons, to fully face the diminutive stranger. The large, round sunglasses made identification difficult but they reminded him of Audrey Hepburn, so he decided to go with, “I am, miss. Is there something I can help you with?”
The individual extended a neat, pale hand with bright, lacquered nails. “Aggie McPherson.” A small smile appeared under her dark round glasses. “No miss.” Before Niall could respond to the odd dismissal of his formality, they continued, “I’m here to attend the funeral of Randall Wayne.”
The stranger’s smooth, pale skin made Niall wonder if he was looking at a piece of strange Wayne had gotten into, but she didn’t seem his type. Wayne had preferred them quiet and deferential with more meat on their bones. Not sure where he was on the Wayne’s odd social map, Niall replied with, “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The stranger waved this away with trails from her nails. “Oh, no, I wasn’t his friend. I’m the reason he was headed here when he died.”
Niall put his sunglasses back on. “Excuse me?”
A shaped eyebrow rose above the dark glasses, as if questioning Niall’s intelligence. “Randall Wayne. He was hot footing it back to your town when he died, right?”
“Young,” Niall paused before adding questioningly, “lady. If that’s a joke I don’t appreciate it.”
The eyebrow dropped and a grin came up. “Sorry, that was a poor choice of words. But you don’t think Randall and his buddies just burst into flames on accident, do you?”
While Wayne’s charcoal briquet of a body had nothing to offer, the automobile was still being investigated by the state police. This, combined with McPherson’s question, caused Niall to ask, “Are you with law enforcement?”
The stranger brushed her short black hair out off her face. “Oh goodness no. I’m a spectral analyst.”
To Niall, that definitely sounded like someone who might be looking into what caused Wayne’s car to explode. “Young lady – “
“Aggie. Or McPherson. Or if you’d prefer to be formal you can call me inspector. And I can call you Chief.” With this McPherson reached up to tap the side of Niall’s shoulder with a small fist. “Chief.”
Niall looked at where she had touched him, then back at McPherson. He put doubt about being so informal into his voice as he asked, “So you are police?”
“I work in the private sector.”
“Oh,” Niall said, changing his doubt to disappointment. “I thought you said – “
“I specialize in spectral analysis.” McPherson lowered her black glasses to look at Niall with violet eyes. Despite himself, Niall found himself unsettled under that gaze as she added, “You know, specters. Ghosts.”
Under this strange stare, Niall attempted his own joke. “I don’t think Wayne’s coming back.”
McPherson exhaled, puffing out cheeks, an expression Niall had seen in worried parents and teachers who received good news. “I should hope not,” she responded. “I mean, who’d want to see him again?”
Niall had let out his own sigh, relieved to finally have a reason to end this increasingly frustrating and bizarre conversation. “A lot of people will be missing Wayne, Miss McPherson.” He emphasized the formality in the hopes it would indicate to this tiny person he was losing his patience. “He did a lot of good for this town.”
“How?”
The blunt question stopped Niall cold. “Excuse me?”
“How did he help? I mean, why would a town in such a beautiful place want to honor a criminal and white supremacist?”
“Excuse me?” Niall emphasized his question with a tone that made his wife, children, and subordinates change the subject.
“I’m sorry, did you not know that Randall Wayne was a leading member of the Silver Shields?”
Niall was glad he was wearing sunglasses. “The what?”
“The Silver Shields. It’s a paramilitary group out of Slakterquay. Hunts ‘deviants,’ fremdblütig, alien-blooded.” Aggie cocked her head to reexamine Niall. “You know that.”
“Miss McPherson,” at the continued use of the formality Niall was pleased to see the button nose on this Aggie crinkled with displeasure. “Randall Wayne was an active member of The Urquhart American Legion and the Neumann Church of Protestation. He helped rebuild this town after the Shangri-La fire and helped God knows how many veterans and police with PTSD settle here, giving them a shot at a peaceful life.”
“Any of those people black? Or any color at all?”
Urquhart pinched the bridge of his nose, signaling his frustration and, he hoped, the end of the conversation. “Miss McPherson – “
“Aggie. McPherson. Inspector. You can pick one.” McPherson calmly insisted on this formality, but without Urquhart’s loss of patience.
“McPherson,” he said in the same breath as a long sigh, letting his hand fall away from his face. “I don’t know what diversity bullshit you’ve shown up here with in your intent to besmirch Wayne’s name, but I have a funeral to finish planning.” Niall stood tall, towering over the inspector. “But if you interfere with it in anyway, I will make sure you spend the night in jail.”
McPherson raised her hands as if Niall were a child who had just pointed a popgun at her. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.” She lowered her hands, “After all, the murderer is going to show up. I want to get a look at them.”
“If there was a murder and the perpetrator was going to show up, I’d have them arrested,” Niall responded, his anger slipping out of his control and into his voice.
“You say you don’t even know that Wayne was a white supremacist. How would you know who his murderer is?” McPherson cocked her head. “In fact, isn’t it going to be really convenient for you that people are going to stop asking questions about Wayne?”
Niall felt blood rushing to his cheeks, “Are you making an accusation you little shit?”
“Whoa now, no reason to get riled up. I don’t think you killed him.” With such speed he couldn’t stop her, McPherson reached up and tapped him on the shoulder with her fist again, adding, “Chief.”
Select the play button above for an audio reading.
Molly knew teenagers were difficult. She had raised three; Melissa, Sami, and Turk. All three of them were gone now, college or beyond. Travis had been a surprise, though, so he was far younger than the rest. In the beginning, it had been easier. Her other children were old enough to help raise him. A true blessing, especially with Tom away on business so much.
Maybe she’d been too reliant on them, though. The others had certainly been trouble in their teenage years. Nothing like Travis, though, and when his siblings left, he acted out and no form of discipline seemed to work. She spent a lot of time looking at photographs of her older children, sometimes talking to them on the phone, sometimes about Travis, sometimes even when she knew he was listening. Tom just said it was a phase he’d grow out of. He’d been right with the others, but now she wasn’t so sure.
Molly just didn’t know what to say to her youngest. He might have dressed like his peers, but there was a darkness around his eyes that Molly would swear was eyeliner, but she could never wipe it off, no matter how hard she tried. Travis would stand, hard as a statue, and let her wipe his face, saying nothing, but radiating fury. When she asked him why he was so angry, he would stare at her and say, “Look at what you’ve done.” Molly would ask what he meant, but he would say nothing, just stand there, burning with the intensity of a forest fire.
It made her feel awful, but every time she heard about another school shooting, she’d grab her phone to check the news. It was never Travis, which only made her feel worse, guilty, like she was failing him.
Not that she could tell. Travis spent most of his time in his room. In his younger days, each poster on the walls of his room was a chapter of his life, like a chart for his personal anthropology. Lego movies, Star Wars, K-Pop stars. Then that changed, and it became photos of Bigfoot, flying saucers, ancient warlocks whipping up the sea. Eventually these were papered over with images of monsters that bubbled eyes, things that could have been UFOs, but weren’t, and esoteric symbols that Molly couldn’t even guess at. Eventually, she talked about it with Tom, in private. They decided they’d have a word with Travis about the strange decorations when her husband got back from his next trip.
She lived in dread of her husband’s return until she picked him up from the airport. His relief to be home immediately changed to anger when they saw what Travis had done. Every bottle in the liquor cabinet was broken, every coat had been pulled out of the closet, cabinets ripped open, floorboards pulled up. The cellar door had been pulled off its hinges.
Tom stormed to Travis’s room yelling, but when he stomped through the threshold, he went quiet as a church at midnight. Molly summoned all her courage to follow him.
The bed had been flipped into a corner, the carpet ripped up. On the bare wood underneath, drawn in charcoal, was a symbol that might have been a pentagram, but was too intricate, so much so that it seemed to move when she left her gaze on it too long.
All of this fell away, though, when Molly saw the cellar door pushed up against the wall. It had been painted black, oozed the color even, until Molly saw it wasn’t a door anymore. It stood there like a hole in the wall, an opening to a headless maw.
It was late the next morning by the time Aggie arrived back at the office, but Gladys noticed the diminutive inspector was in high spirits. She moved with a spritely speed, slipping in through the door and hanging her belted cashmere coat on the chrome hatstand next to it. Gladys didn’t say anything, though, because she also knew the many masks of Aggie McPherson. This one’s smile contained an edge of cruelty that her never liked.
“The drive to the X’Komish reservation wasn’t a short one, but it was worth it. That ought to put them into a tail spin,” Aggie announced to Gladys as she finished shedding her coat.
Gladys fluttered her eyelashes. “You’ve got me guessing.”
Aggie strode closer, like she might plant a kiss on top of Gladys’ head, then diverted herself into her office, leaving a trail of words that Gladys didn’t care for either. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it.”
Gladys let her displeasure be known by saying, “You’re doing it again.”
From her office, Aggie called, “Doing what?”
“You had a phrase for it,” Gladys tapped her desk with a long fingernail, drawing out the words.
A second later, Aggie poked her head out, the longer hair on top of her head flopping out to the side. “Being a dick?”
Gladys wrapped her knuckles on her desk as if her boss had won a prize. “That’s it!”
Aggie straightened herself and now, free of her blazer, walked out in her gray slacks and white Oxford shirt. She smoothed her tie into her vest as she sat on the desk’s edge. She smiled kindly at her assistant. “Sorry, what were you asking?”
“Who’s in a what now?” Gladys asked simply.
Aggie grinned like the Cheshire cat. “A tailspin. The Legion of Silver Shields. Haddo Skull specifically. At least three of his men are currently fleeing the state. Haddo’s been dabbling in goetia and – “
“What?”
“Sorcery. Demonic magic. His men were using some of it to commit robberies. Haddo is going to wonder where they went. And when he learns about the robberies, he’s going to wonder where the money went.”
“Where did the money go?”
Aggie rapped her knuckles on Gladys’ desk, imitating her game show enthusiasm. “Excellent question. When he finds out they were sending the money elsewhere, he’ll know they betrayed him.
“Particularly one named Randall Wayne. He actually seemed like he could be dangerous. I’m guessing he’s one of Haddo’s top men.” Aggie emphasized the last adjective as if quoting a motion picture.
Gladys quirked an eyebrow at her boss. “I don’t understand. Didn’t Haddo hire you to find out about a Revenant?”
“He will as soon as he hands me those condo papers. But I’m not going to find out what’s up with this Revenant by asking it. It’ll become clear when I figure out what sin of Haddo’s birthed it. And Haddo isn’t too keen on talking about his past.”
“He’s hiding something,” Gladys nodded.
“He’s trying to hide everything. I seriously doubt Haddo Skull is his real name. So at least him being worried about Wayne and his crew will keep him occupied while I figure this out.”
Gladys crinkled up her nose in way she couldn’t help when she thought she might have bad news. “What was that name again?”
“Randall Wayne?”
“Oh,” Gladys let the word drop like it was going down a well. “I don’t think Haddo is going to have to worry about him.”
“What do you mean?”
Gladys laid out the morning paper on her desk. Aggie had arranged for Slakterquay’s only remaining newspaper to be delivered through the office door slot. It was a kindness as Gladys often found she had little to do before her boss’s arrival.
Gladys flipped past the front page story concerning a kidnapping plot against the governor. She smoothed page three out, displaying the headline, 3 Dead in Fiery Interstate Crash.
“The car was registered to a Randall Wayne. There were two others with him that haven’t been identified yet.
“It burst into flames while traveling down the highway. The authorities haven’t figured out why, but it closed the road for hours.” Gladys kept her eyes on the paper. She could feel Aggie lean closer, scanning the article quickly for the details.
“Well,” Aggie said, the word propelling her back to standing. “Now I guess I have to attend a funeral.”
Gladys couldn’t’ keep the surprise out of her voice. “For these three?”
Aggie responded with a chop of her head and a, “Yep.”
Normally the unexpected was one of Gladys’ favorite parts of working for Aggie, but those surprises didn’t usually include fascists. “Why?”
“Whoever killed them might show up.”
“Haddo didn’t? Kill them, I mean.”
Aggie smiled at Gladys in a way that made her feel like a particularly bright student. “That’s a logical conclusion. Haddo would have had to figure out who stole the rod pretty quick, though, and I’m not sure he would have gone right for his head guy. So it’s possible we have a new player.”
“And you think they’ll show up at the funeral?” Gladys’ surprise became doubt.
“Maybe. Even if they don’t, whoever he’s been sending the money will likely be there.” Aggi concluded, hands on her hips, eyes still on the paper.
Gladys responded, “Well, you’d better get your mourning suit out. It looks like the funeral is already scheduled.”
“That was fast.” The corner of Aggie’s mouth twisted down, a mixture of concentration and confusion. “I wouldn’t think that the Silver Shields would be holding a service until Haddo figured out what happened to Wayne.”
Gladys crinkled her nose again. “Well, there’s more bad news.”
“News is how you look at it,” Aggie’s voice went up, willing positivity.
Gladys drew a finger to the last paragraph of the article. “The service is being held by the Urquhart Fraternal Order of Police.”
Aggie blinked, smile vanishing. “Wayne wasn’t a cop.”
“Well,” Gladys considered all the bootleggers she had known and how tight they all were with lawmen. “Someone in Urquhart thinks enough of him to give him a send off.”
Aggie tapped the desk, eyes wandering to her office door and the Slakterquay skyline that rose beyond its windows. “Gladys dear,” she said in a way that Gladys knew meant something unpleasant. “Would you mind going downstairs to the stacks and seeing if you can find anything else on Randall Wayne? I think we’re missing some pieces from our puzzle.”
“Ugh. Do I have to? I hate it down there. It’s so dark and musty.”
Aggie leaned forward and fluttered her eyes in a weird way that reminded Gladys of a girl she had met once in Greenwich Village. “Please?”
Gladys recoiled playfully, “Stop that. What are you, Bonzo the Dog?” Aggie leaned forward until Gladys replied with a prolonged, “Fine.”
“Thanks. I need to get ready for a funeral.” Aggie pushed herself off the desk and headed back towards the door.
“You’ll have to ankle it. It’s in three days and Urquhart is in the eastern part of the state.”
“Well, at least that means Haddo won’t be there then. That might bring him closer to the Revenant.”
Gladys frowned. “Yes. What a shame that would be.”
“Think of Reverend Taggart, Gladys. At least this is all keeping Haddo busy.”
“It’s just,” Gladys tried to keep judgment out of her voice, “from what you’ve told me, Haddo is an odious man.”
“He is,” Aggie agreed. “And if Taggart won’t do something about him, then I will.”
