Taking the Highway

THREE WEEKS LATER, ANDRE found a parking spot in the cemetery and wheeled the Raven into it just as his datapad vibrated for attention. He routed the call through the car’s companel and commanded it to answer. Danny Cariatti’s face filled the screen. “Your implant is down.”

“I’m not on the clock.”

“You turned it off?”

Andre leaned into the screen and whispered, “We’re allowed to do that, you know.”

“Shit, man. I don’t even turn mine off when I’m in bed.”

“Julie must love that.”

“She hates it. Says she feels like she’s f*cking the whole department.”

“Did you call for a reason, or just to put disturbing images in my head?”

“The prelim for that other kid . . . what was her name?” Danny leaned away from the screen to consult some notes. “Wilma Riley.”

“The one on Friday?”

“Moved to Thursday.”

“Still ten o’clock?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell the captain I’ll be there.” Andre shut off the car’s engine and reached for the door handle. “And Danny?”

“What?”

“Try it without the implant. Not just sex. Try it for other stuff too.”

“Yeah, sure. We’re cops.” Danny knocked knuckles against his forehead. “Mind and body and all the hours of your days belong to the city.”

“And my soul?”

Danny reached for the cutoff button. “You get to keep that.”

Fallen leaves blew over his feet as Andre walked toward Jordan Elway’s grave. He put his hands in his pockets against the chill. Every second or third grave spotted fresh flowers, reminding him that he’d forgotten to buy some on the way. Next time. For now, he picked up three loose stones and held them until he got to the site.

It was a nice marker. Elway would certainly have appreciated the holocarving of his name, the way the letters seemed to hover a few centimeters above the surface of the granite. Andre knelt, feeling the dampness of the grass beneath his knees and not caring. He pushed aside the modest pile of stones he’d left earlier and dug a hand’s-breadth into the loose soil. He fished inside his coat pocket, bumping his hand against the familiar presence of the Challenger key. He reached deeper and pulled out two things—his police credentials and his fourthing badge. He looked from one to the other, then put the police shield back in his pocket. He set the fourthing badge into the hole, smoothing the dirt back over it, then rebuilt the stones into a miniature cairn marking the spot.

The cemetery was set on gently sloping land and he climbed the hill at the center of it. From here, he could just glimpse the edge of the rolling skyline of Detroit. He couldn’t see the corruption of the government or the poverty of the oh-zone. He couldn’t see the endless traffic on the highways or hear the non-stop droning of the spinners. From here, he could only see the sun glinting off the tops of the buildings. From right here, he couldn’t see anything but the glow.





ABOUT THE AUTHORS


M.H. Mead is the shared pen name of Margaret Yang and Harry R. Campion. They have been friends and co-authors for many years. The authors live in the Detroit area, where they are hard at work on their newest novel.

Catch up with Margaret and Harry on their website where you can read their short stories, learn about their novels series, visit their blog, and find links to all social media sites.



www.yangandcampion.com