Free To Kill a Sorcerer by Greg Mongrain Page A

feeling their chests rising and falling and listening to the waxing symphony of the storm, I thought about the time I watched Marguerite sleeping one morning when she was five.
    When I saw her hands twitching, I became frightened and called her name softly. She didn’t seem to hear me. I leaned over and looked at her. For the first time, I understood that she was asleep , and dreaming—not just lying there quietly, thinking, as I always did.
    I had seen my parents in this otherworldly state, and it had upset me, but I assumed it was something that happened to you when you were older, or maybe when you had children. It gave me a nasty shock to see it happening to my little sister. That meant it didn’t have anything to do with being an adult or being married.
    I never dreamed, except for the memories. I never truly lost consciousness. Lying on the straw every night, I listened to the sounds in and around our house. I could remember doing so since I was three or four.
    Through the years I kept mum, at first from fear, and then from a feeling of separation. There seemed to be a great gulf between my family and me, and I was scared of it, baffled by my uniqueness.
    No kid wants to be different from everyone else.
    Other than these signs of my physical invulnerability, I am the same as mortals. I laugh and cry, experience joy and despair, and search for meaning in life. I crave companionship and long for the intimacy of romance.
    The first thing God says of human nature in the Bible is, “It is not good for a human being to be alone.” I can attest to this.
    I have had two wives, and by them two daughters and four sons. If I have an immortal gene to give, so far I have not passed it on to any of my children. Long ago I realized I have never known pain or the fear of death the way all of my friends and family have known them.
    I only know what they have told me it feels like.
    The buzz of my cell phone brought me out of my reverie.
    “Montero.”
    “Hamilton. We have another one.”

Thirteen
    Wednesday, December 22, 2:40 p.m.
     
    By the time I arrived at 14724 Greenleaf Street in Sherman Oaks, yellow bands of crime scene tape surrounded the residence. A Channel 5 news team had a van parked across the street. I stopped half a block away and pulled to the curb, parking in the shade of a broad maple tree.
    I stepped out of the car, sliding on my jacket. The wind had eased, but the temperature was still in the eighties. As I neared the house, several photographers turned my way. I averted my head as they took pictures.
    Officer Chen guarded the perimeter, standing on the path leading to the front door. She held the tape up, and I ducked under it. Yellowish flecks dotted the sleeve of her uniform shirt. Her face was white.
    I removed my sunglasses and slid them into my coat. The officer maintaining the crime scene log leaned inside and shouted for Hamilton. As I started up the red brick walkway, he came out of the house, hustled down the steps, and walked toward me quickly. I stopped, seeing he intended to intercept me.
    “Feeling better today?” he asked. His detective’s shield was clamped to his lapel. He wore black examination gloves.
    “I felt fine last night.”
    “Want to tell me what happened?”
    I stood there, working on the tan on the back of my neck.
    He grunted. “All right, we’ll let that slide. For now. Come on.”
    He led the way to the stoop, stopping next to the table with the log. I signed in. The high smell of vomit issued from a camellia bush.
    The log officer handed me a pair of examination gloves. Pink. Everyone else wore red or black.
    “Thanks.” I glanced at her name tag. “Officer Kennedy.”
    “You’re welcome. They support breast cancer awareness.”
    I snapped on the gloves. “I knew that. I’m always willing to do my part to keep breasts safe.”
    “We appreciate that, sir.”
    Gonzales appeared in the doorway. When not wearing unfashionable formal wear, he favored brown suits, knit