Chapter 7
Of Strange Moon Rising
Smoke curled down the hall in deadly waves, clogging Riley’s throat and burning her eyes. She kept low, moving with a hand out in front of her. She couldn’t see the fire yet, but she could hear it, crackling into a roar. Glass shattered somewhere—maybe the kitchen. Not good. More air, more fire. She coughed, trying to displace the flavor of rancid chili peppers that had overtaken burning insulation. An amber glow and wash of heat chased Riley into the living room. Three yards from the sliding glass doors, a bright burst of pain to the back of her head crumpled her to the floor. Sweet, fresh air brushed Riley face, then the back door slid shut, her eyes along with it.
Riley bolted upright, choking on nothing but the clean air in her new bedroom. She clutched her cotton sheets in damp fists, shivering under the onslaught of prickles running up her arms, over the crown of her head, and down her spine. The taste of ash and rage dissipated as she cycled through a breathing exercise to slow her heart rate. Breath in. Out. In. Out. Goddammit. In. Out.
Whoever would meet a fiery demise had a few days. Surely, she would’ve gone deeper if that hadn’t been the case. Felt more physical sensation, more emotion. No need to have a panic attack yet. In. Out.
Riley palmed her cell phone and hovered a thumb over Aunt Brenna’s contact. If she gave her aunt a play-by-play of the dream, the Doe murder would come up. Never before had a signature she’d gleaned off a corpse made it into any of the few death-dreamings she’d had. Riley’s ma would have it out of Bren before she could say boo, and then she’d call Riley, or more likely, fly her ass down to Montana to try to drag her away from her ‘dangerous-for-our-like’ job.
The phone went back on the nightstand. Sure, Riley had no one to pull her out if the death-dreamings deepened, but it wouldn’t go that far. Woodrun was a small town. Finding the fire victim should be a piece of cake with her radar clear. She had time. The faces of those she’d met earlier flashed behind her eyes. It must be someone she knew—of course, Riley had never detected a signature, either, so why not add the stress of dreaming a stranger for the first time, too. She lay back down, mulling over the dream’s fuzzy details.
Howls rent the night air. So loud, so close, she flailed, knocking her phone and water bottle off the nightstand in an effort to grab her Smith & Wesson Bodyguard 380. Gripping the metal tight, she shook her head. Right. Montana. Wolves. What were the odds she’d get four more hours of sleep after two jolts to the system? Breath in. Out.
The odds were not in her favor, Riley decided, as she crawled to the kitchen for java and a couple scrambled eggs. Old Mooney’s fancy coffee machine gleamed on the counter. If she could find the manual for the thing, she might lug it to the station to replace their decade old safety-hazard of a pot. For her home fix, she dug her old moka pot out of a box. Riley rubbed foundation into her skin over an obligatory layer of sunscreen to mask the walking dead look she had going, and dressed in sturdy jeans, her brown leather boots, and a black sweater. Badge clipped to her jeans pocket, bag slung over her shoulder, giant thermos in hand, she set out. She made it all the way to the garage door before turning around. Keys. Kinda’ important.
Riley fought with her steering wheel as she turned into the station’s parking lot.
A cruiser pulled in next to her. Andy, sporting jeans and a Woodrun PD long sleeve t-shirt, waited for her on the sidewalk.
At Riley’s raised eyebrow, he said, “Casual Friday. Community relations thing.”
“You make casual look good.”
His grin blinded her tired eyes. “You’re sweet talkin’ me. Whaddya want?”
They ducked into the office. “Know where I can take my Highlander for an oil change and steering issues?”
“The chief can help you there. He tunes up the cruisers as long as it isn’t anything major,” he paused as Ross walked in, “and speak of the devil.”
Ross halted at their attention. He, too, was in jeans. “What?”
“Red needs her SUV looked at,” Andy supplied.
“Now?”
He’d half turned toward the front door by the time Riley could say, “No, no. Thank you. It can wait until after work, or next week.”
“Lunch?”
“Okay,” she conceded.
Ross smiled, not quite up to the wattage of the Logan brothers, but it hinted more to their family resemblance.
“You made the grease monkey happy,” Andy mock whispered as Ross disappeared into his office. “During a murder investigation, too. Gold star.”
She angled her chair back and casually broached, “How many major crimes have you worked out here?”
Andy frowned. “Out here? You make it sound like we’re out in the boonies.”
“Uh, yeah, ya’ kinda are. I almost corrected you yesterday when you called Woodrun a city. It’s a small town, at best.”
“We’ve got an airport, the Reservation’s not too far, a State Park. We’ve got the National Forest right in our backyard—”
“It’s literally in my backyard.”
“The towns along the 202 are close by—”
“You call those towns?”
“Yes, and—”
“There’s less than a hundred people in them. Combined.”
He leaned forward. “Listen here, little red—”
“Just Red, fuzzy bear.”
“Idaho is only an hour away.”
“That’s not a perk.”
“Uh, potatoes? I thought you were Irish.”
“Fucking hell.” Riley’s forehead thunked on the desk. “Andy—”
“And then there’s Canada—”
She searched for something to throw at him.
Ross poked his head out of his office. “Really, you two?”
“We’re bonding,” Andy argued.
“You’re going to drive my new officer away before she’s unpacked,” to Riley, he said, “Woodrun is classified as a city.”
“Cites have, like, a minimum of five thousand people.”
“City council says it’s a city.” He shrugged. “But, you’re right, it should be considered a small town.”
“Judas,” Andy whispered.
Ross shook his head in what had to be well-practiced exasperation. “What was the original question?”
“How many violent crimes you get out here; murder, assault, arson?”
“We get violent crimes every couple years. Our drug problem isn’t too bad. We can resolve most that comes up just by mediating. We had a nasty murder a few years back. Mandy Collen. Husband did it. Ugly case, but quick. This homicide, people might remember seeing someone new if he’d been lurking around, someone who didn’t fit the average tourist, hunter, or hiker. Worst case, we’ve got a killer who drove in, murdered our Doe, and drove right back out. If we reach our county limits—”
“Staties,” Riley supplied.
Brand came in, followed by Greg, who, if Riley recalled yesterday’s schedule correctly, should be at the fire station. Tristian Kozlovsky trailed in behind him.
Greg pulled a chair out from the kitchen, grabbed a pad of paper off his brother’s desk, and a pen off Riley’s. “Tristian remembers something from when we think the murder occurred.”
Tristian took the legal pad Greg held out and grimaced at it. “I woke up in the middle of the night. I don’t remember why, if I heard something or not.” He sat and propped an elbow on Greg’s desk. He scribbled a couple lines and paused, pen bouncing in a rapid tattoo. Greg tried to walk him through a memory exercise, but after a few minutes, he shook his head. “I can’t remember.” He handed the pad back. “Sorry for dragging you out here.”
“Don’t stress on it, it’ll come to you.” Greg patted his shoulder. “Still staying at Clark’s?”
“Three days ‘till they’re done with the attic and the roof.”
“How about we get breakfast before we hit the firehouse?”
He glanced up. “Rosie’s?”
“Hell yeah.”
Tristian’s smile smoothed out the Shar Pei lines he’d acquired.
Andy watched their exchange like he had money on a tennis match.
Riley threw a pen at him. “You wish you were heading to Rosie’s too, fuzzy bear?”
He glanced at her. “Their breakfast special is legendary.”
“Fuzzy bear?” Greg cut in.
“Look at him.” Riley waved her hand, sure that was enough to get her point across.
The Logan brothers exchanged loaded glances with Ross.
Riley silently cursed herself to every hell she could think of. Way to overstep in a new workplace.
“I want a nickname,” Greg demanded.
Oh. She let out a silent, relived sigh. “Uh, bigger fuzzy bear?”
Ross covered a snort with a cough. Tristian didn’t bother covering his.
“No, no.” She snapped her fingers. “I got it. Teddy bear.”
He scratched at the scruff on his jaw, contemplating. “I am damn huggable, aren’t I?”
“Please don’t encourage him,” Tristian said. “He’ll make us all call him that over dispatch.” He got a chuckle from everyone except a bored-looking Kellen.
Greg stood. “All right, we’re out of here.”
Tristian picked up his chair and returned it to the kitchen. He came back through the center of the bullpen, passing close to Riley. The faint scent of smoke stung her eyes, nearly propelling her out of her seat. Tristian could be a smoker. He could’ve been to a bonfire the night before. He could be wearing a jacket unwashed since attending said bonfire.
He picked up the pen Greg had filched from Riley’s desk and brought it to her. “You could call him the pen bandit, instead. He’s notorious.”
Riley purposely brushed his hand during the exchange, chest tightening with the rush of needles pricking their way up her arm. Tristian was the unfortunate star of her death-dreaming, and she had at least three days to figure out how to keep him from burning to death.
Obligatory Legal Stuff:
This chapter is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidences are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, locals, and events are coincidental.
No generative AI used. No AI training or scraping allowed.
All rights reserved.
Chapter Title Image created in Canva. Canva Pro image used in background.