Justice Once Removed by David Crossman

Author:David Crossman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, sleuth, mystery suspense, mystery detective, island mystery, supernatural mystery, maine mystery, maine island mystery, code mystery, winston crisp mystery, ghost mystery, david crossman mystery
Publisher: David Crossman

Chapter Fourteen

“What the hell!”

Soderberg was surprised to wake and find the Angel of Death at his bedside. It was several seconds before he could rub the blurriness of sleep from his eyes and convene enough members in the court of his senses to pronounce that, in their judgment, the apparition was not the Grim Reaper after all, but Winston Crisp wrapped in a sheet.

“Ah, good!” said the former Angel of Death. “I was afraid you were going to sleep forever. How’re you doing?”

“I’ll live,” said Soderberg. “Whether that’s good news or not remains to be seen.” He was aware of a residual sensation on his upper arm. “Have you been poking me?”

“No!” said Crisp reflexively. Why lie? He wondered if it was possible to break the habit. He’d never tried. “Well, yes. I might have given you a nudge or two to see if you were still alive.”

“Nudge or two. Feels more like you were drillin’ for oil.” Soderberg rubbed the offended spot. “I feel like I could’ve slept a week.”

“That’s what I was afraid of. I was just doing a favor to everyone else on the floor.”

“Huh?”

“You snore.”

“Oh, yeah, well. My wife hinted at that once or twice before she moved my bedroom to the guesthouse at the end of the garden.”

“Mm.”

“I take it you had a reason to be here, poking me?”

“I had a thought.”

Soderberg’s attention quickened. Any kind of thought at this moment would be more than welcome. His only thought was about sitting up, but he decided against it.

“Remember I said Tabby sang songs?”

“You said she beeped.”

“Did I? Well, I suppose I did. But I thought of them as songs. Little songs of eleven notes.”

Soderberg’s initial enthusiasm began to subside. “So?”

“I think I’ve figured out what they were.”

Had he figured it out, though, or had the inspiration come from somewhere outside himself? Of course, to consider that possibility would be to call into question every deduction he’d made over the years. Maybe he wasn’t so bright, after all. Maybe he’d just been a conduit for some intuitive spirit that hung around him because it found his mental plumbing free of obstruction.

Crisp’s brain was annoying him; cloning distracted little gremlins of thought that wandered about its crinkled gray landscape in search of imaginary rabbits. He’d heard the kids refer to hallucinogenic experiences as ‘head-trips.’ Well, his head was adrift in a rudderless ship on a sea tossed by contrary winds.

He couldn’t focus. The past was projecting itself on the compartments of his mind, getting all tangled up in what was supposed to be present and real; but what is reality but that which we perceive to be reality? Might be anything.

“Are you going to tell me?” Soderberg interrupted. “And why are you dressed like somethin’ out’ve Shakespeare?”

“Oh,” Crisp couldn’t remember, specifically, why he’d wrapped the sheet around him. “I was cold.”

That made sense to Soderberg. Anyone seven or eight hundred years old – which is what Crisp appeared at the moment – would be bound to have

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