Marker of Faith

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 10

"Detective Bergenson, we've got a perp on that priest deal."

John raised his head off of the desk, wiping away a puddle of sleep drool from his chin as he eyed the heavyset cop in front of him.

"What?" he mumbled. John was disoriented as he looked around.

That's right, I'm at the precinct.

Home was empty, and at least here he could feel something and be around people, sort of; if you considered being the object of furtive glances and hushed whispers being around people. John coughed and rubbed his eyes as he sat up, trying to shake the cobwebs out of his brain. He looked around the brightly lit room, at the other detectives glancing in his direction, and felt self-conscious under their scrutiny.

"What in the hell am I doing?" he muttered to himself, putting his hands on top of his head. The cop fidgeted next to him then cleared his throat.

"He's some homeless guy." The cop's voice was like fingernails on a chalkboard, grating on John's nerves. "Nailed him at the scene hiding under a pile of cardboard. Can't believe we didn't find him sooner, a real fubar." He rubbed his hands together then hooked his thumbs in his belt. He waited expectantly, but John slumped forward on his desk again.

"I'm not officially here." John just wanted to be left alone.

"Yeah, well, um...." The cop hesitated. "He's asking for you by name and I thought you could use a distraction."

John snapped his head up and glared at the beefy cop. "A distraction? What the fuck!" He shoved back from his desk.

"Hey, I didn't mean no offense, detective." The cop put his hands up, stepping back quickly.

John's shoulders sagged. He realized that he didn't really want to be here after all so why take it out on Corporal Busybody? At least the guy was talking to him.

"Huh, he asked for me by name?" John furrowed his brow. "Where is he?" he asked, standing up slowly.

"He's in Three." The cop pointed at the interrogation rooms and stepped closer to him. "Uh, I'm sorry about Detective Macken, sir," he said quietly, sheepishly.

John felt like he'd been kicked in the gut and he stood frozen at his desk with his eyes closed until he heard the cop shuffle away.

Oh, it's too much -- Dave, what the hell were you thinking?

A child's laughter, reminiscent of something chilling, drifted through the room and John broke out in a cold sweat. The sound carried from nowhere in particular, resonating in his head painfully. A brief image of the malevolent little girl from the dream danced through his mind and John looked around wildly, his eyes drawn to Dave's desk. For a brief moment he saw Dave sitting there staring at him with a sad look on his bullet-torn face.

John blinked rapidly and rubbed his eyes, and when he opened them, the vision was gone.

I'm frickin' losin' it! John's heart pounded painfully in his chest as he scanned the room for the child from his dream, the source of the dread laughter, or even Dave. Only the sounds of the busy squad room assaulted him; the living and corporeal world. John stumbled towards the interrogation room door. He stopped short, leaning his head against the doorjamb and sighed, desperately trying to grab a hold of the memory of the dream. It was gone again. Nothing made sense. The chill of the doorknob in his hand and that link eased him back to reality. He straightened his shoulders, an attempt at composure, and opened the door.

Rattle looked up as John came in. There was another cop in the room sitting in the corner and, surprised, he started to say something but John waved him silent.