The Eaters Of The Dead Fear Me
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I parked the car and rolled down my window, lighting a cigarette as I studied the cemetery across the street. For as long as I have lived in the city, which has been a very long time, the cemetery has been there. Some say the city itself was built around the cemetery and not the other way around. Whatever its origins, the cemetery is where the job lies.

Taking a couple of last puffs off the smoke, I drop the smoldering butt into an open soda can, hearing the hiss as the ember dies. Then I pick up the handset, thumb the button, and place my call. "Dispatch, I'm signing off for the night," I say and let go of the button. "Dispatch here," a woman's voice replies. "End of shift noted, Detective Ruhl. Have a good night." "You too, dispatch," I say and place the handset in its cradle.

The next thing I do is pull out my personal phone and call my captain. You there? He asks, the second he picks up. Yeah. I say. You sure about me doing this within the city? I say that's your job. He says. I don't know who this council is. When the mayor gives me a call and specifically mentions you, then I listen. And now that I know what you are and why you... I can tell you one thing. I'll sleep-pend the job. It could go sideways. I say. Rumor is he's building it.

"That's why your counsel called the mayor, this conversation. Get to it, detective." "Understood, sir," I say. "Done," he says. "Will do," I say and hang up. I sit and stare out my windshield for a minute, thinking about how the past always catches up. It may take a couple of centuries, but it never fails to make an appearance. Then I shake it off, remove my service weapon, and open the glove compartment. I store my gun and my phone inside.

But before I close it, I remove a different pistol. This one is not the standard Glock 9mm that the Force issues. This one is my personal weapon. Although it can't be traced to me. A black Smith & Wesson 45 semi-automatic. The gun has a little more kick to it than the 9mm. It's always good to have that little extra kick. I snag three extra magazines, place them in my pocket, roll my window back up, and get out of the car.

The cemetery looms before me, its gates rising high into the air, almost two stories. Iron reliefs of angels and devils fill the structure surrounding a huge crucifix directly in the center. With a deep breath, I cross the empty street and approach the cemetery gates. I don't know why, but I expect the gates to open when I reach them. When they don't, I'm a little disappointed. I guess that only happens in the movies.

The iron is cold and slippery from the rains that have been deluging the city for days. As I shove the gates open and step through into the cemetery proper, I glance up at the thunder clouds that hover above the city like a crouching bully, waiting for its victim to make a move so they can keep up the punishment. A rumble and roll of thunder punctuates my thoughts, and I give the clouds the finger. The road into the cemetery is nothing but cracked and broken asphalt, but it is neatly maintained.

Not a weed or stray blade of grass pokes up through those cracks. In fact, as I studied the cemetery closer, I realized there is no grass or vegetation of any kind. Limestone gravel lines the paths and walkways between the graves. Most folks probably think the gravel saves time and money when it comes to groundskeeping, but I know better. The truth is, nothing will grow in this cemetery.

This is a place of true death, and that fact is taken seriously by those that frequent the place. Gravel shifts to my right, but I don't react. I expect it to be noticed, to be watched, the very second I set foot inside the cemetery grounds. I'm sure if I listen carefully, I will hear whispers from those watching me while they discuss what to do. Should they attack? Should they trail me and observe? Should they raise the alarm? No, I don't need to hear any of that. I've heard it all before.

and it isn't like they can stop me. More gravel shifts to my left. They are trying to box me. Maybe they are bold enough to attack. "Don't!" I say as I reach into my jacket and pull my cigarettes out. I light one with my Zippo and inhale deeply. Then I stop walking and blow out the smoke. "I mean it. Just don't." Whispers, whispers, whispers. Then more gravel shifts from both sides. But this time I can tell they're leaving.

You get good at deciphering noises in the dark when you've spent as much time in cemeteries late at night as I have. I keep walking, savoring my cigarette. You never know when it will be your last. The road begins to twist and wind and descend slightly. What most residents of this city probably don't know, unless they've personally been inside here, is that the cemetery is not a flat lawn with neat row after neat row of graves and headstones. No.

It is actually a depression, a bowl, a tiny valley sunken in the middle of the city. The graves in the interior are placed in what looks like a haphazard manner, taking advantage of whatever staple ground is available. Yet, there is a pattern to everything, and I quickly leave the road and slip into that pattern. Some would call it a labyrinth, a deliberate path built to guide a traveler toward the center, but that's a bunch of crap.

The illusion of a labyrinth is here only to distract and deflect attention from unwanted visitors. When a mind sees a pattern in chaos, it grasps a hold of that pattern with all its might, desperate to keep order. I get that. In a place like this, patterns and order are all that keep the madness at bay. Cutting across several pathways, I wind my way down and down, tracing a trail that weaves through and among the graves.

I glance at the headstones now and again, seeing familiar names of those who built this city, long dead titans of industry and architects of civil greatness molder in coffins six feet below my feet. Neither their wealth nor their greatness could hold back the inevitable end we all meet, or that most do. An angel with a broken wing and only three fingers left on a hand that reaches up to the sky stands a few yards ahead of me. Instead of sticking to the gravel,

I cross directly over several graves, knowing it's an insult that I am throwing out into the night, and I make my way to the statue. The angel's face is smeared with something, and from the rotten copper smell, I do not need a lab to tell me what the something is. "Okay, let's do this," I say and squat down on my haunches in front of the statue. I remove several items from my jacket pockets and place them on the statue's base. A broken rosary.

Three votive candles, pumpkin-scented. Not that the scent really matters. They were what I had on hand. The clean skull of a squirrel, another of a cat. Six chicken livers fresh. I also shake out three smokes and place them next to the chicken livers. Then I remove the last item from my pocket and stand up. "Here we go," I say, and open the small jar of pig's blood. I slowly pour the blood directly over the line of items at the statue's base.

making sure each item receives at least a few drops, if not more. With my eyes closed, I quickly recite a phrase in Latin before the blood can fully oxidize. I don't need to open my eyes to tell that flames have come to life in the candles. I also do not need to open my eyes to tell that the cigarettes have been picked up and are being enjoyed by what I have called to me.

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"Inquisitor," a cracked voice says. There's the sound of a long drag from one of the smokes, but no sound of an exhale. I open my eyes and stare at the three sisters. They have had many names throughout the millennia. I couldn't even begin to list them all, but the three sisters is what I have known them as. So I address them as such. "Sisters," I say. One of them hisses.

"We are not your sister, Inquisitor," another says. Listening to them is like listening to dry leaves crunch and crackle under the feet of damned men. The rot and decay are evident in every syllable. "Ladies," I say, taking a different tack. "Thank you for coming." "You summoned us, Inquisitor," first sister says. Her body is immense.

400 pounds of twisted, aged flesh wrapped around a skeleton that tries to peek through where the skin has become thin and translucent. She has no hair, yet she rubs at her bald and scabbed scalp as if she's trying to tame wild locks. "What do you want with us, Inquisitor?" Second Sister asks. She is thin and almost nothing but a skeleton. Her skin is not rotted like First Sister's, but thick and dry.

darkened by some far-off foreign sun, dried by a climate that is as opposite to this city's as you can get. Her fingernails are long and sharp, and she picks at something between her very sharp teeth. She pulls out her finger, inspects whatever she has retrieved, then flicks it in my direction. Her eyes meet mine and challenge as she takes a drag off her cigarette and fills her thin chest with smoke. She does not exhale.

I seek only direction. I reply with a small bow. The sisters cackle and laugh, and then Third Sister steps forward. Oh, Third Sister. A danger to all who are unfortunate enough to be in her presence. Unlike the other two, Third Sister is not an image from the grave or tomb. No, she is exquisite. She has perfect ivory skin, although I know it can be whatever color her heart is drawn to. Her body is lithe and active.

In the dark of night, she appears to be in perfect health with rosy cheeks and white teeth. Those teeth gleam despite the gloom and they have been known to hypnotize even those with the strongest of wills. "Inquisitor, Inquisitor, Inquisitor," Third Sister says, dragging on her cigarette when she reaches me. One of her pink fingers traces a line across my cheek as she circles around me. It takes all of my willpower not to shiver. "Who shouldn't have come, Inquisitor?"

Third Sister whispers into my ear with a puff of smoke. Then she walks back to her sisters, making sure her perfect naked ass sways just right for me to see. "Just doing my job," I say. "I am sure you ladies can understand that." "Doing his job." First Sister cackles. "That is all he is doing." Second Sister says between quick drags on her cigarette. "His job, how noble." The two sisters laugh with each other until Third Sister holds up a hand.

They quiet down and watch her with anticipation. "Now, now, sisters," Third Sister says. She inhales deeply. "I am waiting for it." When she exhales quickly, I step to the side, prepared to avoid the smoke coming my way. Third Sister grins and for the first time, I see her true face under that sculpted beauty.

I see disease and plague. I see fevers so hot that skin bursts and pus oozes. I see the wailing of mothers over dead children. I see the sacrifice of animals as fear tries to hold evil back. I see vast pits of rotting bodies, graves so wide and so deep that entire villages can fit inside each one. Third Sister's grin is replaced by a sneer and the gorgeous facade returns. "What direction do you seek, Inquisitor?"

Third Sister asks. The other two hiss at her, but she holds up a hand and they are silenced. "Let him speak, sisters," Third Sister says. "Otherwise, how will we judge him? How will we lay claim to his body when he speaks lies and tries to deceive us?" This is a trick. The sisters know only lies and deception. Telling them the truth is like giving air to a drowning man.

They take it in and feast off of it so they can corrupt that truth and twist it into whatever their rotten hearts desire. First sister and second sister say in unison, "I am here to pay my respects to an old friend," I say. All three sisters lick their lips as that true nugget washes over them. My target and I were friends once, long, long ago. Could you point me to the correct crypt?

"You do not know where your old friend lives?" Third Sister asks. Her cigarette is almost finished. All of theirs are. I'm running out of time. "Not much of an old friend," First Sister says. "Shameful." Second Sister says. All three pull hard on their cigarettes, shortening my time frame even faster. "We lost touch a while back," I say. "If you could simply point me in the right direction, I would be grateful."

"Some truth, but mostly lies," First Sister says. "Agreed." Second Sister says. "What do we get in return?" Third Sister asks. "My gratitude," I say. They laugh. I knew they would. "And what is the gratitude of the Inquisitor to us?" Third Sister asks. "Insurance," I say. They look confused.

A guarantee from me that when your time comes, you will not be forgotten. Sisters first and second nearly double over with laughter, but third sister watches me closely. What do you know that we do not, Inquisitor? She asks. I shrug. We need more than that. She says and walks back to me. Her beautiful face is pressed close to mine, and I smell smoke and death. Her lips almost brush mine when she says, Give us the truth.

and we will give you the direction you can't do that." I say as I stand my ground, despite the pungent wafts of rot that the woman exudes. "And you know I can't. What I can do is help you when your time comes." Third Sister's lips pull back, and she hisses just so slightly. "Truth," First Sister says. "Truth." Second Sister says. I watch Third Sister closely. I may have overplayed my hand and given them too much that is real,

Instead of echoing her sister's, Third Sister says, "Very well. What is your friend's name?" The others protest and argue. They throw tantrums and screech at their sister for letting me off the hook when they were so close to having me and my truths. Third Sister waits them out until they both sit down at the base of the statue and sulk. All three cigarettes are almost gone. "I can't give you his name," I say. "You know that too." "You can."

"But you refuse," Third Sister says. I shrug again. She laughs and rejoins her sisters, standing before them as the two finish off their cigarettes. Second Sister finishes hers first. Her body cracks apart, becoming a mound of black beetles that scurry away into the night, lost in the cracks and crevices beneath the statue.

"Let him suffer," First Sister says as she finishes her cigarette. Her body melts into a pile of offal and bone, then dissolves completely and seeps into the ground in front of the statue. Third Sister is all that remains. She eyes me as her thumb flicks the filter of her cigarette, sending ash falling to the gravel under her perfect feet. Then she shakes her head and looks up at the thunder clouds that hover over the cemetery.

You never yield, Inquisitor, she says, her eyes still in the dark clouds. I wouldn't be much of an Inquisitor if I did, I say. Where is he? With Uber Reserve, good things come to those who plan ahead. Family vacay? Reserve your ride as soon as you book your flights. To all the planners, now you can reserve your Uber ride up to 90 days in advance. See Uber app for details. She snorts with concealed laughter, then looks me dead in the eye.

"He has a guardian," she says, then finishes off her cigarette. As the last wisps of smoke leave her mouth, Third Sister shatters into a million pieces of ice, turning to mist before any of the pieces touch the ground. Shit, he has his guardian with him. Not good, but it does make him easier to find. I take out my gun and double-check the magazine, then chamber around so I'm ready for when it comes.

Now that I know what I'm looking for, I continue my journey downward toward the bottom of the depression. Several crypts are anchored in place on the hillsides, but I pass them by. They are not my destination. My destination will reveal itself shortly. Down, down, down I go until I reach the third twist from the bottom. A crypt stands before me, ancient and crumbling. Many of the ones I've already passed have been maintained by descendants or trusts.

Several are considered to be historical importance to the city, so funding for maintenance is readily available, but not the one I stand before. Now, it is so decrepit that calling it a structure is almost an exaggeration. Yet, it still has a door, and in front of that door is the guardian. Inquisitor, the creature says with a hiss. Nickel, I say, recognizing the creature. It hisses louder at the mention of its true name. Move, please.

A chimera is a creature made of others. Most are scorpion-tailed with lion bodies and eagle wings. This one is not. A serpent's head waves back and forth from a gorilla's body. Short bat wings flick and flutter from its back. Its eyes are feline, and they glow orange as they size me up. "You do not have permission to address me by my given name," Nichol says. I bow my head.

"My apologies," I say. Then I look directly into those orange eyes. False guardian. The hiss becomes a scream and the snake head strikes at me, but I'm ready. I pull my gun and the creature's fleshy snout meets hard metal. "Bullet?" It hisses then backs off only slightly. "You have lost your touch, Inquisitor." "Your assumption, not mine," I say. The creature studies the gun then backs off completely. "Are they hexed?" it asks.

"They do not need to be in my hand," I say. "Oh," it replies. "Perhaps you have not lost your touch." I shrug. A lip rises to show me three fangs. I shrug again. Nickel sways its head back and forth, a blatant attempt to hypnotize me. "Don't bother," I say. "I've already been through the sisters." The swaying stops. "May I pass?" I ask, figuring the direct approach might get me somewhere.

Upon my death, you may. It says. I'm not here for you, Nickel. I say. It hisses at the second mention of its name, but does not strike. I aim my chin at the crypt behind it. I have business in there with your master. He is not my master. Nickel replies. Still believing you're in a partnership when you take these jobs, I see. I sigh. We both know the truth of... Before I can finish, Nickel charges me.

The creature lifts me by my neck and starts to squeeze. I have the gun against its chest, and I'm firing before it can crush my windpipe. When the gun clicks empty, Nickel drops me and staggers back. It looks down at the wounds as black blood pours out and drops in heavy globs to the gravel. "What have you done?" it asks me, its hands trying desperately to staunch the flow of blood. "How can this be?" "I'm the Inquisitor," I state.

That is all the explanation the dying thing needs. You have undone me, but I will not perish. It says and takes a step toward me. I wait. I will eat your soul. It says, taking one more step. I wait. Your days are over, Inquisitor. It says then falls to one knee. The bat wings flutter, then stop. Eventually, I respond as I watch the thing die.

Nichol's other leg goes out from under it, and the thing falls forward onto its serpent face, its hands not fast enough to stop the impact. It tries to push up, but it cannot.

That is when I step forward, eject the spent magazine, and switch it for a fresh one. I chamber a round, place the muzzle to the back of Nickel's head, and squeeze the trigger. A wailing erupts across the cemetery as Nickel's body turns to smoke that is then carried away by the looming storm's wind. I spin in a circle and see shapes and forms crouching on, standing on, and hiding behind gravestones.

and the wailing ends and the shapes and forms slink away into the night. You might as well come in, Inquisitor. A voice calls to me from inside the crypt. Let us get this over with. I put my gun away and take the two small steps up to the crypt's iron door. I have to use a good amount of strength to shove the door open. The interior is lined with burning candles. The smell would be offensive if I wasn't used to it.

They are not beeswax, but tallow. And my guess is it's not beef fat, but human. That would fit the personality I'm confronting. In the middle of the crypt is a stone sarcophagus, and the sarcophagus is open. Standing to one side is what many would assume is a man. They would be wrong. He looks like a man. He acts like a man. But he is not a man. He is like me, except he is now lost.

"Hello, old friend," he says as he reaches into the sarcophagus and pulls out a rotted forearm. The arm comes from a corpse that has been dead for at least a century. I use all of my willpower to keep my mouth from watering. "Father," I say. He takes a bite of the desiccated arm and tears old flesh away with his very sharp teeth. Bits of dry skin tumble down his chin and pass by his yellowed collar that at one time was white.

I think that's the point of that hierarchy, I say. There is a beat, and then we both laugh. Father says,

"Little did we know," I echo. He takes another bite and chews slowly as he watches me. Then he holds out the arm. "Care for some, old friend?" he asks. I shake my head. "I didn't think so, but I hate to assume." "You were not supposed to be here," I say, nodding at the sarcophagus. "You were not supposed to be doing that." "Oh, please," he says, and takes another bite, then another bite.

like a bulldog scarfing down its food so others can't take it away. He does resemble a bulldog in some ways, short and muscular, with a round, scrunched face. When his teeth reach one of the arm bones, he even gnaws on it like a bulldog. And he keeps gnawing. He's making a show of it. I wait him out until he gets bored. Tossing the rest of the arm back into the open sarcophagus, he licks his lips and says, Why have you been sent?

"You know why?" I say and nod at the sarcophagus again. "This. They sent the Inquisitor over this." He acts with a contemptuous laugh right behind his words. "And to be clear, I haven't been sent." I say. Confusion flitters across his features then is replaced by a suspicious glare. "Bullshit." He says. "You were sent or you wouldn't be here." I shake my head.

"No," I say even though it's a lie. "I am here on my own." "Laughable," he says. "Is doing a favor for an old friend really laughable?" I ask. "A favor," Father chuckles. "Is that what you are calling this? A favor?" "If I had been sent, then you would be in a much worse situation," I say. He reaches in and plucks a rib from the sarcophagus.

Only a tiny bit of flesh is left on it. But that is not what father wants. He cracks off one end with his molars, then sucks on the rib, removing what dry and crusty marrow is left inside. Again, I wait. Some call me a monster. Some call me a traitor. Some call me the real angel of death. Some call me useless and a feature of an age long gone by. I call myself patient. Waiting is most of my job.

My patience is my greatest skill. I let them have their moments of regret and anger and rebellion. I let them spit curses at me. I let them have their attacks and allow them to believe they can fight for their lives. Or, I guess, whatever state they are in when I come calling. Most of all, I wait. "I could have been you," Father says when he's done sucking the marrow from the rib. He tosses it over his shoulder and plucks a new one out.

"I had that opportunity." "No, you did not." I say. "They knew you wouldn't be able to handle the responsibility, not after what you did." "Oh, that." He says and points the end of the rib at me. "That wasn't my fault. I didn't know the rules yet." "As a priest of the church, you knew digging up corpses to devour their flesh wasn't the right thing to do." I say. "But I was hungry!" He shouts and throws the rib at my head.

I duck my head to the side about an inch and it barely grazes my ear. "What was I supposed to do?" He screams at me. He reaches in and pulls out rib after rib, throwing each toward me. I dodge them easily. "Where no ribs are left," he says. "I was dead and so hungry." "Not dead," I say. "Changed into your true form." "Bullshit," he says meekly.

some of the fire in him having been spent by his rib-throwing tantrum. "I was not destined to be a ghoul. I was destined to be a saint." "If that was true, then you wouldn't have clawed your way out of your grave," I say. "And we wouldn't be here, right now, in this place." "We wouldn't be here, right now, in this place," he repeats back to me in a mocking voice.

"You think because you found me first, you know so, so much about me." "I know you were confused when I found you squatting over that woman's corpse," I say. "I know it took me a long time before I could lure you away from your parish cemetery. Night after night I tried to reason with you. Only when your former parishioners arrived with torches and pitchforks did you relent." "My flock did love their torches and pitchforks," he says with a smirk. "It was the time," I say.

The plague put us all on edge. "Even you, oh stoic inquisitor?" he asks, the mocking back in his voice. "I feel," I say, "what I must." "The only reason I believe that is that we spent many decades together over the years," he says, "after you were kind enough to show me the ways of ghouls." "It would have been unfair of me not to," I say,

An Inquisitor is never looking for an advantage, only the truth. "Only the truth," he says and sighs. "What a pair of ghouls we make." "There is no 'we', father," I say. "All right then," he responds. "It is to be like that, I see." I shrug. I wait. "You didn't have to kill my guardian," he says. I shrug. I wait. "You don't have to do this now," he continues.

"What if I promise not to ever make myself known again?" "That is the promise you made all those centuries ago, and you can see where we are now," I say. A ghoul feeds by digging up from under the grave. They break into the coffin, they eat, then they leave. The humans above are left no more the wiser. That is the promise of eternal existence. "I see you did not say eternal life," he says.

"Existence is a poor replacement for life, old friend." "You could have said no," I say. "How? What course could I have taken that would change this outcome?" He snaps at me. "Peace," I say.

You could have given up the ghost, as they say. Instead, you fought death and... Won! He roars. I fought death and won! But did I get more life? No. I became a ghoul, doomed to eat the dead flesh of humans for eternity. That is not what I fought for. I was tricked! You were not tricked, I say. I was! I was tricked by the devil himself! He yells.

"You know the devil has nothing to do with us!" I say and roll my eyes. "Do not diminish my words with your impertinence!" He screams at me. I begin to reply, but a noise outside catches my ears. Others have begun to gather. This is what I had hoped to avoid. If he's already swayed even a few of them, then my job has become infinitely harder. By the look on his enraged face, I can see that Father is thinking along the same lines.

"The shadows," he says and spits on the ground. "The cellars, the basements, the sewers below the city, the tunnels beneath the cemeteries. Darkness and darkness and more darkness." "You become what your soul reveals," I say. "You know that." "So what does that say about you, Inquisitor?" he asks with a dismissive snort. "What did your soul reveal when you won? Look at you. Pathetic.

A servant for eternity, forced to do the bidding of a council that cares nothing for you. He moves quickly toward me, but I don't flinch. I let him pass me, knowing he won't run. His ego won't allow it. I turn and follow his movement. He stops at the door to the crypt and points outside. "Do you see, Inquisitor?" he asks, aiming his index finger at the vague shapes that have gathered nearby.

"Do you see how others are tired of this life? How they no longer want to be under, to be beneath, to be hidden? Do you, Inquisitor?" "I do," I say. "But it is not their choice to make. They already made their choices like we did." "But it was all lies!" Father screams. A few growls and grunts of agreement echo back to him. "I'm getting dangerously close to losing control." But dangerously close to losing control is not the same as fully losing control.

I still have time. The sky above flashes with lightning and I see what I'm up against. There are dozens and dozens of my fellow ghouls waiting out there, watching this little drama unfold. I might not have as much time as I think,

"Ghouls!" Father shouts as he takes two steps outside the crypt. "Join me! For tonight we rise up and take this city from the humans! No longer will we hide in shadows or live in sewers! We are not rats! We are not vermin! We are ghouls!" Cheers rise up in the crowd. More join them. I remove my gun and take a deep breath. Father freezes. He doesn't look back at me.

but I know I am the sole thing that has his attention. "You will do this here? Now?" he asks. "In front of your own kind?" "I have a job to do," I say. "A balance to keep." Father whirls on me, his eyes mad, his teeth bared. "There is no balance as long as the humans control the above!" he shouts. I lift the gun and take aim. "Humans controlling the above is the balance," I say.

"What will become of you after this, Inquisitor?" Father asks. "What will remain of the ghoul I met all those centuries ago?" "The same thing that has always remained," I say. "Patience." I squeeze the trigger, and his head rocks back. I see gray matter explode out the back of his skull. As his body falls, his eyes are locked onto mine. I keep eye contact all the way down, and even after I know he is truly and finally gone,

Hisses call out from the crowd that surrounds the crypt. I look up and the hisses stop. "Take care of him," I say, and step over the body as I leave the crypt. "Show his corpse kindness." None of my fellow ghouls respond. They simply watch me make my way up out of the cemetery. Some of them follow me, keeping a respectable distance. I don't blame them. When I reach the gates, I turn. Three ghouls remain. "Ask it," I say to them.

The ones brave enough to follow always have questions. "When is our time up?" One asks. I shrug. "Will we ever be more than this?" A second asks. I shrug. "Will I ever know Beast?" The third asks. The two others whip their heads around and glare at the ghoul. It ignores them. "I don't know." I reply. "You might." "Have you ever known Beast?" It asks me. "No." I say.

I only know patience, which is close. I shake my head. But no, I have never known peace. The ghoul nods and slinks back into the shadows. The other two follow. I walk out of the cemetery gates, turn, and pull them closed. It's the respectful thing to do. When I am finally in my car, I grip the steering wheel tight. I breathe slowly and willfully.

Then I fish my phone out of the glove box and switch out the two pistols for each other. With my service weapon back on my hip, I dial my captain's number. "Detective?" he says. "Is that you?" "Yes." I say. "Good." He says. "Is it done?" "Yes." I say. "I'll let the mayor know." He says then pauses. "Should I have him tell your counsel?" "No, I'll do that." I say. "It's part of my job." There is silence for a few seconds.

but I know he's still there. I can hear his breathing. "Tell me this, Ruel," he says finally. "Will I ever know the truth of what the hell is going on beneath this city?" "I hope not, Captain," I say. "Just sleep better at night, like you said. There's no need to have this kind of knowledge in your head." "Got it," he says. "Good night, Ruel." "Good night, Captain," I say and hang up. I should call the council and tell them the job is finished, but it has been a long night and I am hungry.

I'll get a bite to eat before I alert them. I start up my car and put it into gear. I know a nice family cemetery just outside the city limits with easy access underneath. I'm not sure what I'm in the mood for, but someone from last century sounds good. As I drive off, leaving the cemetery and a piece of my past behind, the sky opens up again and the rain begins to wash the night away.