Cheated By Death by L.L. Bartlett

got up, stretched, and wandered
into the kitchen, trying to pin down the feeling of unease. I put
the empty beer bottle under the sink, went back into the living
room and looked out the window toward Richard’s house where lights
glowed. The place had been dark when I’d gotten in from work.
    I grabbed the phone and dialed.
    “What the hell do you want?” Richard
demanded, before it even rang once.
    “I saw all the lights on. What’s up?”
    He exhaled loudly. “Sorry. Some prankster’s
been calling and hanging up. Calling and breathing. I was about to
unplug the damn phone.”
    “Have you pissed off anyone lately?”
    “No. At least I don’t think so.”
    “It’s probably just a kid fooling around. Is
Brenda all right?”
    “Just frazzled—like me. Why would anyone do
this?”
    “Do you think maybe Brenda’s ex—?”
    His voice grew cold. “I thought of that, too.
Caller ID said it was a blocked call.”
    The answer seemed simple. “Forward your calls
to me.”
    “What good will that do?”
    “You’ll get some peace and maybe I’ll pick up
something from the caller.”
    “Did you ever get anything over the phone
before?”
    “No. But there’s always a first time. And if
it’s an emergency with one of your patients, I’ll come over and get
you. Okay?”
    “I’d appreciate it.”
    “Don’t sweat it. Now hang up and do the magic
with the phone.”
    “Okay.” There was a sharp click. About a
minute later, the phone rang. “It’s me,” Richard said.
    “Okay, it should be set. Go back to bed and
I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
    “Thanks again, Jeff.”
    “Go to bed.” I hung up the phone.
    Wide awake and restless, I wandered the
apartment, wondering if the phone would ring. I grabbed a writing
tablet, my box of contact prints, and settled on the couch to sort
through the photos.
    I studied the shots I’d taken a week before
outside the Women’s Health Center, remembering that I still hadn’t
gotten back to the darkroom to process the last roll. One shot in
particular looked interesting. Though taken on an overcast day, I
figured I could burn in the clouds and—
    The phone’s jangle broke the silence. The
clock read three forty six. The phone rang again before I grabbed
it. The caller breathed loudly, in an exaggerated way. I shut my
eyes, willing myself to connect with the person on the other end of
the line.
    Long seconds passed.
    Was that muffled traffic in the background?
Caller ID gave me a number, which I jotted down.
    Heavy breathing isn’t an original idea. I did
likewise and the sound abruptly stopped. The connection broke.
    I hung up the receiver, grabbed the tablet
and pen, wrote down the time and approximate length of the call. A
good investigator writes down everything. That I was no longer an
investigator hadn’t dulled my instincts or training.
    I sat back, thinking. No insight, not that
I’d really expected any. But it bothered me that someone was
playing this prank on my brother.
    Could it be Willie Morgan? After twelve
years, was the man petty enough to aggravate the woman who’d left
him? I thought back to our brief meeting. I’d gotten no
impressions, intuition—whatever you want to call it—from him,
either. Was that why the call had given me no insight, or was the
telephone a poor conductor? One thing was certain, I could never
work for a psychic hotline.
    I puttered around the apartment for another
hour, but the phone didn’t ring again.
    It was nearly five when I finally hit the
sack, hoping I wouldn’t be plagued with dreams of the dead,
white-haired old man.

    CHAPTER
    6

    “I don’t think those calls were a prank.”
    Richard looked up at me from his seat at the
kitchen table. The phone book was open before him. A pad with notes
scribbled on it sat beside it.
    “Here’s what I got last night.” I plucked a
sheet of paper from the large Kraft envelope I held, and gave it to
him. “Mind if I bum a cup of coffee? I’m out.”
    “Help yourself.