“Don’t be so sure.”
“Mandi, there is not a courtroom in this country that would even consider testimony relating to evidence you could not have logically removed.”
“It might be in this specific circumstance.” Damn it. I have no idea what to say here. I know the Delaney from Wilkinson Creek, but this version may not be exactly the same as the one that brought balloons to my hospital room.
“You may as well tell me. Anything you say will be entirely off the record. After all, I’m not on duty, and we’re discussing this experience in a quiet restaurant—no cameras, no recorders . . . not even a notepad.”
“You may change your tune upon my disclosure.”
He tells me that few people would believe that I could have potentially traveled back in time. Since I wasn’t even in grade school in 1994, he assures me that I’m completely safe from any prosecution. Sadly, this doesn’t bring me much comfort. I can’t even imagine the blowback that would result from revealing Willie’s guilt. At the same time, he has been a strain on my life for 25 years.
I shouldn’t be protecting the scumbag! He brutally murdered those people. Because of his actions, I grew up without the guidance of a mother and was subjected to Trudy’s curt brand of nurturing. Willie doesn’t get a free pass because my imprudent action caused the prick to evade jail time. One could argue that he must be fully rehabilitated since he hasn’t created any real trouble for over two decades—aside from siring a psychopathic son. My future looks immensely bleak with those two assholes running loose in the state. It’s time to unload this burden.
After a long pause, I finally admit, “The object I successfully removed from Willie’s basement was not a transistor radio or a Rubik’s Cube—it was a piece of evidence from a series of murders that occurred back in 1994.”
He pauses to absorb this new information. “The only multiple murders in this county going back that far were the seven homicides committed by Benjamin Jackson.”
“Huh? Are you talking about Patricia’s son, Benny?” I ask, bewildered. “I never heard about him being accused of anything like that. He collects shopping carts over at Piggly Wiggly.”
“Is that what he does in your alternate universe?”
“Don’t be patronizing,” I jab back. “I did not say it was an alternate universe. It’s simply a different ‘present’ than the one I left behind last night. A week ago, Benny took a shopping cart from me while bending my ear about a Ron Santo card he needed for some old baseball card set. Without question, I can assure you that Benny was not in jail.”
“Just like I was the sheriff of Wilkinson Creek?”
“Yes, exactly like that.” He sure won’t buy into that possibility.
“Well, you are right that Benny is not in jail; he resides in the maximum-security wing at Franklin Hills.”
“Good lord.” Learning about the existence of Agnew McAllister was horrifying, but realizing that Benny may be locked up because I tinkered with the past just made my stomach muscles swirl in reverse. “When did this happen?”
“Back when I was in middle school. It had been the first case surrounding multiple homicides in the county, so it made headlines all over the state.”
“Delaney. I assure you that Benny did not murder anyone. He is too much of a marshmallow to commit a violent crime—he’d piss his drawers from pocketing a pack of bubble gum.”
“At the time, that was the consensus until investigators discovered a few of his hairs at one of the murder scenes. That one murder became an open and shut case upon collecting that evidence. The rest fell in place because ballistics confirmed that the bullets had all fired from the same gun.”
“A few hairs is hardly evidence,” I argue. “Someone could have pulled those from a brush and spread them around. Are you sure it was seven murders?”
“I remember it well. Each victim was shot in the back of the head. Benny was large enough to overpower all of them. Until Agnew came along, that was the most famous killing spree within 90 miles.”
Holy fucking shit! Willie’s murders were pinned on poor Benny because I removed the gun from his basement . . . there is no other logical explanation. Without the murder weapon, nothing must have pointed to Willie.
Under that impeccable makeup, could Abbey be twisted enough to carry out my wish and then frame an innocent simpleton? The prettier the face, the less devious you suspect the person to be under the layer of skin. That’s how so many girls get saddled up with assholes. A gorgeous face makes us less cautious of what lurks beneath.
I can curse Abbey’s involvement all I want, but it was my action that may be indirectly responsible for Benny’s incarceration. The police obviously cleared Willie and moved onto the next suspect. I should be regaling at this second chance, but I’ve also caused a chain reaction—one that locked up an innocent creampuff and spawned a mass murderer. I accept my nomination for the biggest asshole of all time. Prichard said I was on a slippery slope, but it’s beginning to feel like a declivity into the abyss. Willie is still making a mess of my life, so I’m done protecting that noxious prick.
“Delaney, did they ever find the weapon from those murders?”
“No, they couldn’t locate the gun. The police searched the landfill and even dragged three lakes and the creek. It was never recovered. At the academy, we studied the nuances of the case. The absence of physical evidence—other than those hairs—was the deciding factor that got Benny remanded to Franklin Hills opposed to being sent to Joliet.”
“There’s a good reason for that,” I state, but then hesitate. I hope Seedra will return and start making eyes at Delaney again. I need a diversion before I spill it. Of course, she’s nowhere to be found. I suck in a deep breath. Here goes nothing—and everything. “The item I removed from Willie’s basement was the handgun used in those murders. Last night—well in 1994, whatever—I pulled the gun from inside his laundry chute and carried it to Town Square. Abbey had me place the gun inside a black leather case, zip it up, and drop it to the bottom of the wishing well.”
“Mandi, are you insinuating that Willie is guilty of those crimes?”
“Fucking right I am,” I admit without hesitation. “Yesterday, I was ejected from Leighton because Willie was the scorn of the county. His crime-spree has held me down my entire life. When I awoke this morning, I thought I had the world by the short hairs.” I point to the clock above the center booth on the other side of the room. “It’s only 1:30 and I’ve gained the knowledge that I may have unleashed a maniac on the world and sent an innocent man-boy to the wacko cage. This is all happening from interfering with the damn space/time continuum—if that is actually a tangible thing. I didn’t realize that one action would have such seismic repercussions. I was expecting to pass ‘Go’ and finally collect my $200, but I got sent directly to jail instead—so did Benny.”
Delaney chuckles at my metaphor but then squints as if he’s considering my claim. “Can I ask you the day you actually went back in time?” That must have been a tough question for him to ask with a straight face.
“July 23rd—shortly after dark. I remember that date because it was the night before my life went haywire back when I was a little girl.”
“Are you certain you arrived on that particular date?”
“There wasn’t a calendar in front of me. Abbey told me the date. I wasn’t exactly in a position to get confirmation, nor did I think it was necessary to do so.”
“Something she did or said must have made you believe her.”
“She had no reason to lie,” I explain. “She had grabbed my hand when we were crossing Main Street. When she let go, the middle of the night had changed to dusk. That was the first indication we moved through time. After retrieving the gun from Willie’s house, I made an unscheduled pit stop at my old house. By looking through the front window, I saw myself sitting on the floor as a child. This more than verified that 1994 had been ushered in. Oh, and when we first crossed Main Street, I remember noticin
g the old video store on the corner of Elm and Main was in business, and The Rialto’s marquee was all lit up. At that point, everything became very real.”
“This better not be part of an elaborate scam,” he says. “You haven’t had the best track record for honesty, you know.”
“For fuck’s sake, Delaney, do you think I’d implicate my uncle just to get my kicks? Christ, I’m not that thick. I can’t even imagine the deluge of shit that would pour on me from making a false accusation like that.”
“Yes, I suppose it would. Back when I studied Benny’s case, it was full of holes. He didn’t have a driver’s license but somehow traveled 45 miles to murder two people in Bluff Ridge that had no connection to him. A theorist claimed that he could have stowed away on the westbound train while returning on the eastbound train later that evening. That summation sounded mighty thin, but the jury just wanted to close the case to get him off the street.”
“If you found the gun, would it be enough to reopen the case? It could still be sitting at the bottom of the well.”
“Only if the gun hasn’t deteriorated,” he points out. “Twenty-five years is a long time for a piece of metal to be submerged in water. The fingerprints would have disappeared when the rust began to erode the weapon—that’s if it hadn’t been wiped clean.”
“When I pulled it from the laundry chute, my prints would have been all over it,” I state. “On a positive note, the leather may have kept it dry.”
“If the gun hasn’t corroded, ballistics would most likely work. Even if the case kept it dry, I highly doubt we’d find one print on the gun that belonged to you.”
“And if you did, would you believe me?”
“If your adult fingerprints were all over a murder weapon that went missing when you were a preschooler, yeah, I would believe every word of your story.”
“Let’s say the gun isn’t covered in rust when it’s found, would you be able to track it to him through the firearm registration?”
“Many safeguards were not in place back in those days,” he explains. “You could walk into a store and leave with a gun the same day—sometimes, with just a receipt. A friend could have sold him the gun. Hell, he could have picked it up at a garage sale or even at a flea market.”
“So, finding the gun could reopen the case, right?” I’m suddenly hopeful that the retrieval of the weapon could “right” such a ghastly “wrong.”
“It pains me to say this, but Benny will most likely remain locked up at Franklin Hills until he’s old and gray. Even if the gun did turn up, people in Wilkinson Creek are shaky enough with Agnew out there murdering innocent people. The community wouldn’t sleep a wink if they were to find out that Benny was released on newfound evidence that was 25-years-old. I know that is horrible to admit.”
“I take it you’re not going to do anything with this information,” I say, deflated. “I guess I’ll be relegated to a shittier social standing than I’ve previously endured.”
“I’m just telling you how it would play out. I cannot find any rational reasoning to get someone to dig around inside the wishing well for a gun—without reciting everything you’ve told me. If I told anyone that I bought into your time travel claim, there’d be a room reserved for me not far from where Benny Jackson has a bed.”
“It’s discouraging that I’m leading you to lost evidence, but you won’t take the necessary steps to uncover it. What the hell gives?”
“Don’t look at it that way,” he says, reassuringly. “I’m not dismissing what you’re telling me; I need to absorb all of this before taking any action that could put me out of a job. For starters, Wilkinson Creek is out of our jurisdiction. I would need to come up with a logical reason that we’d want to revisit a 20-year-old case.”
“It’s a 25-year-old case,” I correct, “but I understand. So, do you think I’m completely off my axis?”
“No, I don’t. I’ve been thrown for a loop today with your diction and vocabulary. Not to mention that you haven’t reached for a cigarette all day.”
“I told you that I don’t smoke.”
“If we were in a courtroom under oath, I’d swear you are not the woman that I arrested three months ago. That’s all I’ll say as a police officer. If you want a different hypothesis, I can remove my uniform, figuratively, and talk to you as a science fiction and the paranormal enthusiast.”
“I just want a supposition that makes sense.”
“My instincts are telling me that you are either having the mother of all detailed delusions, or . . . ”
“Wonderful,” I interrupt, figuring he thinks I’m crazy. I sure hope the white coat and tight-fitting straps are comfortable.
“Give me an opportunity to finish,” he cuts in before I can go all doomsday. “If you are not having a delusion, the body you are occupying is a vessel. From inadvertently altering a moment in 1994, it’s as if your consciousness stepped into your body this morning like a different set of clothing. That may be why you cannot remember anything from this life nor do you act like the girl I’ve known for many years. All of your experiences—following that July night when you fiddled with the past—would be completely different. Somehow, you carried your memories with you into this body—one without the scar. Am I making any sense?”
“That makes more sense than anything I’ve been able to put together. If your analogy is accurate, will the memories of this life rush in all at once? Theoretically, I could become crazy from being unable to decipher between two opposing sets of memories.”
His eyes squint again as if this thought presents a wrinkle in his hypotheses. I’m beginning to read Delaney like a poker opponent that gave away his ‘tell.’ “Mandi, with each sentence you utter, I’m more willing to believe this second postulation. I’m not sure what would happen to your mind if the memories began to mix together. Since that is not happening, we shouldn’t concern ourselves with a possible entanglement.”
“So, where does this leave us? Will you at least consider what I’ve told you and not dismiss my story?”
“You didn’t display a single emotion indicating you were making anything up. I have to conclude that what you experienced was not some nightmare. Dreams get fuzzy around the edges as the day progresses. You were too specific.”
“I have a lifetime of experiences that probably don’t mesh with the ones you’ll remember. You probably think being granted a wish is bullshit.”
“Don’t assume what I’m thinking,” he says. “I don’t dismiss outlandish possibilities. From time to time, I have felt that the wishing well in Wilkinson Creek might be cursed. When I lived there, I couldn’t even get close to it.”
“Why not?” That seems a bit odd for him to say.
“Oh, it’s just . . . well, it made me uneasy. You’re not the first person to blame their bad luck on the wishing well—you’re just the first ever to allege that a beautiful time-travel guide in a tilt hat granted you a wish.”
“Two wishes actually, but that’s what happened. After all that has come to light, I don’t think I’ll be able to stay away from the well. In addition to what happened to Benny, my wish spit a murdering machine into the world. I’ll probably need to make an entirely different wish to rescind my first one.”
“Mandi, if it were that simple to rid the world of someone as menacing as Agnew, I’d go to the coin store, grab a bag full of rare pennies, and tell you to wish your little heart away,” he says. “I believe it’ll take much more than a wish before we’ve seen the last of Agnew McAllister.”
“Wonderful.”
“Anyway, you would probably need to use that exact coin again to revoke your initial wish.”
“Abbey took it with her,” I remind him. “She was holding it in her hand a minute later. It wasn’t an illusion because I held the necklace for a few seconds.” He snorts a little upon reiterating this fact. “I’m not kidding, Delaney. It was as if some illusionist pulled off a trick in his magic act. It was freaky.”
“Pr
oducing a penny necklace isn’t impossible.”
“The penny was extremely unique. The Indian’s face changed whenever I moved the coin in the light. The odds of her holding the exact coin would have been astronomical.”
“The coin you used must have been some type of powerful talisman.”
“I thought it was a lucky penny,” I say, wearily. “It feels anything but that at the moment.”
“I’m not sure what we’re dealing with, Mandi. Can I ask you to remain in the county until I sort this out?”
“I can’t leave the county.” I snicker. “Where would I go? I don’t have enough scratch to drive as far as Antioch for the day.”
“It’s just that I may need to call on you if Agnew should make an appearance. If my suspicions are correct, you just might be his Kryptonite. You may be the one person that would allow us an opportunity to close in on him.”
“How do you figure that?”
“It’s just a hunch, but it’s the best one I have at the moment.
Chapter 11
Melinda James
After the expose last night on Agnew McAllister, Extreme Copy’s ratings have never been higher. It was the first fifteen-minute spot in my two-part series on the infamous mass murderer. After dozens of blood-curdling slayings, it was time to dig into the depraved psyche of the maniac trolling the Illinois landscape. What I lacked in fact-checking, I more than made up for in stylish delivery. After all, we are in the business of ratings. Our program is up against too many other news shows of this sort. Who has time to worry about absolute accuracy? To get ahead in the ratings, you can’t adhere to mandates. I go to confession once every other month to get even with the house.
What made last night’s episode compelling was digging into Agnew’s confidential military record. A young recruit offered a ten-minute peek at the files. All I had to do was let him feel my tits over my blouse for about five minutes. Not a bad trade for the hike in ratings. When I discovered that Agnew shot five members of his infantry unit during his two-year stint in the U.S. Marines, I knew I had the goods. These slayings have not been added to the murder tally as they occurred under military jurisdiction where Agnew was granted a license to kill. He found out that his license had restrictions about firing a gun at his comrades. He was handed a life sentence at Leavenworth where he escaped without a trace—no rock hammer or Jane Fonda poster was found in his cell to explain the mysterious disappearance.
In Dark Places Page 18