Page 37 of The Mare Rider of Cornwall Cove
I shook my head. Phil moaned. “Sorry, I tend to get talky when I’m nervous. My parents are going to come unhinged.”
I dropped my head onto his shoulder. “It’ll be fine. We’ll explain things better at the station, and it will all sort itself out.”
“Really?”
I reassured him all would be fine, but inside I knew that hot shower and shampoo were not happening anytime soon.
Chapter Twelve
Generally watching the sunrisethrough an icy window would be serene.
Enjoying the colors of the rising sun as it danced on the fingerlings of ice usually made me mellow and chill. Catching the sun coming up through a window on the second floor of the closest to Liverswell, Massachusetts state police barracks was not making me relaxed at all.
We’d been brought in and left to sit in a holding cell for over two hours. Phil was frantically pacing. I’d tried to talk him down but the knowledge that we’d probably be arrested and charged with something related to a mass grave filled with old skeletons had him freaked out. I was worried as well, as the officers we’d spoken with so far weren’t exactly Fox Mulder. They did not want to believe anything that I’d tried to explain to them during our detainment.
Phil jerked back from the bars of the door, blue eyes wide, when footfalls were heard down the quiet corridor. Thankfully, we were the only ones here at the moment. Being locked up with hardened criminals wasn’t on my to-do list.
A shorter Asian guy in an ugly tan tie with a small rainbow heart pin, wrinkled yellow shirt, and dark brown slacks appeared outside our cell door. Cute, middle-aged, with short black hair. He gave us both a look before he yawned widely.
“I’m Detective Kubo. I was brought in as an Asian cultural liaison.”
I got to my feet. Phil sat down as I rose, his face in his hands. I rubbed the back of his neck to try to comfort him.
“Is that even a thing?” I asked.
Detective Kubo shrugged. “I guess it is now. Seems the desk sergeant here heard you speaking about ghosts, Buddhist beliefs, and Houdon religious ceremonies and called me up from Andover.”
“Are you even Buddhist?” Phil was leaning into me now, rubbing at his face and muttering about an arrest record. I massaged his thick neck harder. It was all I could think of doing for him. Talking hadn’t worked.
“No, I’m Presbyterian when I even go.” Oh right. The old all fill in the blank minorities are all the same. Nothing makes me feel better than to be lumped. “So here I am. I’m going to take you to a room where we can have some food and coffee because I’m in dire need of both, and then we’ll have a talk. Your boyfriend will be next.”
I bent down to get Phil’s eyes on me. He looked utterly terrified. Even more scared than when he’d been in the grip of the mare rider.
“It’s time to tell our story. I’ll be back as soon as I can. Can you try to sleep?” I whispered and got a weak nod of his golden head. I knew he’d be right back to pacing when I was out ofsight. I kissed his scruffy cheek and then padded along with the detective, hands back to being cuffed for his protection, which I understood. We got some looks when we passed cops in uniform as a shift change seemed to be taking place.
“In here.” He opened a door with privacy glass that read Interrogation Room 2 and led me to a table. I sat, placed my hands on the cold metal table, and thankfully, he took off the cuffs. “You don’t look like the violent type,” he commented before resting his hand on the firearm at his side. Point made and locked down. Truly, I had zero urge to take on a cop. I just wanted to go home. He walked to the door, opened it, stuck his head out, and ordered us something from a nearby fast-food restaurant before coming back to sit down across from me. “My girlfriend will kill me for eating that crap. She’s a pretty devout vegan.”
I bobbed my head but remained silent. For about an eighth of a second. “Are we being arrested?”
He hid a yawn as he sat back in his seat. The walls were blank aside from one that had a mirror on it. At least the barracks were warm.
“Sorry, I was up late playing a first-person shooter game,” he said when the door opened to allow a cop to enter with two cups of coffee in Styrofoam cups, some sugar packets, and those little creamer cups. “Thanks.” The detective pushed some sweetener and cream to me as he took a hesitant sip of his coffee and grimaced. “God, that is awful.”
“I usually drink tea, but this will be fine,” I said softly while dumping a few packets and a couple of creamers into the tarry brew. I took a taste. It really was terrible, but it had caffeine and gave me something to do with my hands other than pick at my cuticles as I’d been doing for the past few hours. I noted he did not reply to my question about an arrest. He placed his phone on the table between us and hit record.
“So, Archimedes, my grandmother is Shinto and married a serviceman stationed at Camp Zama in 1954. He died in ?69, and she’s been living with my parents in Boston ever since, so I’m pretty well acquainted with the strong belief system of ghosts that many Asian cultures have. Whatever you’re going to say to me won’t be all that odd.”
“Nice to know. It’s not just a belief in ghosts for my family, though. It’s an ancestral blessing that many Kees can speak to the dead.”
He didn’t scoff, which was incredibly nice. He wasn’t sold on the whole thing either, that was obvious, but at least he didn’t roll his eyes. Maybe the police bringing him in to speak to us wasn’t the snarky idea I’d first chalked it up to be. Time would tell.
“Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Tell me about your conviction that your family, and now you, can speak to the dead.” He took a sip. I did the same. And then I started talking. Throughout the long explanations of my family tree, the deaths of my parents, my grandfather raising me, and my stepping—reluctantly at first—into the weighty shoes of Kee Houng. I told him about me and Phil, about Reggie, and about our new show and partnership.
I talked through the arrival of our breakfast sandwiches with sides of greasy hash brown patties and two more cups of bad coffee. Detective Kubo asked a few pertinent questions along the way but otherwise just let me ramble until we came to the end.
He tapped his fingers on his fourth empty cup of coffee as he studied me intently, soft brown eyes searching for something, but I wasn’t sure what. There was nothing left for me to tell him. I’d said my truth, the truth, and now it would be down to him to decide what came next.
“Can I have my phone call now?” I asked after a lengthy moment.
