"This is... fascinating..." The city commissioner stared at the little booklet. Her aides glanced nervously at one another.
"It was left in the mail drop," one volunteered. "Already thoroughly examined for prints or any other evidence."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." The commissioner glared, and picked the sheaf of paper up: as she did, a letter fluttered to the table.
To the members of the city council: The commissioner read aloud.
"I know full well your attitude regarding vigilantism, and I have no doubt you will be relieved to have one less roaming your streets.
However, I believe that the information I have collected in my time... hunting is too valuable too be discarded. I am entrusting my accumulated notes and case studies to your possession.
I wish to remain anonymous, so I am not giving you the original copy; these have been transcribed so that no trace of my handwriting remains. I have never touched these without gloves, and the sketches and pictures are photocopies.
What you do with these is your choice entirely. I wash my hands of the matter.
Good hunting.
There was no signature.
What followed was page upon page of typewritten notes and sketches. The names it mentioned were the same notables that had graced many a headline and horror film for years.
"The million dollar question, boys," said the commissioner finally. "Is this real?"
"Could it be?" asked the quiet one.
"And either way, what do we tell the public?" asked the one who had spoken first.
The commissioner rested her chin on her hands thoughtfully for a long span of minutes. "Let's wait a while on this one. Don't do anything with it... for now."
***
Rachelle Moor fidgeted nervously in the chief of police's office. She'd screwed up her last case — refused to cooperate with her latest partner. This would made three transfers in as many months... and she didn't want to guess who she'd be stuck with now. The captain was talking, but the tall woman wasn't listening; it was the same line she'd been given the other two times. It wasn't her fault! Every freaking partner treated her like a dumb blonde. They liked it. They liked laughing at her. They all hated her. They were all the same.
The captain had stopped talking, was obviously waiting for her response. "I'm sorry, sir, but-"
"I know. You don't do partners." He glared at her, and she shivered. "Not good enough, Moor. I'm tired of you fucking up your job because you won't deal with the system. Now, I've assigned the two of you for patrol for the next month. And let me make this clear, Moor, this is your last chance. If you can't get along with her..."
"Yes. Sir." She bit back a snarl.
"She's waiting out in the lobby. " He turned his attention to the papers on his desk, the conversation closed.
Rachelle stalked out into the lobby, her bitter silence drawing stares. She looked around, but there was no one waiting. "Jesus. If he's fucking with me now, I swear-"
"Moor." The voice came behind her from a place she had been certain no one had been. "Rachelle Moor?" A slighter woman, looking even smaller next to Rachelle's large form, looked up at her serenely.
"Llewellyn." Perfect. Stick her with the wonder cop. He just wanted to make her fall flat on her face, was what he wanted.
"Ahh." Morgan nodded to herself.
"What?!" Rachelle snapped.
"You come into every partnership wanting to hate your partner. I figured as much from your record." The small officer looked penetratingly at her.
Fury rose inside her. "Who died and made you a shrink? Deal with it"
Morgan grinned, shaking her head. "It doesn't work that way, Moor, not here. Took me a while to figure that out, though — maybe I can spare you some of that."
"You think we're gonna be buddies, Llewellyn? Let me save you the trouble. Ain't gonna happen."
Morgan's smile never faded, but her eyes grew cold. "I came into this field with my own agenda too — and it took a severe mental kick in the ass to get me straightened out. If that's how you want it, fine. Be my guest." She held up a pair of car keys. "But while you work with me, you do your job."
***
"Morgan?" Rachelle asked, finally, fidgeting in the silence of the police car.
Morgan barely acknowledged her. She hadn't said a word to the younger woman since they'd started patrol — Rachelle was going to have to be the one to make this step.
"Morgan ... what did you mean, what you said back there? About having your own agenda?"
Bait the hook well: this fish will bite! Morgan smiled to herself. "It wasn't about the badge. Not for me. I was pissed off at the world, and this was how I dealt with it."
"Oh..." Rachelle looked at her out of the corner of her eye, almost hopefully. "I feel that way too, sometimes."
Morgan nodded, cocked her head to show that she was listening, but did not take her eyes from the road.
"I mean, no one ever treated me like I meant anything — not any of my friends, or my boyfriends, or even my family sometimes. No matter what I did, they looked at me like I was just playing. So I joined the force, and spent a lot of time in the gym to build myself — and everyone still treated me like I wasn't serious, like I didn't mean it..."
Morgan smiled sympathetically, trying desperately to keep Rachelle calm. If she played the next few seconds wrong, her new partner would never trust her... "If it helps at all, I know that you're serious about what you do. But you can't prove anything by trying to do it all alone."
"You're probably right." Silence. "Hey, Llewellyn?"
"Hm?"
"I'm really sorry I snapped at you earlier. That was kinda mean."
"S'alright." Morgan sighed inwardly with relief. The hard part was over...
A wave of alarm hit her, suddenly. "Rachelle, can you do me a favor?"
The blonde looked at her with concern in her eyes — some of her disturbance must have made it into her voice. "Sure? What?"
"Look in the glove compartment — there should be a piece of cloth wrapped around a pair of sunglasses?" She heard Rachelle fumbling around for a moment, and then heard the soft brush of cloth being drawn out.
"Well here's the cloth — but it doesn't fell like there's anything in there." She unrolled the little square of fabric. "Nope."
Morgan nodded. "I was afraid of that..."
"Of what?"
"Never mind. It's nothing." Morgan forced a pleasant expression onto her face, a relaxed tone into her voice. "Literally." Rachelle shrugged and flipped the glove compartment closed.
***
The traditional month passed — and Rachelle still hadn't gotten herself transferred. She actually liked her quiet partner... Morgan could be a strict bitch, sometimes, but she was okay. Fun to hang out with, even. And she wasn't the commando her reputation made her out to be. They'd had coffee together a few times, partner stuff; even the chief seemed impressed... and Morgan trusted her. Really trusted her, like none of her partners had. That was a nice thing to feel.
She'd been sleeping, dreamless, when the phone woke her; she lay still for a few rings, hoping that whoever it was would give up... no such luck. She grabbed her cell phone, hoping she'd sound mostly coherent.
"Rachelle?" Morgan's voice.
"Morgan... hey. What are you doing up? It's-" she turned her alarm clock to face her, the glowing numbers hurting her eyes, "-four thirty in the morning!"
"Sorry, Rache — I know it's early." Morgan's voice was strained, as if she'd been crying. "I just-" She went silent.
"Morgan, are you okay?"
"God, this sounds really stupid over the phone — I had...a really bad dream. Or a weird dream. Either way, I'm about climbing the walls." Morgan's voice was trembling, just barely — more than enough to get Rachelle worried. "I'm sorry. I'm being a bitch — forget I called. Go back to sleep. I'm sorry."
Rachelle ignored her protestations. "Morgan, you sound freaked. Why don't you come over to my place? I can make you some tea... something?" There was a pause.
"You sure?"
"Uh huh." There was a sort of a hum on the end of the line, an affirmation. Not twenty minutes later, her partner was on her doorstep.
Morgan was a wreck. Her hair was completely askew, eyes sliding in and out of focus — and she was still shaking. Rachelle helped her inside, and let her drop onto the couch. She sat next to her, holding her arm comfortingly.
"What happened, Morgan? What was the dream? Can you talk about it?"
Morgan closed her eyes, shivering. "I was at a funeral...a wake..."
"Was it for someone you knew?"
Morgan's eyes opened, unfocused. "Yes. A... stranger... I met years ago. I did not know him... I should have known him."
"Morgan..." She sounds weird... she doesn't talk like this...
"He was the essence of the place. Things would not work as they should without him."
"What things?" Rachelle asked, tapping her on the shoulder, relieved when her eyes focused again.
"Light. Sound. Little trivia and thus." Morgan shook her head, her voice becoming lyrical, and her face placid. "We spoke; we each of us spoke. And with our voices we were making him... we were speaking his corpse-" she was drifting away from reality again.
"You spoke." Rachelle pressed. Morgan, you're not here ... you aren't YOU...
"Yes... that was not the trial. With nothing on my tongue, I said my peace..." She was not shivering, now, but her stillness was frightening. Her voice was fading, slowly; her eyes growing blank.
"MORGAN!"
Morgan gasped, doubling over, her hands clutching her midsection. "Rachelle, it was real... it happened... now nothing feels real around me. I keep trying to go back.... I keep thinking I'm dreaming now..." The shuddering started again. "I didn't even know the bastard!"
Rachelle quickly went to find her a blanket; her friend took it gratefully, pulling it tight around her shoulders.
"Hush. ..That's all right. I'm glad you called me." She stroked Morgan softly on the back, like she would a crying child, and it seemed to calm her down. "Just a nightmare... only a nightmare..."
"God, yes," the small woman muttered after a minute. "A quintessential nightmare." She sighed, her bloodshot eyes much more lucid now. "Damn! I forgot!" She dug in a jeans pocket, pulling out a tiny notebook. "I dreamed I took notes through the whole thing — and I woke up with my pad in my hand ..." She flipped backwards through the little notebook, stopping about a quarter of the way from the end. "It starts here." Rachelle peered curiously over Morgan's shoulder. Her friend's panic had shifted mercurially into a bizarre curiosity.
"You don't remember what you wrote, do you?" Morgan shook her head, thumbing through the pages. The notes were scattered... disjointed.
Morgan stared. "Dear god, some of this is recorded conversations I had..."
I see my childhood nightmares in mourning; not afraid. Creatures I've seen in other people's dreams are wearing black...
Who took it hardest?
Who can say?
The raven chokes... he's angry for choking.
Old nightmares from stories and books...
Mourning. The sky is dusty, red.
Dead.
He's dead.
Dream is dead.
"What does this mean?" Rachelle breathed.
"I don't know... I knew then, though." Morgan flipped through more descriptions, sketches of people and creatures both common place and bizarre. Then, she sat bolt upright. "WHAT THE HELL?"
Rachelle, startled, whirled around to look at Morgan: her eyes were fixed on a tiny passage, just at the end, that was a conversation set apart... as Morgan read it, her eyes widened, her face a mask of disbelief. Rachelle was torn between the writing and the play of emotions on her friend's face.
Sunglasses.
I know you.
You cry blood.
I know you.
Old memories.
I know you.
Dreams.
I know you.
You were dead, I saw you die.
Kept your glasses. Couldn't find them that night.
I'm sorry too.
I ... you were my friend. Did you know that?
...thank you — you don't know...
Wait-
I know you.
I know you...
It ended. A drop of water fell onto the page — Rachelle realized that Morgan was crying.
"Who were you talking to, Morgan?"
"An old friend." Morgan sagged back onto the couch. "He — died years ago.
"Oh... shit... oh SHIT, Morgan, I'm sorry!"
Morgan didn't respond... she was staring into the middle distance, her face unreadable.
"Morgan?"
"I'm sorry." Her eyes were completely clear and lucid. "I... feel better now."
Rachelle smiled, happily relieved. "That's good. Come on. The couch turns into a bed..."
"I can drive home-"
"No, you can't. You're exhausted."
"Am... not." Morgan's head drooped. "Okay, I lied." She curled up on the couch, not bothering to fold it out. "G'night."
"Morgan?" Deep and even breathing was her only answer. "Sweet dreams, Morgan."
And Rachelle Moor turned out the lights and went to bed.
I missed you, Morgan. I really did.