In Dreams, Part 3- The Rundown

I had deposited the check from Brigthon at the bank, signifying to myself if no one else that I would take the case. Brighton seemed to take it as a matter of course that I would. As I rode the subway back from the bank to my office, I reviewed the file that he had provided me. Sarah Brigthon, age 22, no arrest record, attended Springdale Academy, graduated with honors, currently working on an MBA at Stone College. Both prestigious schools, I noted. Mother deceased ten years ago due to lymphatic cancer, (bummer) father never remarried. I began to get a picture of the dynamics of the Brighton family. Brighton obviously regarded his daughter as his legacy, and wanted her to take over the business, whether Sarah was interested or not. It seems her life was planned out for her beforehand, and the death of her mother probably didn't help matters any. Living this sheltered life, always being the good daughter, had obviously begun to chafe, and she rebelled in the only way she could find.
The file, conveniently, also contained some information on the Sunrise Church- founded just three years ago, it had purchased up land outside the city, and registered as a non-profit organization, and currently owned and operated a large farm on the property, growing, among other things, tobacco. Interesting. I glanced up as footsteps approached- just another salary man, probably heading home for the night. I still had a couple things to do back at the office. I had hoped it might have been Tabatha, though of course she has her own car, for one thing, and for another doesn't work on the subway, at least not the parts that have been already completed and are up and running. Still, dare to dream, as they say. Mr. Salary gave me a tired nod and sat down a little distance away.
Back at the office, I put together everything I had on the case so far and got ready to lock up for the evening. Kurt had already left, off to class. I put the ever-expanding case file into my briefcase (also black, incidentally) and went down to the garage for the drive homewards. I usually managed to miss rush hour by staying a little later at work, and this was a typical day. Home was just outside the city, well worth the drive for a little more space. I climbed into my car, a three-year old Chevy Vega- small and humble, but pretty reliable. Homeward bound, I thought to myself.
When I pulled into the driveway of our house about 20 minutes later, having successfully avoided rush hour, Tabatha's funky F150 was already in the driveway. Always the country girl, I thought with a smile, and went in. As I opened the door, a sound like thunder announced that the dogs had been alerted to my arrival. They came bounding up, full of energy and doggy enthusiasm as only dogs can be. Eris, our boxer-something-or-other mix came charging up, wagging her rear half in paroxysms of joy at the family being reunited for yet another day, and Hercules, who could have stood over Eris with room to spare, right behind her. They climbed over each other, each one vying for attention and a scratch behind the ears. Life should be so simple, I thought, that everything can be solved with a pat on the head and a little affection. I removed my coat and shoulder holster, hanging both on a hook by the front door. The pistol butt poked out, black and mute. It was a black Heckler and Koch VP70Z, a 9 mm pocket monster that I had finally traded in my old .38 snubnose revolver for a few years back. "It's got a heavy trigger pull, so a lot of people don't like them," the gun shop owner who sold it to me had said. "Can't seem to move them because of that". It was actually lighter than the .38, but did have a larger carrying capacity of rounds and a heavier trigger pull. I had yet to find the need to shoot something or someone 18 times without reloading, but you never knew.
I went into the kitchen, where Tabatha was standing at the stove, looking like a domestic goddess in jeans and a tie-dyed shirt, having changed out of her work clothes. I moved behind her and put my arms around her, knowing full well that the dogs had pretty much announced that someone was here to the whole neighborhood. She leaned back, a smile on her face. "Hi baby, how was work?" she asked.
"Not too bad, got another case, apart from that, nothing much new." I said, squeezing her around the waist.
She turned around in my arms, blue eyes looking deep into mine, and gave me a kiss. "Anything interesting?" she asked, not removing her arms from around me. I reached up and brushed a lock of reddish-blonde hair away from her forehead. Her hair hung down almost to her waist, and was tied back in a ponytail at the moment. As always she looked like a million bucks, without trying. She leaned her forehead against my shirtfront, which was easy for her, at 5'2", head and shoulders shorter than me, but with more iron in her spine than a lot of people I knew twice her size.
"Not really, sounds like the plot of some bad film noir movie- rich guy, sinister cult, heroic private eye", I said, smiling.
"You're always my hero," she said. There's a good deal to be said for married life, I thought.
"What's cooking, babe?"
She smiled again. "Chicken. Dinner. Then us. In that order."
Like I said, a good deal.

Later on that night, we discussed the case. I felt comfortable telling Tabatha about the case, as she kept what she knew to herself. Still waters, and all that. She raised her eyebrows in surprise when I mentioned Brighton.
"That Brighton?" she asked, surprised. "He just landed the contract on our latest project. What's he trying to do, keep it secret?"
"Apparently so. So you keep it secret, I don't need a lawsuit on top of everything else."
She gave me a look- please, husband. "What do you think, I'm going to go blabbing at the steno pool? Come on, babe, seriously?"
I suppose I deserved that one. "I know, hon. Just business, I know."
"So tell me about this cult. Resurrection? What's that about?"
I reviewed the file in my head, trying to remember all the important details. "Well, there's this guy, Ethan Strom. Used to be a doctor, I think his license to practice got suspended. He used to do pharmaceutical research, then after he got canned, started a church. Something about bringing the dead back to life. Kind of creepy, if you ask me."
"With what, drugs? What is he doing, making a zombie army to take over the world?"
"It's a cult, my love. Nothing would surprise me. Cults tend to run off of a charismatic leader, and people will try to justify their belief in that leader, no matter how crazy he sounds."
She considered this for a moment. Hercules walked into the room, looked at us curiously, and turned around and went back the way he came. "Well, be careful. I don't want to be widowed by some crazy religious nuts." she said, leaning over and putting her arms around me.
"No problem, my love. I don't want to be killed by nuts of any kind, religious and crazy or not."