A Grain of Salt and Bitter Resentment

A Grain of Salt and Bitter Resentment

by Laura Payeur

Copyright @ 2012 by Laura Payeur

Published by Laura Payeur at Smashwords

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are solely the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The use of some licensed products have been used without permission, however, not in any defamatory manner. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, places or events is entirely coincidental.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

1

A scream.

Her throat burned.

The smell of pine stung her nostrils.

Silence hummed in her ears.

She felt smooth material against her cheeks. Flexing her fingers, she felt the smooth softness wrapped tightly around her.

She forced her eyes open.

A sheer white cloth covered her face and body. A shroud. A death shroud.

The smell of pine. The box she was buried in.

She opened her mouth to scream again. No sound came out.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing it all away.

The material in her hands thickened in her grasp.

A low, gurgling scream escaped her. Startling her.

Her eyes sprung open.

The smell of pine drifted away.

Autumn Castile shrugged the sweat soaked white sheet from her body, gasping. It was just a dream. More like a fucking nightmare.

She sat up. Snatching up the sheet, she rolled it into a ball and tossed it on the floor. Winnie sat perched upon the dresser. Her calico fur on end. She cried. Not a normal cat's meow. More of a squeal.

Imagine how I feel, Autumn told her, clutching at her heaving chest. Winnie's fur settled.

She fell back on her damp pillow. She'd had nightmares before, but never like this.

No one uses pine boxes anymore, she told herself. And then as an after thought. Do they?

Winnie pounced on the bed, surprising her.

One traumatic event a night is good enough, don't you think? Autumn glanced at the clock. Four after midnight. Really? Two hours of sleep. That was all she'd gotten. Most likely all she was going to get tonight. Winnie turned in circles on the discarded comforter and then lay down.

At least one of us can go back to sleep.

Even more disturbing than her dream waking her was that it had awakened her cat. Winnie didn't mind most things. In general, she ignored everything. Even Autumn at times. So, what had been so upsetting that it had gotten her dander up?

I screamed.

It hadn't been only in her dream. She had actually screamed.

Closing her eyes, she attempted to sleep, but the dream kept coming back.

2

Around four o'clock, she gave up. It wasn't happening.

Rolling out of bed, careful not to interrupt Winnie's peaceful slumber, she headed for the kitchen. A pot of coffee first and then to the computer. If the dream wouldn't allow her to sleep, the least she could do was write it down. It may make for an interesting story.

Or food for my shrink...

She banged on the keys for over an hour, sipping on the hot coffee. Liquid gold. Half of what she typed didn't make any sense. How could she smell pine in her dream? Sight, sounds, emotions. They were typical. But touch and smell didn't normally come into play. She wasn't an expert, but she knew enough. Those things had to come from her imagination.

Or memory.

How would she have these memories? It didn't make sense. Nothing made sense right now. It was much too early in the morning. Winnie emerged from the bedroom. Stretching and purring, as if nothing had ever happened.

Lucky you.

Winnie meowed.

Hungry?

Another meow.

Me, too. Autumn pushed herself out of the leather chair and started for the kitchen. Winnie followed. The plush carpeting turned to cold wood. She could feel it through her thick wool socks. Wool socks and an over-sized Red Sox t-shirt. The t-shirt had belonged to an ex-boyfriend along the way. Only she couldn't remember which one. They rarely stuck around for very long. She had her quirks, and apparently men didn't find them endearing. Waking up in a cold sweat, yes, was one of them. It was the stuff her stories were made of. A bowl of Friskies for Winnie and a breakfast sandwich (freezer to microwave) for Autumn.

With her mouth full, she told Winnie, Pretty good invention. Microwave's not so bad either.

Winnie didn't acknowledge her sentiment.

The phone rang.

3

5:32 AM. Not quite light.

Your first name is Autumn? Detective Lucien Drake put his head down, avoiding eye to eye contact. Too bad, because she kind of liked the color of his eyes. Caramel, she'd call it. Her mother would tell her she was romanticizing the situation and was once again asking for trouble. Yeah, but Mom's not here right now, so ogle away. Besides, she wasn't exactly up for Mother of The Year. Her advice was often taken with a grain of salt or bitter resentment.

Detective Drake had a slender build. Thick brown hair with a hint of auburn in it. He dressed like a detective, though, cheap brown suit. Complete with a white shirt and green tie. Good looking. Bad dresser.

Yes. She was rather surprised that he had immediately called her by her first name. Very informal. Some might even say unprofessional. She didn't mind. If you'd like, you can call me by my middle name. Some people prefer it.

Puffs of steam rose from their lips as they spoke. Not cold, but chilly. It was an early October morning.

Yeah? What is it? He briefly glanced in her direction.

Breeze.

Are you serious? He laughed, walking on. Gravel scraped under their feet on the large open area under The Braxton Bridge. Spot lights guided their way. The bridge was a steady structure meant for pedestrians to pass from one half of Fairmount to the other on foot or by bicycle. Across the river, at the other end of the bridge, the path led to a walkway and garden behind St. Agatha's Hospital. It was a pleasant place to walk any time of year. At least it had been.

As a heart attack, my friend. Autumn smirked. She found it amusing. She had gotten so many different reactions in her lifetime. They continued walking toward the crime scene. No, my mother was not a hippie. She's much too young for that. Though, I'm fairly certain she smoked her fair share of the wacky-tobacky in her day.

Wait, wait. Lucien paused mid-stride, laughing. So, your initials are A B C?

Boy, you catch on quick. She winked. Now, the case?

Oh, yeah, yeah. Lucien cleared his throat. Sorry. I forgot where I was for a second. That ever happen to you?

I actually have a hard time forgetting this kind of stuff. The shit creeps into my nightmares. How can I forget it? She smiled at him. Its kind of a thing with me. You know, the reason I'm here. Right now.

Christ. Lucien slapped the palm of his hand over his forehead. I... you look so young. I guess... I have no idea what I was thinking.

Hopefully somewhere along the same lines I was thinking. That's all right. And I'm not that young. Twenty-seven is hardly grammar school.

Its hardly old school, Lieutenant Cross barked. Get your ass over here, Castile. This body isn't going to keep much longer.

The body Cross was referring to was a woman who had been pulled from the Fairmount River. Her body was bloated. Skin blue. Flesh peeling from the bones. Milky eyes, blue or green, bulging from the sockets. Shoulder length dark hair, brown or black with lighter roots. It was bad, but she'd seen bodies like this before. Autumn's job was to analyze the body and the crime scene. Since in this case the body had been found in the river, the scene was a bust. All they had to work with was the body itself.

She's a local. You see that tattoo? Autumn pointed out the pirate ship wrapped around her left ankle. The letters O.E.J. on its bow. Its a local band. The One-Eyed Jacks. Popular in the eastern part of the state. For her to have that, I'd say she's close to the band. A girlfriend or a dedicated groupie. She dyes her hair to fit in with that particular crowd. Not a bad place to start, I would think.

All right. Cross snapped his fingers. You analyze. We do the rest.

She fought the urge to tell him without her analysis, they would be sitting around playing with their dicks waiting for days while someone in the medical examiner's office did this job. Instead she continued.

She's in her mid-twenties. Considering the condition of the body, without a thorough exam, it could be difficult to determine age for most people. The medical examiner's office would confirm her findings, as he always did. She simply made profiling that much quicker. Without the water, I'd say she weighed somewhere in the ballpark of one-twenty.

Autumn circled the body as it lay on a blue tarp above the embankment. The police hadn't wanted to move it too far for fear that it would tear to pieces. Which it will as soon as they drag it into the black bag and cart it off to the morgue. Sometimes, she had to think of them as its. It made it less personal. It also made her seem less humane at times. If it kept her from losing her mind, she was okay with that.

She was wearing a some sort of navel piercing. The flesh above her navel was split. Swollen open like a small vagina. It was either torn off during her struggle or by the perpetrator.

"How can