in Uncategorized, Blog, Lit, Serial Fiction 11:26 am Sunday, August 19th, 2007

 “Death On The Breeze”
A Danny Stark Mystery
by James Walling 

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Danny’s living area consisted of a single room in the back of the garage. When he bought it, his idea had been to set himself up with a view of Fargher Lake. He had only just begun experiencing the early symptoms of night blindness—difficulty seeing in the dark, trouble adjusting to light contrast—and the view was still something worth coveting.

Two decades later the lake was gone, along with his sight. Danny didn’t mind very much, in fact he enjoyed the quiet of the spearmint fields and the cool scent they gave off every spring. A lot fewer tourists too, which was just fine with him. Yes, he had learned to get along well enough without the view.

Chelatchie Prairie had originated as a logging and farming community and had devolved into a rural refuge from the ever-increasing encroachment of urban sprawl from the north and south.

These days most of Danny’s neighbors either commuted to jobs in nearby Portland, or serviced those who did. A handful still harvested the remaining stands of timber or scrambled heroically to meet bank loans on small farms in the face of furious competition from agribusiness.

Danny’s apartment was a large studio with kitchen, living room, and bed all in one open area. Arranged about the room were rows of bookshelves, a breakfast island, fridge, gas range, king-sized bed, tables, and two comfortable leather chairs in front of an ancient wood stove. A small bathroom with a deep clawfoot tub occupied a room built into one corner. The deck out the back door had become treacherous after years of neglect. Danny rarely used it, except to descend the stairs to access the wood shed underneath. A second rotary phone sat on a stand next to a hallway that led to the office, and farther on, the shop.

After a 48hr break, Danny was readying himself for a day of soul-repairing manual labor in the garage when the bell clattered to life. Somehow, he knew it was going to be Bauman before he picked it up.

“Bad news,” Bauman said, dispensing with formalities as usual.

Danny took a seat on a small stool next to the stand. “Is there any other kind?” he replied. Despite the coolness of their discourse, Danny and Bauman shared an abiding and mutual respect. Over the years, a casual working relationship had developed into a vital if somewhat intermittent friendship.

Bauman ignored the remark. “Your friend was dead before the fire, Danny,” he said. “And he didn’t slip on any fucking banana peel either.”

Danny remained silent. Bauman went on, “His trachea was crushed. County coroner confirmed it.”

Danny let this fact sink in and then muttered, “Somebody strangled him?”

“I hate to say it,” said Bauman sincerely, “but it sure looks that way.”

“Were there any defensive wounds?” Danny asked.

“Yes,” Bauman affirmed. “His wrist was broken, along with a couple of knuckles on his left hand. No way to tell if there were any flesh wounds, the fire got him good, but one thing’s for sure, there wasn’t any smoke or heat damage inside the throat or lungs. He had definitely stopped breathing by the time the house went up.”

“Lucky him,” Danny commented morbidly. He ran one of his large hands through his hair and sighed.

Bauman worked himself up to ask the tough question. “Danny,” he said, sounding a little reluctant, “was this friend of yours in the business, if you catch my drift?”

“No,” Danny said flatly. “He was making good money surveying timber sales. Had been for years. This is something else.”

“You want me to talk to someone at the sheriff’s office?” Bauman offered.

“No thanks, Don,” Danny said. “You’ve helped enough. I need to recruit some amateurs on this thing. Keep a low profile.”

“You can’t do worse than the pros, is that it?” Bauman asked, with a touch of sarcasm. Despite having left the department in search of a better living, he remained stiff with company pride.

Danny picked up his cue. “Not since you went over to the dark side, Don.”

“Yeah,” Bauman said with a chuckle, “something like that.”

“Thanks for the help, friend.”

“Mind if I offer my two cents?”

“Shoot.”

“If you get a line on something,” he said, pausing for dramatic affect, “why don’t you try calling the cops.”

“Right,” Danny lied. “Sure thing.”

“One blind fucker against the world,” said Bauman.

“Pissing like an idiot in a strong wind.”

Bauman took his cue and hung up.

[Editor’s Note: Tune in next Sunday for Chapter 5!]