That Little Voice by Sharon S. Scott Work had been hell since Schanke's death. No one to torture him about his not eating; no one to get exasperated about his hunches; no one to wonder how he always got there first. No one to help him. No one to be his friend. He certainly could have used Schanke's knowledge of fast food on this one. Four clerks in all-night fast food restaurants killed. All with the same weapon. The Chief had issued a warning to all 24-hour restaurants, but their owners weren't about to lose that late-night and early-morning trade, so the probability was high that the killings would continue. If only Schanke were still here. To be shocked that Nick had never eaten a dipped cone or a double-cheese-double-meat Whataburger or an enchirito or an order of onion rings. If only ... "I *am* here. Just open your ears and listen, would ya?" What the hell? Where did that come from? He looked around the squad room, thinking maybe it had all been a big mistake, that Schanke was really alive and well. No Schanke. "Okay, guys and gals, that was *not* funny." The guys and gals looked at him in surprise. "So who's impersonating Schanke?" The surprise turned to sideways glances. "So *don't* admit it. Just don't do it again, okay?" Murmurs as the officers went back to their duties. He turned back to his desk and went back to reading the witness interviews. "Schanke to Knight! Come in, Knight!" Damn it, it *was* Schanke's voice. He whirled in his chair and stared at the assembled crew. They all stared back. It was obvious they thought he was stark raving bonkers. Knight slowly turned his chair back around, put his elbows on the desk, lowered his head, and massaged his temples. Maybe he *was* going round the bend. "It's me, Knight. Donald G. Schanke. I'm here. Are you there?" Okay. He'd play this little game in his head and see where it went. "Yeah, Schanke, I'm here. Where are you?" Heads went up around the room. One officer sidled into the new captain's office and shut the door. "I'm right here, Knight, ol' buddy, ol' pal." "Where?" "Knight, go home." The Captain's hand on his shoulder was firm, as was his voice. "Go home. Take some time off. Get some rest." "I'm fine, Captain. This case won't wait." "Insubordination is a firing offense, Knight. Do as I say. Go home. Now." "Yes, sir." Knight locked his desk and grabbed his jacket. "I'll be back after I've slept." "You aren't listening to me. I'm worried about you--we're all worried about you. You just haven't been the same since Schanke died. We'll handle things without you. Get some rest. And get some help. You need it." Great. Now the Captain thought he was losing his mind, too. "Yes, sir." He pretended not to hear the whispers as he left. ************************ As he drove home, he told himself he was overtired, stressed-out, still working through the shock of Schanke and Cohen's deaths. Yeah, that was the ticket. Schanke was dead. They had identified him by his teeth and his wedding ring. Yes. Schanke was dead. He couldn't be ... "Hey, Nicky-boy! How's tricks?" Nick's head whipped right. That's where the voice was coming from. And that's where a tiny Schanke, complete with brown suit, Hushpuppies, and wings, was sitting. On his right shoulder. The Caddy screeched across the street as he tried to control its skid. It missed a couple of cars, pedestrians, and a stop sign, jumped the curb, and finally came to a halt centimeters from a swing set in the park. He gingerly removed his head from the broken side window and cautiously looked at his shoulder again. And screamed like a banshee. The tiny figure was thrown to the dashboard, where it perched, flexing its wings and dusting itself off. "Are you through now? Hysterics over and done with? It's just me." "You're dead, Schank. I went to your funeral. You're dead." "And so are you, buddy! How come you never told me that little tidbit, huh? No, I was just your partner, your friend. But don't tell me any secrets! Don't tell me you're one of the bloodsucking undead! Nooooooo, don't tell *me* anything. Just let me wonder." Nick massaged his temples again. "It's finally happened. I've lost it. I don't really see you. You're not really there. I'm just tired ... " "Oh, but I *am* here. And guess what I am? Three guesses!" The miniscule Schanke started doing somersaults across the dash. "Come on, guess! Man, oh, man, I've gotcha on this one!" "You're definitely not Tinkerbell. You're a nighmare, right? A hallucination?" "Wrong! I'm your brand-spanking new Conscience, that's what! I *knew* I had ya on this one! Assignment: Nicolas Knight--homicide detective, vampire, liar, thief." "I need a drink." "Uh, uh, Wonder Boy. It's my job to keep you on the straight and narrow. And don't think I'm happy about it. I wanted to be assigned to Madonna, but they figured I wasn't up to that level yet, so this is what I got. I'll just have to make the best of it. Wanna see what else I can do?" "I don't think so." "Well, just you wait--I'll show you ... oops! Hey, could you give me a hand, Nick? Dangling off your keychain isn't my idea of fun. I could get seriously hurt here." "You've got wings--fly." "Oh, yeah, I forgot! That's right--you know all about this flying stuff, don't ya? That's another beef I've got with you." Schanke's eyes closed in concentration, and then he started fluttering his wings mightily. "What *are* you doing?" "Gotta get her revved up!" And with two wings and a prayer, he let go of the keychain, almost falling to the floorboard, then went whizzing around Nick's ankle, up through the intricacies of the steering whell, and landed smartly on the rearview mirror. "Ta da!" ************************************** Nick closed his eyes and counted to ten, hoping like hell that this was a bad dream. Nope, there was Schanke, perched on the rearview mirror, looking quite pleased with himself. "So, pard, guess you're surprised to see me." "That's an understatement. Something you weren't ever very good at in real life." "Hey, no insults!" "*You* called *me* a liar and a thief. Those aren't insults?" Schanke frowned, crossed his legs, and carefully aligned the crease in his pants. "I'm allowed to insult you--I'm a guardian angel." Nick closed his eyes again, and tried counting to twenty. Maybe this, too, would pass. Nope. Still there. "You're a guardian angel." "Believe it." "Yeah, and pigs can fly." "Hey, the Pope's Polish. Anything can happen." "And who are you supposed to be guarding? Me?" Schanke smiled. "You got it." "You're the same Don Schanke who ate like there was no tomorrow. The same Schanke who ogled every pretty woman in a 5-mile radius. Who went to the Raven to get ... well, we both know what you went there for, don't we? I'm sure Alma remembers, even if you don't. Greed and lust are sins, Schank." "Attack is the best defense? You won't get off that easily, Knight. I'm repaying my sins. That's why I'm still here, instead of with the Big Guy in the Sky. *You're* my punishment." "Is there a possibility that you can explain that statement?" "Can do, Kemo Sabe, can do. I've got a game plan. Orders, if you will." Schanke flew off the mirror and hovered squarely in front of Nick's face. "And you *will* listen to me. No more stupid excuses that a three year-old could see through. And absolutely, positively no more "Let's see how much Schanke will swallow." I've got your number now, pal. Sun allergy, my big fat ... " "Now, now, Schank. Remember, you're an angel now. No foul language allowed." Jeez, now he was reprimanding his hallucination. "Butt is a perfectly good word. And who are you to be telling me to mind my manners, I might ask?" "Tsk, tsk. Bad language *and* getting in a snit--this is how an angel acts?" "Minor sins. I *told* you I was being punished. And never fear, we'll get round to *your* sins later. Right now you'd better get home. The sun's about to peek over the horizon, and we wouldn't want you to go POOF, would we?" And with a big grin and a tiny whoosh, Schanke disappeared. *************************** He made it into the garage with seconds to spare. And sat, clenching the steering wheel with all his might. His rather hysterical laughter bounced off the walls of the garage. He got out of the car and headed for the elevator, walking as slowly as a 90 year-old mortal. Slamming the elevator door, he headed in a direct line, with all speed, for the refrigerator. Took out a full bottle, pulled the cork out with his teeth, spat it across the room, and held the green glass against his body to warm the liquid it contained. Then remembered that he was cold now, and cursed himself and Janette and LaCroix. He lifted the bottle to his lips, opened them to receive the hated contents, and saw Schanke standing on the tip of the upended bottle. "Naughty, naughty!" Schanke hovered in mid-air as the bottle flew across the room and smashed against the wall. "Damn you, Schanke!" Nick backed away from the refrigerator. Schanke remained in the same place. "Shut the door, Nick. You're wasting electricity." "I'm drinking blood, and my guardian angel's worried about energy conservation." "Waste not, want not, as we say up there." "But you're here, not there. And just as a matter of information, *why* are you here?" "Sit down, ol' buddy, and I'll tell you. Sit. Sit!" Nick sat. Schanke buzzed the room, lighting on the carved bit on the mantle, then skittering away. "What is this thing, anyway? A lizard?" "It's a dragon, Schank. Not a lizard." "Well, whatever it is, it's weird. And don't think I don't know what Serena used it for. Jeez, Knight." "How do you know about Serena?" "I know most everything about you. It's all written down, like Santa's list. I know what you are, and I know what you've done. What I don't know is *why* you've done it." "It's no business of yours what I've done or not done or when or to whom." Schanke flitted over to the sofa and sat on the arm. "Oh, but that's where you're completely wrong, my friend. It's Their business, so it's my business." "Their? Who are they?" "Nicky, Nicky, you just don't get it, do you? They keep records. Every infraction of the rules, every single violation of the laws. It's all there, in black and white, or in red, in your case. Lots and lots of red. Centuries of red. Name after name after name. All the names of the dead who got that way because of you." "I do know about those centuries. I lived through them. And I remember every one of the dead. Even the ones whose names I never knew." "You've been a *bad* boy. You've taken babies from mothers, and fathers from sons, and lovers from lovers, and ... " "I know, Schanke, I know." "But here's the thing, Nick. The crux of the matter. What I was sent for. My raison d'etre, as it were." "Which is ... ?" "They want to know why." "Why what? Why I chose to become what I am?" "Nah, they know that. They think your choice was really stupid, but you made it. It's over and done with. Can't be changed. They want to know why you want to become mortal again. That's what they want. They want answers. Honest, real, from-the-gut answers." Nick looked away for a long moment. "That's not going to be easy." "Nobody said it would be. But I'll tell you this. I'm with you till they get what they want. However long it takes. Convince me, Nick. Or I'll be here ... forever." *************** One more *pop*pop*fizz*fizz* from Schanke and he'd go mad. Flush him down the toilet. Call in Murphy Brown to get on his case. Take him to the zoo and feed him to the yak. Feed him to Sydney. Now *there* was an idea. *POP* while he was getting ready for work, shaving cream on his face and a straight razor right under his nose. "Man, you look a hundred percent better when you shave. You oughta do it more often." Luckily he healed quickly. *POP* while he was driving to work, just beginning a flashback. "Ever think about taking a taxi when you're in this kind of mood?" Another streetlight he'd have to pay for. *POP* in the morgue, while listening to Nat's findings on the latest fast- food victim. "Good thing people who are already dead don't interest you." Nat asked where he'd found more litovuterine. *POP* in front of the refrigerator, every time he took a bottle out. "Now you *know* you shouldn't be drinking that stuff." It'd be nice if he could ever go back to walking around the loft barefooted. *POP* at his desk, while he was explaining to Tracy how he got to the crime scene before anybody else. "And you wonder why nobody wants to work with you. Sheesh." Tracy asked for a new partner. But the icing on the cake was when he was awakened from a deep sleep, twitching from his nightmares. Loud music. From downstairs. Schanke was on top of the piano, snapping his fingers and dancing to the blaring strains of "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy?" He flew down the stairs and turned off the stereo with an angry snap. "What the hell are you doing, Schanke? Rod Stewart? I'm trying to sleep!" Schanke stopped dancing, a wounded look on his face. "I'm *bored.* What d'ya want me to do while you're sleeping your life ... excuse me ... your unlife away? Dance on the head of a pin? Count the stars in the sky? Run my wings through a carwash?" "Don't you have anything else to do? Anyone else to bother? What do you do when you're not annoying me?" Schanke looked miffed. "Well, sometimes I go home and whisper sweet nothings in Myra's ear. Course, she doesn't hear them, since she snores like a grizzly, but ... And I see that Jenny gets on the school bus okay, and make sure that little twerp Cody doesn't pull her pigtails. That kid needs a swift kick in the ... Other than that, I got nothing to do." Nick sighed and went to the refrigerator for a quick nip. He couldn't bear Schanke's wounded puppy look. "Nick, when are you gonna quit slurping that stuff? It's a real downer, man." "Sorry if I offend you. It's what I do. It's what I am." "But it's so *gross.* Blood. It's revolting." It was going to be a long day. He took the bottle and a glass and sat on the sofa. "Are you telling me you never ingest blood?" Schanke's grimace was more than enough answer. "Think again--every time you eat a steak, or a pot roast, or a hamburger. Beef has blood in it, Schank. Blood is blood--I just have mine fresh instead of cooked." "It's not the same thing." "It *is* the same thing. Think about it." Schanke steepled his fingers and thought. And thought. "You know what, Knight? This is a really scary thought, but you're right. You're absolutely right." "And why is that scary?" "Because you're so wrong about so many things." "Like?" "Oh, I don't know ... Janette? She loves you, man. That's why she left." "She left because she loves me? Give your wings a shake, Schanke. That doesn't make sense." "I'm not Mr. Spock--I don't have to be logical. But it's the truth. She just couldn't take it anymore. She loves you, Nick, and *not* like a brother. I can guarantee that. Geez, can I guarantee that." "That's my business, and hers. Not yours." "So why do *you* think she left? You didn't buy LaCroix's lies about her being bored, did you?" "Of course not. Some new infatuation, maybe?" Schanke shook his head in disbelief. "An *old* infatuation. *You.* She couldn't stand by any longer and watch you fall more in love with Nat every day. That's why she left." "That's none of your business, either." "Oh, but it is." Schanke flew over to the fireplace and settled himself on the mantel. "Okay, Nick, enough fooling around. I want answers. *They* want answers. And you're going to give them to me. It's truth or consequences time." ******************************* "Okay, amigo--question numero uno. Do you love Janette?" Schanke settled himself comfortably and waited for Nick to explode. Which he did. "That's none of your damn business, Schanke. I don't care if you *are* an angel, or an angel-wannabe, or whatever you are." Schanke watched Nick head straight for the refrigerator and the bottle waiting there. Then watched him gulp a glassful and pour another. "I've got forever, Nick. I can wait." Schanke leaned back, put his hands behind his head, and waited. "Forever?" "Forever. And I don't have to worry about fire, or a stake through the heart, or decapitation, or the sun. Who's the superior being now?" Nick looked skyward and asked, "What did I do to deserve this?" Schanke smiled. "Oh, about 700 years of killing. And another hundred of wanting to." "I'm paying for my sins. Am I *ever* paying." "So answer the question. Do you love Janette?" "You aren't going to go away, are you?" "Nope." A smug smile adorned Schanke's face. "Then the answer is yes. I love Janette." "Then can you explain to me why the hell you're making a play for Natalie? Cause I really want to understand. She probably does, too." Nick glared. Schanke glared back. "Answers, Nick. I want answers. *Honest* answers. And I don't leave till I get 'em." "Schanke, you won't understand. It's complicated." "Try me." Nick sighed, put down the glass, and began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace. "I've loved Janette for centuries. I still love her. But she's part of what I'm attempting not to be anymore. I have to put that love in a place that's separate from my life *now.* Turn it into friendship, if that's possible. I'm not sure it is." "So what about Nat?" "Nat's what I want to be. Mortal. Human. A creature of the light." Schanke laughed. "I dunno about that. She doesn't see much daylight, far as I can tell." "I'm serious here, Schanke. She can walk down the street at 10 a.m. without spontaneously combusting. Something I can't do." "Do you really want to?" "Of course I do." "You say so, but I'm wondering if that's just lip service." Picking up the glass, Nick crossed to the fireplace and held it in front of Schanke's face. "Do you think I'd be drinking *this* if I wasn't serious? Do you have any idea how lousy cow blood is, compared to the real thing? No, you don't-- you couldn't possibly know." "Well, I've had lite beer." "That's a feeble comparison." "I know that. Do you think I'm an idiot? Do you, Nick?" "Of course not, Schanke." "Good. That wasn't one of the official questions, but it's nice to know. But the official question is ... do you love Nat?" "I ... I'm attracted to her. I *could* love her ... but I *can't.* Does that make sense?" "Yeah. You don't want her to be a meal, right?" Nick looked at Schanke, thinking maybe he was kidding. He wasn't. "That's a gross simplification, but essentially true. I don't want to kill her. And I'm afraid I would." Schanke hesitated, then asked, "What are you most afraid of, Nick? What makes you wake up in a cold sweat?" "The thought that I'll be like this for eternity. That I'll never find a way back across." "What I can't figure is *why* you've got this itch to be mortal again. Hey, man, you can *fly*! You can zap people into believing whatever you want 'em to believe. You're gonna live forever. What's the big deal about being human?" "So I won't have to drink blood to live anymore. So I won't have to fight the urge to kill. So I won't have to answer to LaCroix for the rest of my existence." "Yeah, but what's the *real* reason?" "That's not enough? What do you want, Schank?" "I want the truth. It's in there somewhere." Nick opened the shutters, and stared into the sunset. "Warmth. I want to be warm again. I want warmth instead of ice in my veins. I want the heat of the sun, burning away this cold in my soul and in my body. I want the warmth of love given and received. The warmth of the Light, and what's beyond it. I'm tired of being cold." He turned and looked questioningly at Schanke. "Do you think it'll ever happen?" "Maybe." "That's no answer." "It's the only one I've got, friend." ************************************** "Well, Nick, my work here is done. A caveat before I leave- -don't give up. Keep hoping. And keep trying. And keep working on that conscience. It's gotten rusty and dull. You need to make it as sharp as those teeth of yours." "Nat's my conscience." "No, Nick. You make your own decisions. You have to be your *own* conscience. Nat can't do that for you. Neither can LaCroix. *You* are responsible for yourself. You'll remember that?" "I'll try." "And keep in mind that if you do a major backslide again, I may be back. Later, dude!" And with that, he flew up the chimney like Santa Claus, the only sign he'd ever been there a tiny feather falling onto the grate. "Later? LATER? SCHANK? WHAT DOES "LATER" MEAN?" He searched the chimney for signs of the Hushpuppied One, then sighed and stood up. Crossing to the refrigerator again, he mumbled, "I may have to *really* re-invent myself if Schanke's going to be on my case forever." He was startled out of his monologue by three short, polite, perfectly-spaced rings of the door buzzer. Wearily, he punched the button for the monitor and stepped back to see who was there. *Perfect.* A giant white rabbit, wearing a hat and topcoat, and carrying an umbrella. "Nicolas Knight?" Oh, why *not*? Made as much sense as Schanke with wings. "Yes, I'm Nick Knight." "Pardon the intrusion, but a mutual friend, Mr. Donald G. Schanke, thought you might need me. And I'm a Pooka, actually. Not a rabbit. Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Harvey." ***The End*** ************************************** Scottie scotts@baylor.edu or sss44@aol.com