Read Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead Online
Authors: Morgan James
Tags: #Mystery: Thriller - Psychologist - Atlanta
Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead
| Morgan James - Promise McNeal 01 - Quiet the Dead | |
| Number II of Promise McNeal | |
| Morgan James | |
| Morgan James (2011) | |
| Tags: | Mystery: Thriller - Psychologist - Atlanta |
Copyright © 2010 Morgan James
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1453738819
ISBN-13:9781453738818
E-Book ISBN: 978-1-61789-400-8
C
ONTENTS
Thank you for being here. Without you Promise would have no voice. As a writer, I can fabricate reality. It’s part of the fun. In that spirit, to better suit this story, I have taken certain liberties with the geography of Atlanta, Georgia, and Western North Carolina. No offense intended. The characters, places, and events are of my imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual places, events, or persons is entirely coincidental. And no, the attorney traveling through this story is not my good friend, Alfred Chang, though his knowledge of the law certainly informed me, and I appreciate him sharing. Thank you to friends and family for your encouragement, helpful editing, and suggestions. Kudos and gratitude go to my son, Kevin Taylor, of Malabarfront Inc., for his cover design and overall artistic genius. A special acknowledgement goes to my gypsy friend, Dee, who understands Promise’s restlessness, and the power of dreams. Many thanks also to those extraordinary, gifted mystery writers, too numerous to name here, who raise the bar for my own stretch as a storyteller.
I am not a person blessed with restful sleep. Sometimes wayfaring memories people my nights. Not usually my memories, but those of others gone from this world to swim the dark blue tides of eternity. How they find a path into my sleep, I do not know. Perhaps a restless spirit calls out to say a thing over and over until some sense is made of the swirling chaos; perhaps there is a lingering hope of resolution or even a search for peace. Most of the time I am powerless to help in their search, and equally powerless to turn away from the anguish their memories bring. Now that I am older, armed with degrees in psychology and experienced in counseling, I can name at least three possible causes for my “periodic sleep disorder.” But naming does not necessarily control a thing, or make it go away, so I accept the dreams as part of the fabric of my life. The spirits come and go, as they will. If I can help, I do, knowing that one day I will no doubt swim the same waters.
The night before, in the dream, I knelt on the bank of a wide shallow creek. It was not the tumultuous creek I see daily from my front porch here in Western North Carolina. This was another familiar, yet unremembered, stretch of more meandering water, its ridged sandy bottom strewn with bite sized jagged pebbles. Scooping languid water with my hands, I washed my face with the catch. I had the sense a storm had just passed, leaving the air cool and redolent of damp loam and wet pine. It was when I raised my chin to savor a warm wind on my neck that I focused on the far side of the creek and saw the figure. There, partially screened by green summer-leafed oak branches, the shape seem to hover some three feet above the shallow waters, and dance midair. Wind billowed a thin white skirt outward like a parachute, then forward to cup the curves of bare buttocks. A woman, a tall shapely woman. In the dream logic I understood perfectly well how the figure could dance above the waters but was puzzled as to why she would choose to dance above this particular creek, born as it was of deep North Georgia caves, and forever carrying the memory of those cold dark recesses. I reasoned if she fell, she would surely be chilled to the bone and washed who knows where by the slow, yet determined current.
Her dancing captivated me. More wind lifted her shoulder length chestnut hair up like an open fan. Suddenly, the wind shifted, spinning the figure toward me. It was then I saw the bluish tint of the woman’s face and the red scarf at her neck, its sheerness playing towards me with the breeze, reaching out to me like silken arms.
In sleep I jerked with shock, though I didn’t turn away. I could not. I scanned the woman again from feet to neck, looking for something. I don’t know what. I didn’t want to see her face, with its bulging eyes and swollen tongue escaping her mouth. I realized then the woman was not dancing at all, but hanging from an oak limb extending over the creek.
Is she dead
? The rough knotted white cord just above her head, pulled taut from her weight, and out of place against a lush breeze stirred canopy of trees answered my question.
Then another thought:
How can she be dead? Hadn’t I seen black ballet slippers pirouette ever so gracefully as she danced?
From my place on the opposing bank, I strained to see the woman more clearly and realized she was now wearing one white tennis shoe. Her other foot was bare. No black ballet slippers. No dancing.
What happened to the slippers? Where is the matching tennis shoe?
Those questions evaporated as my attention focused just beyond the hanged woman’s feet, where three emerald green ducks quacked noisily, circling each other, around and around, too anxious to venture into the water under the shadow of the woman, and too driven by instinct not to do so. Finally, in unison, they rushed headlong into the rocky creek, splashing water up onto the woman’s dress; dark splatters peppering white fabric. I awakened, disoriented and sweating, with the smell of rich damp earth so close it seemed I lay on the ground with my nose pressed against its mossy skin.
Now I go on a long journey In search of justice,
Over the grave of a dream.
And through the malice of time
…. Author unknown
In the morning, I sat at my desk sorting and resorting bills, deciding which could be paid and which would be unavoidably late, again. I questioned, not for the first time, why I continue to do the same thing over and over, expecting different results. Some say that activity is the mark of insanity; some say it is the definition of hope. I don’t know which it is. I just know neither exercise pays the bills. A cup of Earl Gray steamed at my right hand, and through the office window my newly mown pasture, spread like a fresh picnic tablecloth on the lap of the Western North Carolina Mountains beyond, twinkled in the autumn sunlit dew. Both joys were lost in my worried state of mind.
Enough
, I chided myself.
I hate people who whine. Look on the bright side. They don’t send people to debtors’ prison anymore
. At least, I didn’t think so. Now I was talking to myself, definitely on the edge of insanity. A trio of crows argued over a choice perch atop a single white pine standing guard at the edge of the field. I wondered why the crows always seemed to travel in threes, a thought that catapulted me back to the three ducks in my dream of the night before. My mind filled again with anxious quacking, tumbling water, and a hanged woman wearing one white tennis shoe.
“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes,”
was the quote that came to mind.
More for a diversion than for any other reason, I ferreted a deck of Tarot cards from the desk drawer, shuffled them, and began a simple left to right spread. It is only a game I play, I assured myself, just to test the veracity of the cards against real life. It isn’t as though I plan my life by the cards, though perhaps there have been times when the cards would have been more reliable than my own judgment. First card down revealed the Knight of Swords, usually a man of influence in conflict. The second card was The Chariot, reversed, that is: in an upside down position for those who aren’t familiar with the Tarot layout jargon. I had to think for a second.
Isn’t the chariot a symbol for a life overwhelmed, or one rushing headlong into conflict?
I already knew I was overwhelmed with money worries. So, thank you very much for the old news.
This is so silly
,
grown women who are licensed counselors do not believe in Tarot cards
. Yet, the Chariot was confirmation of my state of mind, to be sure.
Could the cards be warning me about that something wicked coming my way?
And there was the Knight of Swords, handsomely astride his dark horse, ready for battle, a man who is powerful, though not totally trustworthy, riding into your life bringing—bringing who knows what.
The desk phone rang, breaking my thoughts into a thousand shards of annoyance. I turned over the next card with the second ring. It was the Queen of Swords, reversed. Not a nice lady. An angry woman driven by money, or is it love? It could be either. What’s the difference? They both make you crazy. After the third ring I picked up the phone to speak to the Knight of Swords. “Hello, Garland.”
“Promise McNeal, herself. Sugar, how in the world are you? How’d you know it was me? Practicing your psychic abilities, or just a lucky guess?”
“Neither, Garland. I have caller id. Amazing computer chip. The little bugger efficiently spelled out, Wang and Wang, PC. I love it. Usually it saves me from talking to jerks, and folks trying to sell me things I can’t afford.” I paused to check the irritation in my voice. “How’s my favorite attorney? And, please don’t call me Sugar. I’m over fifty, too old for that drag line, and it’s demeaning to both of us.”
“Okay, Dr. McNeal.” He accentuated the “Dr.” with total irreverence and I wanted to travel through the phone and pinch him. I sweated blood and tears to get my doctorate in psychology, and I would like at least a little respect for the effort. Of course, from Garland that’s what I usually got, a little respect. He forged ahead. “Damn, are you really over fifty? You know, you look pretty good for an old broad.”
Now I definitely wanted to cause him pain. I picked up a stainless steel letter opener from the desktop, turned it over several times in my right hand and studied the sharpened point.
Could I carve just a tiny little “S” for sexist on Garland’s handsome forehead?
He moved on to the really important issues: those totally revolving around him.
“So, how am I, you ask? Overextended, underappreciated, wildly busy. Why do I get all the first class idiots? Never mind, that is a rhetorical question. We both know I only take the idiots with lots of money. So, there’s this one client, two weeks before I take his divorce before the famous hanging Judge, Buel Franks, who, by the way, it is rumored, has the ten commandants tattooed on his left palm, and you know what my client keeps asking? Can he just go ahead and move in with his twenty-two year old lover? Just to save him some rent money, you understand. The guy just can’t seem to make the connection between keeping his pecker in his pants and all the alimony his wife will get from Franks if she cries the big ‘A’ word. If the man were any dumber he would be a pork chop. How can he be a program director for a major network? Never mind; that’s another rhetorical question.”
I tried to muster an obligatory laugh at Garland’s attempt at humor, but it died in my throat. I was in no mood for Garland’s complaining, or his jokes. Truthfully, I was too concerned about my financial shortfall to be very empathetic towards anyone other than myself; however, Garland was a friend, sort of, who also happened to send me consulting work from time to time, so I sucked up my problems and made an attempt at a sympathetic response. “I’m sorry you are having a hard time, Garland. As I remember though, you usually come out on top in court, so I have infinite faith in your ability to rein in your ‘pork chop’ client. How’s the other half of Wang and Wang, Attorneys at Law?”
“The other half? Don’t rush it. She’s not officially one-hundred-percent half of the firm yet. I’m not sure I’m quite ready for that, though she says she is. No matter, the women usually get their way. Right? How’s the beautiful and talented Sara? My lovely daughter is wonderful. And how about Luke? Is he still working for Acadian Oil?”
Wonder of wonders, Garland was actually asking about a subject I was intensely interested in, my son. “The last I heard from him, he was. But I’m just his mother. What do I know? Except that he seems to travel a lot, and never asks to borrow money, so that’s a good sign. Honestly, Garland, I just never figured Luke as the big oil company kind of guy. I don’t know. Somehow it just doesn’t fit; but I’m proud of him, and he seems happy and productive.”
“That’s good. We all need to be productive. Actually, I am tremendously proud of Sara. You should have seen her decimate one of the new assistant DAs last week. The boy had not done his homework and thought his witness would walk on water for him. Never, never get comfortable with your witnesses, Promise. They will hang you out to dry every time. By the time Sara finished with the witness, he was reduced to a stuttering two year old who not only couldn’t swear it was our client he saw at the crime scene, but couldn’t even be sure how many people he saw running out of the Mini-Mart. Sara was fantastic!”
“Well, I guess congratulations are in order for Sara then. Though, I have to feel sorry for the assistant district attorney.”
“Don’t feel sorry for him, Sugar. He’s a better man for it. Makes him stronger. He called Sara two days later and asked her out for dinner. If you have to feel sorry for somebody, feel sorry for me. Now Sara’s got the big head, and thinks she is smarter than her old man. Just because I went to Mercer and she went to BU, can you believe that? And I paid a lot of money for this arrogance!”
“Sara’s a good kid, Garland, and you know it. Do you really think Boston University gave her a smarter than thou attitude? Is that what you think they teach the kids up there in the mean cold Yankee-land?”
“No, Boston didn’t teach her that. Her mom is the one who no doubt tells her daily I’m a schmuck. She’s been spooning Sara that line with her oatmeal since she could sit up and talk. Sara that is, not Aileen. I don’t know what the hell Aileen was doing when she was learning to sit up and talk. Argue and have the last word, you can bet on that. I don’t know why those women hate me, Promise. I try, I really do.”
“Oh, Garland, please, you know Sara doesn’t hate you. If she did she wouldn’t want to go into partnership with you, now would she? She adores, and respects you, anyone can see that, Garland.”
“Yeah well, I notice you didn’t say anything about Aileen.”
“Umm. What can I say, Garland? You married a brilliant, political person with her own television talk show. She’s bound to be argumentative; makes the ratings go up.”
“Yeah, but Aileen was a damn good investigative reporter when we met. Hell’s bells, we even liked each other back then.”
“Garland, I love you dearly, and as much as I admire Aileen, you have selective memory. You told me long ago that when you and Aileen met; she wouldn’t go out on a second date with you until you produced a financial statement. And wasn’t she moonlighting at the time with Senator Janice Kracken’s dirty-tricks team? Oh Lord, I cringe whenever I hear that woman’s name, which fortunately isn’t often, unless some newsperson is doing a retrospective on the five most evil women in American politics. And remember, you told me the campaign Aileen worked was the year Kracken won by a landslide due to some nasty gossip circulating about her opponent. I don’t mean to be cruel, Garland, but weren’t those kind of big clues about Aileen’s priorities?”
Garland responded with a slight moan. I could hear him turning pages. Notes for a court case? A legal magazine? A
Lands End
catalog? As usual, he wasn’t really overly concerned about my observations. “Promise, your memory is too good. I’m going to have to be careful about what I tell you from now on. You are right, though. I must have ignored the clues.”
Don’t we all, I could have told him.
“I don’t know why none of that bothered me at the time. I really thought Aileen hung the moon back then; actually, I still do, just don’t repeat that to her. And, more importantly, I thought she loved me and would be grateful a nice upper middle class Chinese American boy was ready and willing to take her away from all that dirt. Silly me! Garland Wang, Prince Charming in a samurai suit. But hey, don’t be so self-righteous with me, Promise. You aren’t exactly stellar at picking relationships either. At least I’ve managed to stay married.”
Garland’s witty repartee lifted my spirits slightly and I sipped my now tepid tea. The crows outside were unimpressed and swooped down on the grass to dig little round holes in the ground with their beaks in search of seeds. “Touché. But, low blow, Garland. Divorce was my choice, remember? I like being single. Much more peaceful. And by the way, I think samurai are Japanese, not Chinese.”
“Well, how do I know? I am Atlanta born and bred. I’m a University of Georgia boy, more “Bubba” than Chinese. In college, I would argue for the south’s right to leave the union. Used to make my constitutional law professor go ballistic. To tell you the truth, I can’t even read Chinese. A failure of character, according to my mother. And I doubt I could even get a visa back into Mainland China anyway with a name like Garland.”
“I’ve always wondered about that. Why did your mother name you Garland?”
“Who knows? My mother’s picture is in the dictionary above, ‘Crazy Chinese Lady.’ Probably had something to do with the numerology of me being born under the sign of the horse and which way the Fung Shui was blowing that day. You go ask her; I can’t carry on an intelligent conversation with her. She won’t even come to my new office because I’m on the eighth floor and eight, she says, is a very unlucky number for some Chinese ladies. Where does she get all this crap? Every time I talk to her lately she ends the conversation by telling me not to grow up like my father. Then when I ask her why not, what’s wrong with my father, she tells me I shouldn’t ask because I’m disrespecting my father. We go around and around in circles. I have no idea what she means. Really, Promise, my father is a good man—Methodist church most Sundays, hard working. He’s in Rotary, for God’s sake.”
There was no way my “mender” personality could pass up an opportunity to set Garland on the road to a better understanding of his mother. That’s a nice way to explain my unsolicited counseling remarks that followed. “Sounds like your mother is giving you some heavy contradictory messages. I can see how that would confuse you.”
“Confuse me! In Chinese terms we call that making you bat-shit crazy.”
“Still, you’ve told me you love your mother.”
“Sure I love her. And I think my dad does, too. Sometimes though, Mom’s a Looney Tune, with all her off the wall superstitions. Besides the number eight thing, she also believes it is bad luck to put a pot away with the lid off. Bad spirits get in the empty pot, she says, and ruin the food. Go figure. She’s also beautiful, and a great cook. Never any topless pots at our house! You can be sure of that. Hey, speaking of unusual names, when are you going to tell me how you happen to be named Promise? After almost ten years of being friends, I still don’t know. Wait a minute! I just had a revelation. Do you realize you are probably my oldest female friend, and the only woman in my life who actually likes me?”
Ah, now I could hear it coming. The crown prince of smooth was playing me like a two hundred dollar accordion. Got me feeling sorry for him, add a little flattery, and now the other shoe will drop. I resisted asking him to clarify if I was the oldest in years, or the most sustaining woman friend. Time to cut to the chase. I still had bills to pay and cranberry scones cooking in the oven.