Dybbuk
Chapter Six

“Detective?”

Wilc startled awake.

The hum of florescent lights was intrusive. Loud. Bright. Out of focus.

His head felt heavy. Light. If he were to loosen his tie just a bit, it would float off into the stratosphere and pop. Maybe then he’d feel better.

“Detective Wilc?” The tentative voice asked again.

“What?” He growled. Why wouldn’t they just go away? He was tired. His head hurt like a bitch and all he really wanted was a handful of ibuprofen, a hammer and a week of sleep. Which he was getting at his desk, in the Basement.

“Can I help you replace something?” The mousy voice intruded again.

“Find something?” Wilc whipped around to face the voice. “Why would I need help in replaceing anything at me own des—”

He wasn’t in the Basement.

He was nowhere near his desk.

He was at the CU Lab.

The lab worker—Karen—that was her name. She clutched a mug (science, fuck yeah!), her coat was a little rumpled and eyes very wide.

Wilc closed his eyes, how did he get here? He’d been at his desk, hadn’t he?

The last thing he recalled was… was… discovering the body. And maybe a mansion? Wilc rubbed at his eyes. Not again. He hadn’t lost time like this since—

“You’re about to compromise evidence.” Karen’s vice warbled with false authority.

Wilc looked at her.

Karen looked back.

When Wilc didn’t say anything, she pointed with her mug behind him. He turned slowly, and on the table behind him was the music box. The evidence bag was still sealed. It hadn’t even been processed. Wilcs breath came out in a rush.

What did Karen interrupt?

Why couldn’t he remember?

By opening that bag, by touching, or even breathing on that music box could have broken the chain of custody. It could have ruined the whole case.

“Detective?” Karen licked her lips, “are you alright?”

“I,” Wilc ran a hand through his hair, taking hold of his roots. “Excuse me.”

He turned away from the music box, rushing past Karen. She squeaked in surprise as he brushed her shoulder.

No. No. No. No.

Not again.

Wilc stumbled out the door and into the hallway. The CU Lab was on the opposite side of the station. Hell, it may as well have been on the other side of the planet as far as the whole precinct was concerned. That’s how out of the way his office was at the bottom of the Basement. How had he made it that far without even knowing it?

Unless…

He grit his teeth and pushed his way into the men’s restroom. The door banged open and it slammed into the wall. Where it stayed. Lodged into the tile. The wall around the door radiated with fissure marks. A little dust rained down, lightly coating Wilcs hair and suit.

He stared at it.

There was just no way.

“What the hell was that?” A voice shouted from the inside of one of the stalls. The jangle of a heavily weighted belt and a hasty zip brought back Wilc’s attention.

He took a step back, then turned around walking away from the restroom and the now-stuck door. A few people had heard the noise and were poking their heads out of doorways.

Wilc made his way across the station and down the stairs to the Basement.

It smelled like eggs. It happened sometimes. The cleaners didn’t like coming down here. Wilc was the only one who actually did the cleaning. He didn’t mind. Except for right now. Now with the smell of eggs. Or was it cat piss? It didn’t matter, it didn’t help the headache at all.

Wilc sat heavily in his chair and covered his face with his hands. He pressed the tips of his fingers into his eyes, hoping the twirling colors would hold some answers as to what happened to his lost time. They didn’t. Wilc let up on the pressure and allowed his eyes to focus again. He checked his wrist watch. It was a quarter to six.

He’d gotten the call around two, this morning.

Holy shit.

Wilc slid further into his chair.

It had been a little over a year since his last blackout. Wilc hadn’t lost time like this since his last case with Isao—his head throbbed. This had to stop. Yet it didn’t. Time off hadn’t stopped the headaches then. Hadn’t stopped Wilc’s questioning the disappearance of his partner, or Isao’s involvement with a kidnapping ring and nine deaths.

Or how Wilc hadn’t known about any of it.

It’s why he’d been transferred. It’s why he now had the Basement as an office. Why he didn’t have a new partner. He was supposedly taking it easy. Clarion was supposedly slower than L.A., sure the crime rate was low.

But it was weird as hell.

Wilc stared at his desk. It was a mess.

His desk was never a mess. Even when the cases got Alice in Wonderland weird, he never let anything get out of order. How the hell was he supposed to keep track of the details if he let his paperwork get as messy and upside-down as this little city-town?

He sat up, shifting through the paperwork.

There were photos and notes on his current case. He hadn’t worked up a file yet.

Were these Young’s notes? Wilc looked closer. Photos of the victims decomposed body were crumpled. A few were even torn. Pictures of the house were discarded. Only two photos had been left whole. One was of the music box, its current location typed out neatly on the evidence sheet. The second was a family shot. A candid photo of a woman holding tightly, lovingly to a little girl in her arms. Her face was buried into the belly of the giggling girl. A boy, no older than six hung on his mother’s hips, also smiling. The victim’s daughter? Grandkids?

Wilc turned the photo over. An address scrawled across the back. The writing, neat and precise. It was his. Lew had been a hard ass when it came to penmanship. Wilc looked at the file, at the torn photos and paperwork, at the mess. He didn’t recall doing it. Doing any of this.

What the hell was happening to him?