Free The First Detect-Eve by Robert T. Jeschonek Page B

of mind lately. Plus, I couldn’t ignore the fact that he had tried to kill a son once before.
    Oh, it had been innocent enough, believe it or not...but I still couldn’t get it out of my head. Back when I was pregnant with our first child, we’d both thought I was terribly ill; neither of us had really understood what was happening to me. Then, when I gave birth, the blood and screaming drove Adam crazy. When Cain squeezed out of me, all bloody and slimy, Adam didn’t have a clue at first that this was his baby. He picked up a rock, and I swear he meant to kill this awful looking thing...until Cain started crying. At which point he dropped the rock.
    But still. Anything was possible back then. We were just making it up as we went along. Maybe that was how it was supposed to work; maybe it was natural for a father to kill his son. Or for a brother to kill a brother.
    Which isn’t to say I was willing to let the killer off the hook, whoever he was. Not by a long shot.
    *****
    That night, as I slept, I dreamed about the Garden for the first time I could remember in ages...only this time, Abel was with me instead of Adam.
    Fruit hung heavy on every branch, fruit the likes of which I’ve never seen since leaving Eden. We picked it and ate it and lay in the soft grass under the sun, naked and innocent. Animals came right up and stretched out beside us, unafraid; birds landed on our knees and sang in sweet voices, and I understood every word of their songs.
    Tiny angels fluttered down with gossamer wings and fed us honey and cool water. Abel picked flowers of red and yellow and purple and wove them into a garland for my hair.
    It was perfect, just as I remembered, in every way...so much brighter and bolder and richer than anything I’d known in the rest of the world. No pain. No fear. No murder.
    But still, I noticed one thing missing.
    Abel stopped weaving the garland and looked up, listening to something that I couldn’t hear. He spoke, but not to me, and I understood at once.
    He could hear the Voice, and I could not. In the old days, it had whispered often in my ears, warm and strong and reassuring. Musical. Tender.
    Loving.
    But now, when I needed most to hear it once more, when I needed it to comfort me just this one time, when my boy was there in my dream but lost in life and whoever had killed him was someone I trusted and loved if not the fruit of my own womb .
    I heard nothing. Not even in a dream.
    And I knew, as Abel listened and laughed and spoke to the air, that as much as it had cost me, what I had done, as much as it had cost all of us
    I would do it again.
    *****
    The next morning, I went back to the field where we had found poor Abel. I was looking for something that would help me understand what had happened, anything that might tell the story or even a little bit of it.
    When Adam and I had found the body, neither of us had searched the area. I had been too upset upon realizing Abel was dead...and to Adam’s mind, Abel was still alive, so what need was there to look further? Either that, or Adam was the killer and didn’t want me to see anything that might tip me off about his involvement.
    It was because of that possibility that I lied to Adam when I went back to the field. I told him I was going off by myself to bleed like I sometimes did...like I did every so often since leaving Eden. It was a good excuse, because he didn’t like being around to see it.
    At first, nothing unusual caught my eye in the corner of the field where Abel’s body had lain. The grass that had been pressed down beneath him had sprung back up, so even the place where he had fallen was hidden now...though I would never forget that exact spot no matter how overgrown it became.
    I got down on my knees and ran my hands through the soft green blades, looking for a trace of Abel or anyone else. For a long time, I combed through the grass, squinting at the earth beneath it...and found nothing.
    Then, by chance, I looked up, gazing