Excerpt: Every Breath Closer - Inhuman Acts Anthology
The following excerpt opens the story "Every Breath Closer" a tale of fame and the questionable ways in which we seek posterity which bleeds within the pages of Inhuman Acts, a Noir-themed anthology exploring the darkest depths of desperate animal souls and the means by which they seek redemption or damnation.
Thrill to the morally ambigious casefiles of (in TOC order) Ianus J. Wolf, Watts Martin, Mary E. Lowd, Tana Simensis, myself, Solus Lupus, Huskyteer, Tony Greyfox, T.S. McNally, Alpinus, Marshall L. Moseley, Nicholas Hardin, and Bill Kieffer
Stunning cover art by Seylyn
Editorial machinations by Ocean Tigrox
Inhuman Acts will be first perpetrated at Rainfurrest 2015 in the sordid den of Furplanet, from whom the anthology can be pre-ordered.
"Every Breath Closer' By Slip Wolf
I won't lie and say the ten thousand I'd lost didn't cross my mind when the police started to process the scene. Mostly I was just numb as I watched the dead otter's limbs twisted around themselves on the wet pavement, rain driving at the tarp that kept blowing off her, all the evidence at the scene finding a drain to go down. There was broken glass around Susan Britches' body and a gaping jagged grimace in the condo's glass side five stories up. I suspected the broken music award by the curb was used to break the window. In that condo, where Susan had paid me my retainer just days ago and begged me to quietly and discreetly find her missing daughter, was an explanation for Susan's demise.
I shook out my tail-and a red squirrel's tail can hold a lot of water-earning a curse from one of the feline beat cops nearby. "Ain't I wet enough?"
Sure, I thought, standing the lapels on my trench coat and taking one last look at the partway closed eyes of my ex-client, you're the one inconvenienced here. I ignored the cop, tried to go up and see what I could see, but even more cops had the entrance blocked. They all knew who I was and the disrespect was mutual. The unspoken message from the wolf at the door to get lost was clear. I was out in the cold and wet, as literally as I could get, with no clue what to do now.
The first flashbulb alerted me to the presence of a stringer, snapping shots for whatever nightly news desk or tabloid rag would be gutsy enough to splash a dead-woman's last gaze. The questions came rapid fire as more media huffed from vans and hatchbacks up the street. "We can see that's Beth Mercy's mother there. Is this a suicide? Was this connected with Beth Mercy's disappearance two weeks ago? Was Beth's mother next in line for her daughter's fortune? Are there any new leads in that case?" The cat keeping them back growled. "We don't know anything yet. There will be a statement when we do. Keep back!"
Demands for answers, speculations and a million other things trailed away under the steady rain as I tipped my russet trilby, shaded like my fur and wandered off. My job was hard enough when I had to stay out of the spotlight cast by the countless people searching high and low for the missing teen pop-star known to the world as Bethany Mercy. The young otter's face had already been all over everything before she'd gone missing. Fawning fans, police, and even the Feds were deemed untrustworthy by her grief-stricken mother, who'd called me based on my exploits handling cases that frequently made page-five newsprint fodder. I took Susan's call expecting to handle another cheating spouse or stolen goods, not working the biggest celebrity case in Eastern America, assuming she hadn't slipped the dragnet they'd put out for her. Now that Susan was dead and my handful of leads had turned up worthless, I wondered if I'd be handing back my advance to her ex-husband, whom the deceased Miss Britches had trusted less than anybody. The music star was still on the run, now with one less parent.
I got to my Studebaker and took a winding inner-city route to my office where mail had piled up under my slot. In the street-lit gloom of my office, the envelope on top of the mess was unmistakable. I tore the envelope open as I kicked the rest of the pile across the floor and scanned the contents, blood rising as I reached the line that detailed the settlement expected. I poured a finger of whisky from the bottom desk drawer as I grabbed the phone by my desk. The only female in the world I wouldn't mind seeing dead answered in two rings. Formalities were skipped; "Half! Janice you want half of what I have in this divorce? Are you insane?"
"I'm on my way out, Owen and I don't have time to talk right now," she replied, icy as a winter lake. "Call me back in two hours and we'll discuss this if you've managed to sober up." A click ended the call and I slammed the receiver into its cradle, nearly breaking the phone. I stared furiously at the drink I'd poured for a full minute before downing it. The phone ringing again stopped a loud tirade at nobody just in time.
"Owen Spenhardy, detective." I wanted it to be Janice again, unlikely as that was.
"I'm sorry about your recent setback," a labored gravelly voice said. "I would like to meet as soon as you're able. Can I give you an address?