In a blackened sky where.., p.1
In a Blackened Sky Where Dreams Collide, page 1
part #2 of Miki Radicci Series
In a Blackened Sky Where Dreams Collide
Miki Radicci, Volume 2
M.E. Purfield
Published by trash books, 2015.
While every precaution has been taken in the preparation of this book, the publisher assumes no responsibility for errors or omissions, or for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.
IN A BLACKENED SKY WHERE DREAMS COLLIDE
First edition. August 25, 2015.
Copyright © 2015 M.E. Purfield.
ISBN: 978-1513094830
Written by M.E. Purfield.
Also by M.E. Purfield
Blunt Force Kharma
Blunt Force Kharma: Section 2
Blunt Force Kharma: Section 3
Blunt Force Kharma: Section 4
Kharma's Gatto
Blunt Force Kharma
Cities That Eat Islands
Cities That Eat Islands (Book 1)
Cities That Eat Islands (Book 2)
Cities That Eat Islands (Book 3)
Fish Hunt
Cities That Hide Bodies
Miki Radicci
A Black Deeper Than Death
In a Blackened Sky Where Dreams Collide
Blood Like Cherry Ice
Surly Girly
Bawling Sugar Soul
A Girl Close to Death
Heart on the Devil's Sleeve
Sinking Stones in the Sky
The Ghost and the Stream
Expressway Thru the Skull
Hacker's Moon
Miki Radicci Series (Books 8, 9, & 10)
Miki Radicci Series (Books 2,3, & 4)
Miki Radicci Series (Books 5, 6, & 7)
Miki Radicci Shorts
Miranda Crowe
Bagged
Munki Moo Moo
Munki Moo Moo
Radicci Sisters Mystery
Psychic Sisters
My Dead Body
Saints
Squeezed
Broken Psychic Hearts
The Emptiness Above
The Sludge Below
Doe
Auties (Coming Soon) Favors
Bumper
Rats In The Cage
Tenebrous Chronicles
Party Girl Crashes the Rapture
Angel Spits
Six Feet
Tweens with Pop Guns
Standalone
Breaking Fellini
Delicate Cutters
Jesus Freakz + Buddha Punx
Buddha Punx + Ghetto Girlz
Natural Born Killer
Peanut Shells: A Short Story
A Sandwich Can't Stop A Bullet
Bagged
Geek With The Numbers
His Alibi, Her Smile
Klepto Pyro Mojo
Limits of Stupidity
MiLK
Whaz My 'Ame
Orange Flecks (Short Story)
Through Tangled Nerves
The Creative
The Morrows
Defective Brain Club (Short Story)
Line (Short Story)
The Van Outside (Short Story)
Doorway Down (A Short Story)
Just (A Short Story)
Short of a Long Holiday (A Short Story)
Joyrides for Shut-Ins
American Standard
The Pick-Up
(R)Evolution (Coming Soon)
Watch for more at M.E. Purfield’s site.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Also By M.E. Purfield
Dedication
SOMETHING DIFFERENT
THIRD WHEEL
PROPOSITION
BUTS
VISITING
STABBED IN THE GUT
LAST NIGHT
ELITE
GHETTO BOY AND JESUS FREAK
WIDE NET
CREEPS
A SUBTLE DEATH
ANSWERS...SORT OF
NUTS
BOYFRIENDS
ALWAYS A PRIVATE CONVERSATION
SMELL TEST
COMFORTS OF HOME
BEERS
LITTLE CONVERSATIONS
TO THE FACE
ICE
SECRET ROAD HOME
EAR TO EAR
HOME...SORT OF
SECRETS INBETWEEN
STARTING TO SUCK
CHECK ON THE OUTSIDE
SECOND CLASS
WASTE OF TIME
ALONE AND A VICTIM
EMPATHY
DISC 2
LAZY BRAIN
NOT THAT CLOSE TOGETHER
MAMA’S BOY MOJO
COOL GIRL
MOVING ON WITH THE AMBER TIDES
NO BANDAGE BIG ENOUGH
NEW LOWS
MERRIWEATHER
SWIMMING IN IT
DIGGING
AZUL
VAMOS
THREE FACES
BRAINLESS HEAD
ODD SURPRISE
VERIFICATION
CONNECTION
PRE-CONCEIVED
THE OTHER GUY
GAME
SWEETLY
VOICES HEARD
EMPATHY
BACK TRACK
KEEPING SECRETS
BLOCK
FRACTURE
Tenebrous Chronicles
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Further Reading: Blood Like Cherry Ice
About the Author
Many thanks to the following people who have helped shape this story and are brave enough to tell me the truth: Stacy Barnett, Katrina Charman, Nathalie Mvondo, Cheri Williams, Chad Smith, Liz-Liza-Lisa, and Dave Symonds.
SOMETHING DIFFERENT
The winter wind blows off the Hudson and tries to freeze my bones as I sit on the park bench at Pier 25 on the West Side. I catch myself crying over Chris Chandler. It has been over a month since I murdered him. Yes, I know. It was in self defense, but if I had known the truth...if I had taken a moment to stop my fear and listen...maybe I wouldn’t have acted like a frightened spaz, fought with him, and kicked him so hard he fell out over a balcony.
I sniffle, sip the whiskey from the brown paper bag-covered bottle, and close my eyes tight. I wipe away the tears and take a deep breath.
My cell vibrates in my leather jacket pocket. I take it out and see a text message from my anonymous stalker. Like the JPEGs I’ve been receiving the last month, the text is from an undisclosed recipient. It’s the first time he (I’m guessing it’s a he) has written something. Usually he just sends pictures of the creepy old face that has been haunting my psychic visions and private art collection, an image that no one in my life has seen. As far as I know.
The text says: DON’T TRUST HIM.
“Fuck you,” I mutter and pocket the phone away.
My life is such bullshit. A sixteen year old should not have to go through crap like this. Then again, I’m not your average sixteen-year-old now, am I? I sold my first painting at the age of four for six figures, my parents are small time hoods, I had to emancipate myself at fifteen, and I can feel the physical and emotional pain of other people. I wont even get into my drinking and pill taking. Maybe I should pack in the whole art career, go back to high school, then college, then...what? Back to art and making a million a year in sales?
I take one more swig of whiskey to psych myself up to paint at my West Street condo.
THIRD WHEEL
I walk into my studio loft and hang my leather jacket, cap, and scarf on the coat rack by the door. I hear Corey and Rory in the kitchen nook. Laughing. I almost put a hole in the jacket as I hang it on the hook. I take a deep breath and prepare myself. I know it’s not Corey’s fault that he found a guy his own age, in school, and with a sane brain, especially so soon after my fucked up relationship. I stroll into the room and smile.
“Hey, guys. What’s so funny?”
The boys sit at the island. They’re both sixteen and dressed in sweaters and jeans. Rory, like Corey, is very good looking. Although he’s scrawny and baby-faced, he’s definitely the stronger one and the most rational. Many times I’ve caught Rory putting a protective arm around Corey while walking down the street. And that’s great. I couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend for my best friend. New York City may be progressive, but there’re still a lot of ignorant jerks that would kick your ass for any reason, one of them for being gay.
As Rory kisses Corey’s smooth dark skinned cheek, he says, “Nothing. Just something stupid that happened at school today.”
I sit down across from them. Corey folds up the Village Voice, then glances at me. “Really, it’s nothing.”
I nod and shrug. “Yeah, okay. Maybe I need to go back to school, so I can be on the inside, huh?”
He reaches for my hand and squeezes it.
“For real, Miki,” Corey says. “You would not like high school.”
“It’s boring and repetitive,” Rory says. “I just told Corey the other day how much I envy you. I wish I was as smart and as rich as you so I can just live my life and not have to worry about this shit.”
I breathe in deep and try to loosen up. I do not want to be that bitch girl friend that gets in the way of her best friend’s happiness. “Forget it. I’m just being sensitive.”
“Are you okay?” Corey asks. “You don’t look so good. Have you been...thinking about Chris?”
I catch Rory gla
“Listen, we’re going to the Quad to catch that new Jaume Balaguero movie,” Corey says.
“Oh, my God,” Rory says. “I’ve been waiting so long for this. Please come with us, Miki. He’s the same guy who made those [REC] movies.”
“I remember,” I say. “I have some work to do and I want to get it done before Grandpa comes home.”
The boys stand and head for the coat rack. As they ready to leave, Corey approaches me and says, “You sure? We would love to have you with us. I promise not to make you feel like a third wheel.”
I kiss his cheek and hug him. “No. You go. I really have work to do. Should I tell Grandpa you’ll be home for dinner?”
“Hmm, the movie will probably be over after that. Save me a dish, okay?”
I nod and walk him back to the door.
Just as Corey opens it, I hug Rory and kiss his stubbly cheek. “Take care of him.”
A subtle wave of surprise crosses Rory’s face. He smiles and says, “With my life.”
I close the door after them and walk over to my work area. Just as I reach my drawing table on the other side of the room, the door buzzes. I shake my head and rush back to the buzzer. I press the TALK button and say, “Did you forget your keys again, asshole?”
“Excuse me?” a man’s voice asks.
I stifle a laugh and say, “Sorry. Thought you were someone else. Who you looking for?”
“Michelina Radicci, please.”
“And you are?”
“My name is Frank Welker, I represent the Elite Group.”
“So. Am I supposed to know you?”
“No. But due to your activities, we have gotten to know you and your abilities.”
I step back from the intercom and feel my heart beat increase. My abilities? Does he mean my curse? Only a few people know about my abilities and I doubt those people would tell a stranger.
“Please, Ms. Radicci,” Welker says through the box.
I punch the wall and buzz him up.
PROPOSITION
Frank Welker walks down the hall to my apartment. He stands at around six feet and looks like his body is in good shape under the sharp, dark cop-like suit. He may be my grandpa’s age. His hair is silver gray, clashing with his tanning salon skin. I’m pretty sure I can take him in a fistfight, despite my small size.
“Ms. Radicci?” Welker holds his manicured hand out for a shake.
I enter the condo. He follows and closes the door behind him. “Thank you for seeing me.”
I give him my angry eyes. “Listen, asshole. Who are you and who have you been talking to?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “You’re tough. I like that. You’ll need to be tough to do what I’m asking you to do.”
“You sure I’m tough enough? Want me to kick your teeth in to prove it?”
Welker walks past me, sits on the couch, and opens his briefcase on the glass coffee table. He takes out a file. “I assume you’re not going to offer me a drink.”
“I’m out of rat poison.” I cross my arms and stare down at him.
“Well, first off, let me assure you that I did not find out about you through social channels. Your name has come to our attention through what we call a Hot List during your stay at Cabrini Medical Center and your treatment under Dr. Jaffer Shah. We put feelers out to all the hospitals and when a certain individual sparks the list, we investigate. Most of the time these hits on the Hot List come up negative. But not yours. Dr. Shah reported that you were brought into the emergency room. Your heart stopped a few times. And you also suffered some fractured bones and severe bruising. Yet, your skin wasn’t broken or bruised. He also mentioned that your wounds coincided with the bullet wound resulting from a shoot-out that you were involved in.”
Not able to stand on my wobbly legs anymore, I pull a stool over and sit. “You’re a nosy one, huh?”
Welker grins. “I prefer thorough.”
“Okay, so I know how you heard of me,” I say. “I suggest you forget about me and leave me the hell alone.”
He stares right into my eyes. No smiles. No pleasantries. “Ms. Radicci, you are a psychic empathy, a clairvoyant. You have the ability to experience others physical pain.”
“S-so what’s it to you?” I cross my arms and glance out the window. Those damn pigeons are on the sill again.
“You are a prime candidate for the Elite Group.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“We are a corporate funded organization that trains special individuals for assignments that we contract out. In your case, we are here to place you in our Homicide Department.”
I flinch. “Say that again?”
“This particular division assists Federal and State law enforcement in murders that cannot be solved with forensics or traditional detection.”
I space out, trying to wrap my brain around his words.
“That’s right. You’re thinking correctly. Psychics like yourself help find things that unexceptional people like myself could not.”
“I’m not interested,” I say.
“May I ask why?”
“You’re so smart, you tell me.”
Welker smiles. “Well, from what we gathered, you are probably turned off by the aspect that you would be helping catch killers. And based on what you went through last month, you’re probably worried about your safety.”
I shake my head, “Jesus. Do you know my menstrual cycle, too?”
“But let me assure you,” Welker says. “You will not be with the investigators at time of arrest. If anything, with your skills, you’ll be in an office-like atmosphere in a secure location. Maybe, from time to time, you would investigate a crime scene. Your safety is our priority, especially considering your age. Also, you’ll be assigned a doctor in case you experience something physically traumatic.”
I step off the stool and walk to the refrigerator. I can feel Welker’s eyes on my back. “Sorry. Still no.” I take out a bottle of water, uncap it, and drink.
Welker packs up his folder, sighs, and stands. “Okay. Maybe you need time to think about it.” He steps closer. “But allow me to bring up one more aspect. You would not only be assisting Federal and State law enforcement and victims’ families, but also yourself. Elite will help you understand your abilities by running tests and surrounding you with others who have similar abilities. We will help you answer the question that I believe has been in your head all your life: Why do I have this?”
He hands me a business card with his name, phone number, and a logo: an eye within a pyramid printed on it. “Give me a call if you change your mind.”
I nod and follow him to the door. I lock him out, lean on the wall, and stare at the card.
“Shit,” I mutter.
BUTS
I finish proofing the coloring of the Marvel project by the time Grandpa Blaise comes home from work. He walks up to me at the drawing table and kisses the top of my head. “How was my bambina’s day?”
I smile, pack up the drawings, and savor the faint trace of pomade and cologne that still clings to his sixty-three-year old body. “Good. Got a lot done today.”
“So did I,” he says, walking to the stairs of his bedroom up in the loft to change out of his bus driver uniform. “I’ll be right down and start dinner.”
“Corey won’t be home tonight, but he asked that you save him a dish.” I walk to the couch.
Grandpa grunts and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
I check my breath to make sure that the mouthwash holds strong. As far as I can tell Grandpa Blaise can’t smell the alcohol I drank earlier. Or maybe he can and is tired of arguing about it.
The next hour, I sit on the couch and flip through the cable channels for something to watch. Finding nothing interesting, I settle on the news. I try to clear my mind by watching the talking heads and smelling the scent of sausage and sauce that Grandpa cooks in the kitchen behind me, but fail. I can’t stop thinking about Frank Welker and his offer.
Grandpa and I sit at the kitchen table and start to eat the Rotini with sausage sauce. He has a glass of wine, which is not normal, especially in front of me. He doesn’t like to drink in my presence, scared that I’ll take a glass. The wine is tempting, but I manage to stay away. Grandpa probably had a hard day driving the bus and I don’t want to upset him more than he is.
