by federal marshal Zeke Drummond from Sharon Pape's SKETCHER IN THE RYE, the fourth book in her Portrait of Crime Mysteries
Dyin' was nothin' like I expected it
to be. When I opened my eyes, I was still in the parlor of the house where I'd
been tryin' to save another girl from a brutal serial killer. Far as I could
tell nothin' had changed. I figured I'd just had the wind knocked out of me
somehow. The room did seem a whole lot brighter than I recalled though, like the sun had
come right inside the house. But it didn't hurt my eyes, which was a mite
peculiar. I saw the girl lyin' on the floor with a gash across her forehead. When
I went to check on her, I could see that she was breathin' fine. But when I
tried to lift her head up off the floor, my hand...well, my hand seemed to go
right through her. Spooked me, I don't mind tellin' you. Must have felt strange
to her too, 'cause it brought her around mighty quick. She sat up, but she
didn't seem to notice me there beside her. Then she screamed so loud my ears
dang near broke. I followed her line of sight across the room to a body lyin' face
down with a bullet hole in the back. I figured it was the man who'd been in the
midst of kidnappin' her when I'd arrived, but I didn't recall shootin' him.
Besides, he'd been on the other side of the room facin' me, so I couldn't have
shot him in the back. I went over to get a better look at his face. That's when
I realized it wasn't him at all. It was me. I was starin' at myself. Now that was a hard chunk of news to swallow. My
mind was feelin' way too muddled to make any sense of it. And I was awful tired,
like all the energy had been sucked clean out of me. I guess I fell into some
sort of sleep at that point, 'cause the next time I opened my eyes I was in
that same room, but the girl was gone. My body too. The furniture was all
different, and the wallpaper and curtains had been changed out. There was a man
sittin' on a sofa, readin' the newspaper. I moved a bit closer in order to see
the date on it. If I'd been alive, I would have died of the shock right then
and there. Accordin' to that newspaper, I'd been asleep, unconscious or
whatever it's called where I am, for three whole decades.
I've watched a lot of folks move in
and out of that house for better than a hundred years now. Out of loneliness
and a desire to be helpful, I tried interactin' with some of them, but that
only seemed to send them packin' faster. I could still see that amazin', bright
light from the day I died, but it was way off in the distance now. Don't know
if I pushed it away or not. Don't even
know what it is for sure, but I figure it must be lightin' the way to the
Pearly Gates. Most people would be trippin' over themselves to get to it. Not
me though. I have my reasons. Danged good ones. But a lot changed when Rory
McCain moved into the house. She refused to be scared off by my present state
of bein' and she wound up makin' my existence tolerable. Tolerable and a whole lot
more. So one day I laid my soul bare to her. For better or worse, she'd earned
the right to know the truth about me. Well, there must have been a stray
miracle floatin' around us that day, 'cause she didn't turn away from me and
she didn't move out. She stayed on and made me a silent partner in her new,
private investigatin' firm. Rory and I have been gettin' on fine these days, even if I'm not quite as silent as she'd like me to be.
I'm sure she appreciates your help...
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