A Study in Chaos

By J. L. Ender

“Glad you’re here, Miss Morgan.” Detective Eastwood handed me a coffee.

“Thanks. And I really do prefer Rose.” He grinned as I accepted the warm paper cup, telling me he’d ignore the request.

I took a sip and stepped into the victim’s living room. I grimaced at the coffee’s sour taste, but the awful tang was the jolt I needed. Anything to ward off the coming storm. My temple throbbed. My investigation headache had already begun.

“You really brought the psychic again?” Eastwood’s partner, Romero, scowled at me and crossed his arms. “She got us exactly nothing last time.”

Eastwood rolled his eyes. “That’s because there was nothing to get. That girl escaped on her own.”

“Well… still. It’s all nonsense.”

“She helped us with that drug bust last month.”

“Lucky guess.”

I sighed and turned away, trying to ignore them both. I turned my focus to reading the room, a study in chaos. Overturned chairs, shredded magazines, wounded furniture weeping foam. And on the coffee table, a chipped and battered teacup. A partially dried tea stain slowly ruined the wood.

“Anyway, how long has it been?”

Eastwood slurped from his coffee. “Three hours.”

I frowned. Longer than I’d have liked, but I could make do. A weak connection beat nothing at all.

I walked to the teacup. “Can I touch?”

Eastwood nodded. “Yes ma’am.”

I set my cup down. Not expecting much, I laid a finger on the teacup’s delicate rim.

Electricity tickled the back of my brain, then exploded through me, making my hair stand on end. My tongue went fat in my mouth.

I’m in a warehouse, locked inside a cage. Chain-link fencing presses against my back, barely giving against my slight weight. I’m hungry and scared, and I urgently need to pee, but there’s nowhere to go, not even a bucket.

A man stands over me, in the shadows outside the cage. Farther back, large machines loom above. There’s a distinct odor to the air, but I can’t quite place it.

I awoke on the couch. Eastwood and Romero stood nearby, studying me.

“Did you get anything?” Eastwood ran fingers through blond hair.

Romero grunted. “We should be knocking on doors right now.”

I grabbed my coffee, letting the acrid taste revive me again. “I did. There was a smell.” I took a deep breath. The scent of tea and coffee mingled in the air, along with the faintest whiff of… fish.

“A fish cannery,” I said. “That’s where they’re holding her. But we need to hurry. They might be moving her.”

“There’s only a couple on the wharf.” Eastwood nodded toward the door. “Let’s go.”

I stood. “What are we waiting for?”

“Nothing doing.” Romero put his hand up, glaring at me. “This is police business.”

“I’m a paid consultant. Per the Medium Act, I’m allowed.”

Romero scowled.

Eastwood hesitated, then nodded. “She can come. We might need her to read the warehouse.”

Twenty minutes later, we reached the docks. The briny air refreshed my senses. Gulls warbled on the rooftops. A small, rusty fishing boat puttered off as we watched.

I tore open the door to the nearest warehouse, Detective Eastwood right behind. Familiar machines skulked in shadows high above. The smell of fish hit my senses, and I gagged.

A small chain link cage hid in the dimness. I raced forward and gripped its open door.

Gun in hand, I walk back and forth, keeping a careful watch on the girl in the cage. My phone rings. “I stalled as long as I could,” Romero‘s voice comes through the speaker. “You need to get out of there.”

I staggered, gasping. “Eastwood! Look out—it’s Romero!”

Eastwood spun just in time to shove his partner’s gun arm away. A shot cracked the air, followed by a ping as the bullet ricocheted off a wall.

Eastwood drew his own gun. “Put it down, slowly.”

Romero’s lips twisted in an ugly snarl, but he placed his weapon on the ground.

Eastwood put a foot on the gun. “You’re in on this mess?” His voice shook. I could feel his shock, and his pain. Betrayed by his partner.

I knew what I had to do. Grimacing with distaste, I strode forward, reaching for Romero. He jerked backward.

“Don’t move,” Eastwood snarled, gun aimed carefully.

I placed a hand on Romero’s forehead, his sweat sticky beneath my fingertips.

“The boat’s headed to intercept a large fishing vessel a few miles off the coast.” I pulled my hand away, stomach churning. My mouth tasted like metal. Reading people like this was the worst part of my job. I hated direct contact.

Eastwood fumbled one-handed for a pair of handcuffs. “Turn around.”

Romero complied, and Eastwood cuffed him. He reached for his radio, relaying the information I’d obtained.

I stepped away and glanced around. We’d been too slow. An empty cage and a raging headache. Another study in chaos.

“The Coast Guard’s on the way.” Eastwood smiled grimly.

I took a deep breath. Maybe we could beat the darkness after all.

“The detective said you saved me,” the girl said. “Thank you so much.”

I hugged the girl I’d seen from my vision, tears stinging my eyes. The ships had been intercepted; the victim rescued. They’d brought her to the police station, and for some reason, she’d asked to meet me.

I didn’t know what to say. After a moment, I pulled away. I looked into her eyes and nodded, smiling softly.

Eastwood handed me a cup of coffee.

Awful, again. “So… who makes the coffee around here?”

He took a sip of his own and frowned. “Maybe you should make it next time. I mean, not like that. You could show me… I just…” He stumbled to a halt, then restarted. “What if you did all this in a more official capacity?”

I peered at him over the rim of my cup. “What are you saying?”

“Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’ll need a new partner, Rose.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

J. L. Ender is the author of the superhero series Steel Fox Investigations, as well as a number of novels and short stories across several genres. Ender has worked as a dishwasher, a beef jerky labeler, a warehouse worker, a shelf stocker, a greeter, a traveling technician, a laser engraver, a package handler, a copywriter, a graphic designer, a librarian, an editor, destroyer of worlds (in an unofficial capacity), a dispatcher, and a phone operator. You can find him on Instagram where he regularly tortures himself by trying to write even SHORTER fiction at 150 words or less.

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