Free Alien Rites by Lynn Hightower Page A

lettuce test?” Mel said.
    David nodded and opened the vegetable bin. Sure enough, a head of lettuce, going liquid in the package. Mel looked over David’s shoulder, said “shit” under his breath, and left.
    David stood up, narrowed his eyes, considered the appliances. Clocks were usually best, especially when they kept the right time. Refrigerators talked too much, and stoves tended to complain. He checked the clock on the wall against his watch—right on the mark. He checked the back for the serial number, then leaned against the counter.
    â€œPolice authorization code B7428 addressing appliance Miriam number 8X2BY. Please report last observed activity.”
    A crackle of static, then the voice of the clock, female, tired, irritable. David wondered who had modeled the voice, and why she had been in such a bad mood.
    â€œSubject owner Miriam Kellog last seen in kitchen, nine-oh-seven P . M ., dipping a chocolate bar into a jar of crunchy peanut butter and drinking box of Orchard peach juice.”
    David grimaced. Pregnant all right. “Date last seen?”
    The voice hesitated.
    David could close his eyes and imagine a sigh. “You have something else you need to do? Some place to go?”
    The clock whirred. “Do not understand the relevance of the question.”
    He knew better; sarcasm blew the discs on these things. “When was it that you saw Miriam eating the chocolate and peanut butter?”
    The clock answered and David checked the date on his watch. Miriam had last been seen by the clock the night Luke Cochran disappeared.
    He opened cabinets, browsing. The pantry was obviously stocked by a single person who ate out a lot—olive oil, Thai seasonings, but no common, everyday food packages for the microwave. No boxes of milk, no cereal, but yes on a bottle of champagne.
    He opened the jar of peanut butter, almost dropped it when the microchip in the lid activated.
    â€œSixteen grams of fat for two tablespoons, one hundred and ninety calories.”
    Was it his imagination, or did the voice seem disapproving? No wonder Kendra was afraid to eat.
    There were traces of chocolate in the peanut butter. David wondered where Miriam was, and if she had access to chocolate. He tightened the lid of the peanut butter and headed into the living room.
    The room seemed bigger than it was—beige carpet, thick, new looking, a minimum of simple furniture, white verticals over a large window at the end of the room. A computer console sat on the desk, a large slab of glass supported by tubular metal legs. A smudged brown packet sat next to the laptop. David picked it up. Thick. The flap was open and David emptied the contents onto the dusty glass desktop.
    Autopsy photos, Annie Trey’s infant son. David’s stomach dropped. He shoved the photos back into the envelope, pausing over one.
    The baby lay on the stainless-steel examining table, wrapped in a white cotton blanket. The face was unmarked, eyes gummed shut. A pretty baby, with a light fuzz of blond hair.
    David put the picture away, sat down on the couch. Annie Trey was dark. He wondered if Luke Cochran had blond hair.
    Some days he hated his job.
    The quiet hum of appliances never quite at rest got to him suddenly. He headed for the bedroom.
    Mel stood beside the bed, looking through the blinds out the window. He held a piece of yellow paper in one hand. There was a stillness about him that David found disturbing.
    David looked around the room, feeling like an intruder. He’d worked with Miriam for years; she was the medical examiner of choice. He had not known, during these years, that her bed was low to the floor, king-sized, with a lacy pale blue bedspread, that a ball cap hung on the bedpost.
    He pictured her—small-boned, hair fine, long, reddish brown, always coming loose from the French braid or the ribbon that held it back. She had dark eyebrows, a face that was interesting, almost pretty. She was a good