The Mist

Chapter 1

            It was the mist. Something about the way it moved disturbed my heart. It moved like something alive, parting before me like water flowing around a rock. As though it knew my destination, it led me steadily onward: turning half a step before me, closing in on me when I paused to think, and showing the way once more as I retook my path. Many times had I made this journey. Too many nights had I spent on these streets after receiving the call. How many would be too many? Which night would be more than I could bear? When would I find myself standing before her door? In this city it was almost certainly a question of when, not if. In this city, where good deeds were not celebrated, but merely glanced at a second time, as something rarely seen.

            The mist was becoming lighter. I had no hopes that it was lifting; it simply wanted me to see the whole scene that soon would be laid before me. Through this early morning veil I began to see the lights. Street lights, casting their sad countenance through the dark for a few more hours, watching the sleeping homes before they themselves went to bed for the day. Parlor lights, normally dim at this hour, were blazing in the neighbors' windows, awoken either by the scream of the deceased or the cry of the sirens. The lights of the officers' cars, clearly marking which home had that same night lost its only inhabitant.

**~~~**

            It was the mist. Something about the way it moved lifted my heart. It seemed to know my intentions, and it shrouded me from view. No one ever looked above them anyway, but it was nice to have this ghostly friend on my side. Many times had I made this journey. Many wonderful nights had I spent on these rooftops following him after he received the call. How many would be too many? On which night would he find me? When would I find him knocking at my door? In this city it was just as likely that I would be the cause of his next phone call. In this city, where bad deeds were rarely punished, and all the people merely prayed they were not the recipients of the next one.

            The mist was becoming lighter. I knew it was not lifting; it wanted me to be able to witness the review of my nightly performance. He walked from one street light to the next, in and out of the light like a trout jumping out of a river as it swims upstream. And like the trout, he knows not that at the top of the stream lies a bear, waiting to devour the eager little fish. He may not even think on me this time. This time was different. It was more influence than direct contact, but she played her part brilliantly, completely unaware of her actions the whole time. Well, perhaps she did know at the end. Always at the end. Tell me, detective; will you know?

**~~~**

"Jackson! You took your sweet time getting here! Didn't I tell you to get a car? A bicycle? Something with wheels that is faster than your own two feet! If you weren't as good as you are, I'd fire you, but being as good as you are, I'm ready to buy you a vehicle myself! But seeing as how, between my wife and beer, I've got less money than you, I ain't buying you a darn thing! Next time I call you, you better be knocking at the door as soon as I hang up the phone, so invest in some wheels or running shoes, kid! You got any excuses for your timing?"

"You know, sir, I've been telling you for years if you divorce your wife, you'll save money from her and beer, because you won't have a reason to drink anymore."

"Watch it, Jackson. Besides, I like beer too much to divorce her, and she's much more tolerable with 6 or 7 in the ole' gut."

With a glance down and a quick, "looks more like 9 or 10," I ducked under his next tirade and into the bedroom. Matthews wasn't a bad guy; he was decent. He just wasn't a decent cop. He got a shiny badge while I was getting a detective license, and since he got his first he felt that he was my superior. He was little more than a schoolyard bully who hit his growth spurt first and was threatened by my abilities.