Nothing to Hide

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It’s the uniform’s fault, my fall, for shining his light past my feet to the edge of the gully, flicking the beam back and forth in a skeptical circuit, saying, “Careful there, Detective,” in a cautious, solicitous tone, the same one he’d use if his frail granddaddy reached on tiptoes for a too-high shelf. Hearing the voice, I ignore the distance between the two sides of the gully, ignore the muddy banks and the buzzing mosquitoes and the ripple of ditchwater down the middle. I kick my lead leg out into space, flashlight in one hand and notebook in the other.

Nothing but net, I think, clearing the gap, but then my foot lands just short of the other side. The ground gives a little, goes all slick, and I’m aloft again, dipping backward, flailing the air until my body crashes spine-first into the mud.

I glance up into the dark pines, illuminated by moonlight and the Fenix still gripped in my hand. The damp seeps through the back of my shirt, through my pants and up against my hot skin. My gun, torqued by the fall, digs painfully into my flank. I blink a few times, taking inventory, and then the uniform’s up above me, shining his light down.

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