Sentinel Event

by Samantha Shelby

  Everyone screamed when the van tipped over the rail and tumbled down a high embankment. It rolled several times and flailing bodies struck against one another and the inside of the vehicle. Aidriel managed to hang on to the stretcher, but one of the medical workers fell hard against his back as they rolled, driving his abdomen into the table with enough force to knock the breath clean out of him. A foot hit his shoulder; a knee found the side of his head. Dreamer was turned away. Aidriel couldn’t see her face and didn’t hear her screaming. He wondered if she would slip out from under him.

  For several breathless seconds the ambulance spun down to the bottom of the ditch. It came to a smashed rest on its right side, the travelers inside lying in aching tangles.

  Aidriel lost his grip and tipped backward, his legs still hooked around the stretcher. The back of his head smashed into one of the overhead storage cupboards. Instantly dizzy, he couldn’t tell who it was that took him by the arms and dragged him out the back door of the wrecked vehicle. It hurt to have his lower limbs so roughly jerked from the metal framework inside, and he was instantly flooded with panic to think that the Passers were taking him away. He tried to struggle, but resistance was entirely out of his control.

  Suddenly finding himself unceremoniously dropped into the grass and left to lie there, Aidriel stared up at the trees and power lines running alongside the road. He heard voices, and realized there were no internal warning signs. Turning his head painfully, he felt a stinging sensation on the back of his scalp. The doctor was sitting next to him, tending an injured arm, but appearing rather lucid. The sentimental nurse was pacing, sobbing, ignoring the pleading of an orderly to sit down and take it easy. An orderly? There were none in the ambulance, how had they reached the crash so quickly? Had he lost time?

  Dreamer was sitting several yards away on the side of the embankment, her knees drawn up to her chest and her head in her hands. DeTarlo was bending over her, her voice raised and her arms jerking wildly as she poked at the phleb and pointed out at nothing.

  Aidriel sat up and mimicked Dreamer’s head cradling. The pain was incredible. The doctor was talking to him, but words weren’t registering. The crying nurse was shaking her head and repeating that she couldn’t “do it anymore.”

  DeTarlo approached and leaned over to look at him. She too asked him questions he couldn’t make any sense of. She was very agitated, going so far as to touch his head and tilt his face up so she could see it. The shrink gave the doctor an order and he got stiffly to his feet. In a few moments, he returned with some medical supplies. They each took one of Aidriel’s shoulders, pushing him back so he was lying down again. He felt the poke of a needle in his arm, and the pain faded away.

  Before the analgesic kicked in, Dreamer was so battered and sore, she could hardly stand it. Sitting on the side of the hill, involuntary tears streaming down her cheeks, she pitied herself and wondered what in the world she was doing here. She didn’t even know what limb to cradle because all of them ached so acutely.

  Most of the other members of Williams’s entourage were already gone, shuttled off in small groups to who knew where. Aidriel was one of the first to go, so the Passers in the area were waiting around calmly, as if they too would have a turn to be transported.

  Dreamer’s Passer, Tracy, sat down beside the girl and watched her with a meek expression.

  “What is the matter with all of you?” Dreamer asked miserably. “Why do you do it?”

  “I don’t know,” Tracy said softly. It looked over the wreckage and made a sound like a sigh, stroking the front of its wool coat in a habitual effort to smooth it.

  Dreamer wiped her nose with the back of her hand and saw a streak of blood on her skin. She was used to seeing the red liquid contained in tidy vials or in little droplets on gauze. It was darker in the airtight tubes; a rich crimson. Dreamer didn’t like the color of blood on her skin, bright like a streak of paint.

  She was used to dreams about blood. It usually appeared as a passive ingredient in the collage of her nighttime visions. But it had been different of late. She’d had recurring dreams where she was standing in the middle of the street, hosing away a large bloodstain in the middle of the asphalt. Tracy didn’t know what it meant; no one that Dreamer had casually asked about it seemed to be able to shed any light on the mystery.

  Tracy turned its head slowly back and forth, scanning its surroundings indifferently.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Dreamer, glancing at her watch and wondering how much longer it would be until the painkiller kicked in.

  “The future,” responded the ghost. “And the past.”

  “Anything but the present, huh?” Dreamer tried to smile through her grimace.

  “Do you think about what you’re experiencing at the moment?” questioned Tracy.

  “If it merits thought, yeah. Why’re we having a philosophical conversation now?”

  “I supposed that perhaps I should distract you.”

  “Not working.”

  “I’m sorry. Will you stay on?”

  “You mean with Williams? I didn’t think I had a choice at this point.”

  “You do. No one can force you to do anything.”

  Dreamer gritted her teeth in pain as he stretched out her legs one at a time to get the blood flowing in them.

  “I know that,” she said. Tracy had been telling her similar things her whole life.

  “Make up your mind, then,” Tracy stated. “Stick to it and defend it.”

  “You mean never admit to making a mistake, even when you do?” Dreamer was skeptical.

  “I mean no one can tell you what is right. When you decide something for yourself, you don’t have to back down unless you want to.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” Dreamer didn’t bother to hide her sarcasm. She was too uncomfortable to appreciate that Tracy was waxing poetic.

  “So will you stay?” Tracy asked.

  “Yeah.” Dreamer was not in the mood for chitchat.

  “For the job or for the man?”

  “Williams?”

  “No, Aidriel.”

  Dreamer looked at Tracy’s young, unassuming face. They’d been close Dreamer’s whole life, and had told each other everything. Growing up, Dreamer looked to the ageless Tracy for guidance for girl troubles, both physical and emotional. The spirit had been protector, mother, sister and friend, and though barely adequate in the roles, Tracy had been better than no one at all. But considering how the Passers acted in regard to Aidriel, Dreamer was disinclined to say much about a certain growing attraction.

  “It’s a puzzle,” she lamely explained. “I’d like to know what’s going on. I don’t suppose you can offer any insight?”

  Tracy made a face at Dreamer’s first statement like it didn’t believe her, then shook its head at her question.

  “Were you involved in that attack in the Bird Cage?” asked Dreamer.

  “No,” Tracy said instantly.

  “And the ambulance?”

  “No, I had nothing to do with it.”

  “So you haven’t been around at any of the attacks?”

  “No, but I am aware of them.”

  It didn’t occur to Dreamer that Tracy might lie to her.

  “But you don’t know why they’re happening?” she wanted to know.

  “No. I don’t know why.”

  Dreamer knew Tracy well enough to pick up on the fact that the Passer didn’t want to discuss the subject further. Perhaps the ghost itself was upset by the attacks, or knew something bad about other Passers that it would prefer not to reveal.

  “Okay, so I guess I’ll just stay outside the loop,” Dreamer muttered, more to herself than to Tracy. The Passer was unmoved by the comment, and watched one of Williams’s cars return to pick up the last of the lingering employees.

  The painkiller was finally beginning to kick in, and Dreamer stood up
, relieved to find the aches in her limbs slowly easing.

  “You can’t come with me,” she told Tracy.

  “It’s alright,” agreed the Passer. “Another destination demands my presence.”

  Dreamer walked away and didn’t hear Tracy add, “We’re both going west. I will see you there.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Dr. St. Cross sat in his home office wearing a phone headset and numbly shifting his wheelchair back and forth by the wheels. His jade eyes were fixed on the large glass aquarium across the room, in which several brightly colored snakes slid noiselessly over a tangle of branches. The music coming through the headset was painfully monotonous, but he patiently waited.

  “American Sentience Movement, how may I help you?” a voice said finally.

  “Intern Jack Stickney, please,” the shrink requested.

  “Hold please.”

  The music resumed briefly, then the line clicked, and Stickney answered.

  The psychiatrist spoke briskly: “Jack, it’s Dr. St. Cross from Saint Michael Hospital.”

  “Oh. Hello, Doc.” The intern on the line sounded less than thrilled.

  “I wonder if you could tell me where Chester Williams is. I can’t seem to contact him; he’s out of town, I’m told.”

  “Yes, he’s out of town. He will check his messages when he gets back.”

  “You couldn’t just tell me where he is?”

  “Why in the world would I do that?”

  “C’mon Jack, you know why I’m calling. I can’t seem to get in touch with Dr. deTarlo either, and it’s urgent.”

  “It would have to be extremely urgent.”

  “Oh it is. It’s in regards to their patient.”

  “Their patient.” If Jack knew what St. Cross was talking about, he was doing a good job of sounding clueless.

  “Look, it’s no secret that Kelly Road got a green light. I just need to talk with deTarlo or Chester as soon as possible.”

  Jack sighed a long, heavy sigh. He sounded very put out, but he always did. St. Cross had been in contact with this particular intern several times over the last year in his mission to bring Aidriel to the attention of the organization’s lead Passerist. Finally, Jack had given in and written a report about the case, which he sent to Williams, who had read and dismissed it. Ever since, Stickney didn’t bother to hide his annoyance when the psychiatrist continued to call him.

  St. Cross could hear Jack tapping his keyboard and making soft affirmations to himself while he looked for information. It surprised the shrink that the intern didn’t know immediately where Kelly Road was located.

  “How’s your internship going, by the way?” St. Cross asked in a friendly tone.

  “Could be better.”

  “Oh, I apologize, but my offer to show you around the Psychology Center will have to be postponed indefinitely.”

  “Oh?”

  “I had an accident and find myself confined to a chair on wheels.”

  “A car accident?”

  “No.”

  “You couldn’t reach anyone at Kelly Road ’cause they aren’t there anymore.”

  St. Cross was simultaneously surprised and concerned.

  “Where are they?”

  “The most current status says they’re in Ohio, traveling northwest by car. The itinerary appears to be to meet the jet in Cleveland.”

  “They’re on the move, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is there any way to get a message to them?”

  “If it’s a very urgent message, I can have it sent to Williams’s personal cell, though he won’t like it if it’s not important.”

  “It is important.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Tell him St. Cross wants his patient back.”

  Jack hung up on him. In an uncharacteristic display of anger, the psychiatrist flung away his headset and slammed his fist down on his desk.

  Chester and deTarlo’s yelling match awakened Aidriel from a sound sleep, and he found himself in a bed at a fancy hotel; the name The Pen Ryn was embroidered above the silhouette of a White House–esque building emblazoned on the decorative pillows around his head. He ached all over, but his first thought was how strange it was that he was quite used to awakening in foreign places. It was usually a hospital, though, which was very unlike a suite like this.

  The Passerist and the psychologist were standing on either side of the little dining table by the kitchenette, apparently oblivious to the effect they were having on anyone else in the room.

  “I’m putting my license on the line,” deTarlo snapped. “It was impossibly difficult to keep local rescue from getting involved.”

  “It’s a moot point,” replied Williams, visibly harried. “No one wants to go any further. I’m not prepared to offer them the money they’d require to stay on.”

  “Then you think we should cut our losses and leave.”

  Chester paused with his mouth open, his brow bent in a thoughtful frown. He ran a hand through the back of his short blond hair, the knuckles of the other resting in a fist against the tabletop.

  “Look,” Ana began, her voice softened to try and convince him. “I’ve thought of this possibility, and the best thing we can do is press on. We can’t just cut the whole thing loose.”

  “Whole thing?” Chester retorted. “This is a dangerous mess that is spiraling out of control.”

  “What would you suggest we do? We have to keep going.”

  “Do you want to drive him, then? No one else does!”

  “I said I would,” cut in Dreamer, who was lying on the couch in the sitting area, her elbow bent over her face to shield her eyes. The television was on at a low volume, the channel set at some sensational biography show about a garage band that had been struck by lightning during an outdoor concert.

  “Oh yeah, you will.” Ana laughed aloud, and Dreamer moved her arm to give the psychologist a dirty look.

  “If she wants to, let her,” Williams said dismissively. “No one else will. Literally everyone we specifically hired for this has hightailed it for the hills, and with good reason.”

  “Everyone but me,” pointed out deTarlo.

  “Do I suddenly not exist?” asked Dreamer, getting up to approach them. “I said I would drive him. If I have to, I’ll rent my own car and pay for my own gas. We’ve come this far; I’ll go all the way.”

  The shrink shook her head so vehemently, her usually flawless updo flopped loose. Williams arched his eyebrow at them both.

  “What are you again?” he asked Dreamer.

  “Besides a person? A phlebotomist.”

  “Right. I don’t have a clue why he was so insistent you come along, but we appeased him. Doesn’t make you irreplaceable or anything.”

  Dreamer narrowed her eyes but didn’t take the bait to start a personal argument.

  “What is the big deal here, anyway?” she asked. “I said I’d drive him, and neither of you are willing to take a chance for someone else. Just throw money at it, maybe it’ll go away. I’m actually kind of surprised you even came along to see him off.”

  In one swift movement, Chester stepped toward her and slapped her across the face.

  “Watch your attitude, you snide little!—”

  Aidriel collided with Chester with enough force to drive the latter into the table.

  “Screw you and your self-righteous club,” Aidriel spat.

  Dreamer did not react to the blow besides lowering her blazing eyes. She was used to taking such harsh treatment without responding emotionally; hitting had been the favorite anger outlet for a former guardian of hers, and he had not been tolerant of reciprocation of any sort.

  “Knock it off!” ordered deTarlo, hushing them all. “I am still in charge here; listen to me. Dreamer will drive Aidriel to the ‘dead zone,’ and Chet and I will follow behind in a separate vehicle.”r />
  “What ‘dead zone’?” Aidriel asked crossly, massaging his aching right shoulder.

  “There is a place in Iowa that is thought to be a natural dead area to Passers,” Ana explained impatiently. “That’s where we were taking you.”

  Aidriel grimaced and felt the tender bruise on the back of his head.

  “Why am I being taken anywhere?” he demanded. “Why don’t we just go home to Fort Wayne?”

  DeTarlo smiled slightly.

  “Maybe you should read consent forms before you sign them,” she retorted snarkily. “You agreed in writing to be dependent upon our judgment until the completion of our study.”

  “I thought the study was over.”

  “The study isn’t over until a substantiated conclusion can be drawn in reference to your claims that the Passers are attacking you.”

  “You already had your proof.”

  “There weren’t any Passers at the ambulance crash when we got there.”

  “You got your proof in the Bird Cage.”

  “I would be willing to show you my table and hypothesis if you insist,” the shrink answered patronizingly. “It clearly outlines required conclusions necessary to publish this study, including the cause behind the attacks.”

  “Ask the Passers, then,” Dreamer cut in, having recovered from the shock of the slap. “Don’t you think if he knew the cause, we wouldn’t be here?”

  “What the hell do you think I’ve been spending my time doing?” snapped Chester. “I don’t know if you noticed, girl, but the Passers have been noticeably MIA from the start of this whole thing, except for, of course, when they’re mucking things up.”

  Dreamer flashed a disappointed half-smile but didn’t reply.

  Aidriel sat down on the arm of one of the two easy chairs in the room to rest his aching legs. He was manifestly weary and sighed silently, his gaze drifting to the floor in thought. His hand moved involuntarily up to feel his throat, where the injuries caused by his attempt to end his life had faded away. As his fingers closed slightly around his neck, he recalled vividly the sensation of the rope tightening. It had burned his skin and lungs, but the blackness was beautiful. Suffocation was a miserable way to go, and he had felt it both before and since the hanging.