Banshee Cries

Dear Reader,

In September of 2004 I got an e-mail from my agent, the incomparable Jennifer Jackson, saying shed just spoken with my equally incomparable editor, Mary-Theresa Hussey, who wanted to know if Id be interested in participating in a LUNA Books anthology as one of three contributing authors. The other two authors were to be (need I say the incomparable?) Tanith Lee and Mercedes Lackey.

Not being a great fool, I said yes.

A month of frenzied thought was interspersed with me singing, One of these things is not like the others, followed by a flurry of frenzied writing. The result is Banshee Cries, Book 1.5 of the Walker Papers. It fits chronologically between book one, Urban Shaman, which came out in June 2005, and book two, Thunderbird Falls, due out in May 2006.

I hope you enjoy the story!

C.E. Murphy

Sunday March 20th, 2:55 p.m.

Cell phones are the most detestable objects on the face of the earth. Worse than those ocean-variety pill bugs that grow bigger than your head, which were on my personal top ten list of Things To Avoid.

My life had been a lovely, cell-free zone until nine weeks, six days, and four hours ago. Not that I was counting. On that fateful day I got an official business phone to go with my bulletproof vest and billy stick. Id even been given a gun to go with my shiny new badge.

I wanted those things about as much as Id wanted to bonk my head on the engine block Id sat up beneath when the phone rang. I rubbed my forehead and glared at the engine, then felt horribly guilty. It wasnt Petites fault Id hurt myself, and shed been through enough lately that she didnt need me scowling on top of it all.

The phone kept ringing. I rolled out from under the Mustang and crawled to her open door, digging the phone out from under the drivers seat. What?

Only one person outside of work had the phone number. As soon as I spoke I realized that a politer pickup might have been kosher. The resounding silence from the other end of the line confirmed my suspicion. Eventually a male voice said, Walker?

I turned around to hook my arm over the bottom of the cars door frame and did my best to stifle a groan. Captain.

I need you

These were words that another woman might be pleased to hear from Captain Michael Morrison of the Seattle Police Department. Then again, if he was saying them to another woman, there probably wouldnt have been the slight tension in his voice that suggested his mouth was pressed into a thin line and his nostrils flared with irritation at having the conversation. He had a good voice, nice and low. I imagined it could carry reassuring softness, the kind that would calm a scared kid. Unfortunately, the only softness I ever heard in it was the kind that said, This is the calm before the storm, which happened to be how he sounded right now. I crushed my eyes closed, face wrinkling up, and prodded the bump on my forehead.

to come in to work.

Its my weekend, Morrison. As if this would make any difference. I could hear his ears turning red.

I wouldnt be calling you in

Yeah. I bit the word off and wrapped my hand around the bottom of Petites frame. Whats going on?

Silence. Id rather not tell you.

Jesus, Morrison. I straightened up, feeling the blood return to the line across my back where Id been leaning on the car. Is anybody dead? Is Billy okay?

Hollidays fine. Can you get over to Woodland Park?

Yeah, I I tilted my head back, looking at the Mustangs roof. Truth was, Id been futzing around under the engine block because I couldnt stand to look at the damage done to my babys roof anymore. A twenty-nine-inch gash, not that Id measured or anything, ran from the windshields top edge almost all the way to the back window. From my vantage, thin stuffing and fabric on the inside ceiling shredded and dangled like a teddy bear whod seen better days. Beyond that, soldered edges of steel, not yet sanded down, looked like somebodyd dragged an ax through it.

Which was precisely what had happened.

A little knot of agony tied itself around my heart and squeezed, just like it did every time I looked at my poor car. The war wounds were almost three months old and killing me, but the insurance company was dragging its feet. Full coverage did cover acts of Godor in my case, acts of godsbut Id only said shed been hit by vandals, because who would believe the truth? In the meantime, Id already spent my meager savings replacing the gas tank that somebodyd shot an arrow through.

My life had gotten unpleasantly weird in the past few months.

I forced myself to find something else to look atthe opposite garage wall had a calendar with a mostly naked woman on it, which was sort of an improvementand sighed. Yeah, I said again, into the phone. Im gonna have to take a cab.

Fine. Just get here. North entrance. Wear boots. Morrison hung up and I threw the phone over my shoulder into the car again. Then I said a word nice girls shouldnt and scrambled after the phone, propping myself in the bucket seat with one leg out the door. Bedraggled as she was, just sitting in Petite made me feel better. I patted her steering wheel and murmured a reassurance to her as I dialed the phone. A voice that had smoked too many cigarettes answered and I grinned, sliding down in Petites leather seat.

Still working?

Yknow, in my day, when somebody made a phone call, they said hello and gave their name before anything else.

Gary, in your day they didnt have telephones. Are you still working?

Depends. Is this the crazy broad who hires cabbies to drive her to crime scenes?

I snorted a laugh. Yeah.

Is she gonna cook me dinner if Im still workin?

Sure, I said brightly. Ill whip you up the best microwave dinner you ever had.

Okay. I want one of them chicken fettuccine ones. Where you at?

Chelseas Garage.

Gary groaned, a rumble that came all the way from his toes and reverberated in my ear. You still over there mooning over that car, Jo?

I am not mooning! I was mooning. She needs work.

You need money. And snow tires. And more than six inches of clearance. You aint gonna drive it till spring, Jo, even if you do get it fixed up.

Her, I said, sounding like a petulant child. Petites a her, not an it, arent you, baby, I added, addressing the last part to the steering wheel. Look, are you gonna come get me or not? Its even a paying gig. Morrison called and wants me to go over to Woodland Park.

Arright. Garys voice brightened considerably. Maybe therell be a body.

Morrison glared magnificently when I arrived with Gary in tow. The two of them facing off was wonderful to behold: Morrison was pushing forty and good-looking in a superhero-going-to-seed way, with graying hair and sharp blue eyes. Gary, at seventy-three, had Hemingway wrinkles and a Connery build that made him look dependable and solid instead of old, and his gray eyes were every bit as sharp as Morrisons. For a few seconds I thought they might start butting heads.

But Morrison pointed at Gary and barked, You stay here. Gary looked as crestfallen as a wet kitten. I actually said, Aw, cmon, Morrison, and got his glare turned on me. Oops.

Its arright, Jo. Gary gave me a sly look that from a man a few decades younger wouldve had my heart doing flip-flops. I bet theres a body. You can tell me about it at dinner. You need a ride home?