The Half That You See by Rebecca Rowland (best summer reads .TXT) 📕

thick foliage across from the house, he made out more of the figure. It appeared to be a person, although it could have been an abandoned mannequin from some kids partying in the woods. It wouldn’t have been the strangest item he’d ever found.

He hacked through kudzu and creeper vines with the machete to reach the body but steered clear of hitting any trees. Killing the invasive plants didn’t bother him much, but he didn’t want to damage any of the old growth, part of the reason he bought this property for his retirement.

A wave of nausea spread outward from his stomach and manifested in his mouth as saliva. He closed his eyes and let his stomach settle, focusing on something other than his body rejecting the medication. The doctor said that he would get used to the meds, but the side effects never seemed to fade away into the background static of daily life.

When he finally reached the body, he saw that she was naked, gray, and caught in the roots of strangler fig. Her head hung, chin on her bare chest. Her gray skin was blotchy in some areas and dirty. Scrapes formed whip marks across her legs. Her face was bloated, her thin lips cracked like dried clay. Spanish moss, almost indistinguishable from her grimy hair, framed her face.

He walked around her, careful of where he stepped, old habits resurrected.

He found a tree tattooed on her back. Denuded branches stretched outward from shoulder to shoulder. The trunk extended downward along her spine. The ink was still black, not yet faded green with time, but not new enough for the skin to be puffy and red, a sign of the body’s reaction to the ink.

A tree of life on dead flesh.

He shook off the goose bumps. It didn’t make sense how preserved she was. No bugs, no gnaw marks. Everything he would normally look for in a crime scene. Maybe she had been on drugs, stripping off her clothes as her body overheated, running until lost, and then getting tangled in the trees.

Seemed plausible.

Except for the crown of roots sprouting from her head.

It was after noon during the walk back to the house. His stomach growled. Cornelius probably missed him but didn’t bother to come find him.

He picked the stickers from his pants before stepping up on the porch. He kicked off his muddy boots, and they landed by the door.

Inside, Cornelius glanced up expectantly. He wasn’t sure who enjoyed retirement more, himself or his dog.

He realized that he had stayed out there far too long. He remembered the body, but not much more about it.

Getting old, and he felt it, rooted deep in his chest.

The phone rang. He nearly jumped. His heart skipping beats, catching his breath in his throat.

It rang so rarely. An old, cheap push button phone, all wires and harsh digital trill. No one called him anymore.

He answered, and his own voice sounded thick. When was the last time he used it? He and Cornelius understood one another: they didn’t speak often.

“Hello?” he said.

“Detective?”

“Retired.”

“Yeah, about that. I’m Detective Michael Keys, Homicide.”

He vaguely remembered Keys. New guy, very green, but eager to prove himself. Still hadn’t seen the horrors of the job, or the terrible gray areas that human beings occupy while they convinced themselves of all the good they did. A misunderstanding. I would never do that. I’m a good person.

There were no good people. There were bad people and not bad people.

“We could use you on a consult,” Detective Keys said, far away, an electric signal travelling through black wires from there to here.

“Not interested,” he said, attempting to intone a dispassionate distance.

“Look, man, this is right up your alley. No one knows this like you. Give us a couple of hours. Take a look at some evidence. A few pictures. Give us your thoughts.”

“No.”

Flashes of black and white crime scene photos, shades of whites and grays and blacks. Blood puddles a tarry smudge.

He popped a pill, dry swallowed, hung up the phone.

He walked out onto the porch. A storm rolled in on quick winds. The breeze cooled his sweaty face. Probably one of the last storms of the season. Two seasons existed in his part of Florida: rainy season and brush fire season.

Earth’s neurons fired, and the lightning reflected off the water, illuminating the small island with a banyan that he hadn’t planted.

The storm rumbled from far away, and only the echoes reached him.

His bedside fan roared like a lion. He swallowed a melatonin with a drink of water that he kept at his bedside. Sometimes, he awoke at night with terrible cotton mouth, another side effect of the propranolol.

He considered if creating three new problems for every one solved was worth it.

He sat up, a terrible pain in his chest. Sweat poured off of him. He couldn’t remember his dream. He reached over and clicked on the light and drank the water on his night stand. The pain didn’t subside.

He panicked. Was this a heart attack? Last time he visited the doctor’s, he was in good physical shape for his age. The pain worsened, and he wanted to stand, go to the phone, call for an ambulance.

Or maybe he would just wander out to the lake, sit down, and wait.

His body dumped adrenaline into his system. A warmth grew through his stomach and shot through his veins like molten lead. His arms and legs numbed. He jumped out of bed like a lithe gymnast, ran for the phone. His thick fingers punched the numbers. 9-1-1.

“9-1-1. What is your emergency?” A woman’s voice. Older. Experienced.

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Then, something did. Vines. Great, ropy banyan vines poured out of his mouth and down to the floor, flopping like the tentacles of a squid out of water. Rough roots stifled his screams.

He sat up in his bed, soaked with sweat. Cornelius stood at his bedside, back stiff, his normal, floppy ears on end.

The echo of a