Unexpectedly Popular – The Bind
The curtain moves and August displays his badge. The door opens and Medea steps outside. She is earthy, sensual, and smiling. Her mouth opens to issue a greeting held soundless on her lips. She blinks as if in faint recognition.
August's nostrils flare as he takes in the sight and scent of her. Up close, she looks better than he ever imagined.
Then he remembers his purpose.
“I need to speak with Medea Durham.”
“You are,” she says. “I'm Medea.”
“You're a midwife?”
Her brow crinkles. “You sound surprised. Is this about the grave robber?”
“Yes. May I come in?”
Medea nods and stands aside to allow him entrance.
Inside her living room, he sees books, more books, very little furniture and many potted herb plants. Medea points to a sofa and August sits. She takes a chair across from him.
“Are you the sheriff? Can you explain what fell from the sky today?”
“No to both questions. My name is August McClure. I'm Undersheriff.”
Medea's eyes flicker as she registers the name. “Then the grave robbed was a relative?”
“My great grandfather. You told the officer you saw someone leaving the cemetery in a hurry.”
“I didn't see much. It was just before dawn. A man holding a bag was all I could make out.”
“A bag?”
“Yes. A garbage bag. One of the big ones.”
August goes still as he recalls the grinning man he exchanged stares with that morning.
“Was he an older man? Strange eyes?”
“I'm sorry. I couldn't say. I certainly didn't get the impression of age. He was moving fairly quickly.”
“It's not many women who'll jump out and go traipsing through a graveyard in the dark,” August comments.
Her mouth twists. “I'm afraid of a lot of things, Mr. McClure, but the dark and the dead aren't on the list.”
Her frankness inspires him to look openly at her. “You have an unusual name.”
She nods. “Yes, I do.”
“From the Greek tragedy?”
“You know your literature.”
“Some hicks do. It's a pretty name, but she was one wicked piece of work.”
“Another someone who didn't mind the dark or the dead.”
“Or killing her own family,” August says.
Medea rises suddenly and walks toward the door. The easy feeling between them has evaporated.
August's nostrils flare as he takes in the sight and scent of her. Up close, she looks better than he ever imagined.
Then he remembers his purpose.
“I need to speak with Medea Durham.”
“You are,” she says. “I'm Medea.”
“You're a midwife?”
Her brow crinkles. “You sound surprised. Is this about the grave robber?”
“Yes. May I come in?”
Medea nods and stands aside to allow him entrance.
Inside her living room, he sees books, more books, very little furniture and many potted herb plants. Medea points to a sofa and August sits. She takes a chair across from him.
“Are you the sheriff? Can you explain what fell from the sky today?”
“No to both questions. My name is August McClure. I'm Undersheriff.”
Medea's eyes flicker as she registers the name. “Then the grave robbed was a relative?”
“My great grandfather. You told the officer you saw someone leaving the cemetery in a hurry.”
“I didn't see much. It was just before dawn. A man holding a bag was all I could make out.”
“A bag?”
“Yes. A garbage bag. One of the big ones.”
August goes still as he recalls the grinning man he exchanged stares with that morning.
“Was he an older man? Strange eyes?”
“I'm sorry. I couldn't say. I certainly didn't get the impression of age. He was moving fairly quickly.”
“It's not many women who'll jump out and go traipsing through a graveyard in the dark,” August comments.
Her mouth twists. “I'm afraid of a lot of things, Mr. McClure, but the dark and the dead aren't on the list.”
Her frankness inspires him to look openly at her. “You have an unusual name.”
She nods. “Yes, I do.”
“From the Greek tragedy?”
“You know your literature.”
“Some hicks do. It's a pretty name, but she was one wicked piece of work.”
“Another someone who didn't mind the dark or the dead.”
“Or killing her own family,” August says.
Medea rises suddenly and walks toward the door. The easy feeling between them has evaporated.
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