In Dark Places

by Darryl J Keck

  “Are you talking about the energy surge you felt when we were on the sofa?”

  Damn, she has an exceptional memory! I can’t get anything by her.

  “That was the exact reason.”

  “Is that all it was about?” Is that all? That was a whopper. “I could sense that about you the first time we met. I had no intention of bringing it up, but that particular episode had interrupted a passionate moment. I thought I’d be able to help you process what you were sensing—especially since it seemed to formulate beyond my property line. I certainly didn’t want that to become an ongoing issue if our relationship had progressed to the next level.”

  I am absolutely stunned—she was aware of my well-guarded secret the entire time. Well, not all of it, but that the moment in the living room had been precipitated by an external source. Carmen could have been a confidant and a sensual partner. I chose to run the other direction like a wimp. A month following our break up, the universe punished me by dropping Heidi into my life. I went from dating an emotional seismologist to living with an out-of-control earthquake. Talk about getting a karmic kick to the milk duds.

  “I’m really sorry about the way I handled everything,” I say, genuinely. “I had lived reticent of that ability since I was a teenager and wasn’t ready to bring it to the surface.”

  “I understand,” she says. A huge weight seems to have lifted from her shoulders. “Telling people about my ability has backfired on more than a few occasions. I am so relieved it wasn’t related to my kissing. I began getting a bit skittish whenever someone moved towards my lips on a first date.”

  “I wish you would have called and probed for a better answer.”

  “I had reached for the phone a dozen times that week, but I was not about to come off as some crazy ex-girlfriend—not that I was officially a girlfriend, but you know. No one is happy receiving a call that borders on obsession. Since you didn’t tell me the actual reason, I wasn’t about to pry it out of you—especially since we weren’t together all that long.”

  “It’s better than getting conscientious over your kissing style.”

  “Yeah, it would have been a more befitting solution,” she says, taking a deep breath. “How long have you been able to feel energy like that? I shouldn’t ask, but I feel alone being empathic. It was comforting that you had a similar ability. Were you born with it?”

  “No, I don’t believe I was born with it.” I can’t believe I’m talking about this aloud. “It may have lied dormant for years, but it did not show up until I was a teenager. Once it was there, it would only appear at unusual moments.”

  “If you ever want to discuss it, my door is always open. I’d never relay it to another person. I give you my word.”

  After thanking her, I decide to move away from the topic and ask about her writing. Much like me, she is spinning her wheels and can’t entirely complete her book. “I’d love to see it in print soon—mainly to feel a sense of completion. It’s beginning to feel like a kitchen that never gets fully clean.”

  “I understand that all too well,” I say, knowing the discouragement that comes from unfinished work. It’s refreshing talking to an aspiring author facing the same struggles. “I’m still trying to complete a novel. I have about 15 stories, but I can’t quite commit to finishing one. So many interruptions spring up along the way. To accomplish anything creative, you will always be short on sleep.”

  “Some of my ambition has dwindled because people seem more interested in digesting paltry bites of information. Have you noticed that communication skills are rapidly diminishing? Some texts are full of emojis like primitive cave drawings. We’ve really slipped as a society since the iPhone appeared. When someone sends me a text, it’s often full of broken sentences and jejune punctuation. I’m not sure why I even worry about the grammar in my book because the average person couldn’t detect the errors.”

  “I feel that Starbucks, the iPhone, and Facebook have shifted our society into a state of perpetual laziness and semi-addictive behavior,” I state, worrying that I’ll get on a rant. “When at a coffee shop, everyone is fixated on their phones like a coterie of programmed clones. It’s discouraging.”

  “I broke up with my last boyfriend because he spent too much time staring at his damn phone. I asked him to ignore the phone and pay more attention to the woman in front of him. Three minutes later, he was reaching for it again because it beeped twice. I hate how an invasive text takes priority over the conversation you are having in person. Talk about a wave of clarity. That was the last time he touched me. He was too curious about what everyone else was doing rather than having a ‘genuine’ experience himself.”

  “Until a few years ago, the Bruce Willis movie, Surrogates, seemed far-fetched. Society is heading in that direction. Advances in technology need to slow down, and people should develop a few interests that are not dependent on staring at a screen. Before long, people will begin losing the ability to communicate face-to-face with others.”

  “Derek, you were always able to express yourself so you’d never fall into that category,” she says, smiling. “Believe me, most men I’ve met are incapable of communicating so effortlessly. They become dependent on some electronic device because it gives the illusion that they’re able to carry on a conversation. Women figure out pretty quickly that they were using those lengthy pauses to think up—or look up—their responses. You can tell I’ve been a victim of being duped like that.” After an awkward hesitation, she stands up and motions. “Why don’t you follow me into the room and we can discuss whatever you need to know.”

  Under normal conditions, I’d read into that little nervous pause as some type of romantic interest. At the moment, my head is so consumed with Mandi’s claims that my radar may be off.

  “We can just talk in the waiting room. It doesn’t have to be a formal appointment.”

  “I’ll be more receptive when we’re in a comfortable atmosphere,” she says. “I need the right surroundings to talk freely about sensitive issues. I’m not unlike a hairdresser that opens up when she’s holding a pair of shears and a brush.”

  I follow Carmen to a room with five white candles producing the majority of the illumination. With the cinnamon aroma, it smells like the entryway of a candy store. What an improvement to the conflicting redolence of the entryway. Faint meditation music adds a bonus ingredient to the relaxing feel. I may end up napping on the edge of the table before the half hour runs out.

  “Before we get into specifics, may I inquire about something?” she asks. Her eyes twinkle in the flickering candlelight, causing a major distraction. “It won’t count against the time of our session. It’s more just curiosity.”

  “Sure, whatever you need to know.” It better not be another question about our short-lived relationship.

  “Did you struggle with my collection of artifacts displayed on my walls?” Yep, there it is. “I’ve had complaints about my decorating preferences—primarily from my sisters. Maybe it’s time to replace the spooky ornamentation with some girlie things.”

  “Define girlie things.”

  “Oh, framed pictures of sunsets, knickknacks from Pier One, and anything ornate that can be pleasingly arranged on a wall. My older sister reminded me that during high school, my bedroom walls had been covered in magazine pinups of River Phoenix and Leonardo DiCaprio. With my walls lined with supernatural relics, they think I’ve flipped out from hearing too many ghost stories.”

  If she asked me out again, I would quickly adapt to her historical artifacts and cat dander. Carmen could shove one of those vampire stakes into my chest and do less damage than Heidi did with her caustic verbal attacks. That certainly puts my former relationship into perspective.

  “Do you want my honest opinion?” I ask.

  “Absolutely.”

  “The walls in my office are covered with posters from the movies and television shows that have inspired me the most,” I offer. “My former girlfriend cringed at my memorabilia
collection, stating that it resembled a ‘teenager’s multimedia room.’ I thought about taking it all down to appease her, but I refrained. It’s important to have reminders of what first awakened your creativity. If people are uncomfortable because of what you decide to display, they are not letting you express yourself as an individual or tap into your artistry. You’d lose a little of yourself if you stuck all of your historical artifacts in a closet or a storage bin. Don’t put on a show for anyone. That collection brings out the best in you.”

  Even though Carmen’s personality has this sweetness that pulls you in, I’d guess that she doesn’t have many close friends. In her business, people might get freaked out by her telepathic abilities regardless of her calm nature. She once confided in me that her sisters both relegated her to the lowest position in her family. I have a similar situation with my two brothers that rarely contact me. Therefore, I have a vast understanding of not living up to marginal family expectations—even when you are not campaigning for anyone’s approval.

  “Thank you. I really needed to hear that,” she says appreciatively. Her eyes are glassing over a little. “I was beginning to feel like I needed to grow up, and I’m not quite ready to be a sellout like my sisters.” She pauses for a few seconds to regain her composure. “So what exactly are you here to see me about? You’re certainly not here to discuss my home decor.”

  “Let me see how to phrase this correctly,” I say, pausing to suck in a deep breath. I can’t misdirect; she’d see right through that. I may as well just spill it. “I am investigating some unusual activity that may be happening in Wilkinson Creek. My interest is mainly in peculiar deaths or even reports of bizarre situations that were a bit troubling—even if unsubstantiated. We can go back as far as, let’s say, 1930. In all of your research, has there been any strange deaths in Wilkinson Creek with a supernatural feel to them?”

  My reasoning for going back nearly 90 years is to see if there has been a pattern throughout the decades. As for researching this myself, I can’t log onto the computer in the office, look at old files, and leave a trail that has nothing to do with any open cases. It wouldn’t take long before someone would be asking questions about my sudden interest in Wilkinson Creek.

  “There are several peculiar things I remember off hand, but the drowning from 1947 has always been difficult to understand.”

  “What drowning?”

  “A woman was found floating in the water by the sandbar alongside the creek. The case is very unusual and unsettling,” she says. “Would you like to see the file?”

  “Do you actually have it here?”

  “I do. In this business, waiting around for a walk-in customer is very common. During those quiet times, I typically write in my office. I’d rather be getting my ideas down on paper while in a coffee shop, but sometimes you take what you can get.” She stands up, walks to the entryway, and hesitates. She looks back and says, “It will take a few minutes to dig everything up. You might as well make yourself comfortable.”

  Chapter 16

  Melinda James

  I cannot throw my weight around the room since the individuals surrounding the table all possess the capability to release me from my lucrative contract. I enjoy my spacious loft, my loaded BMW, and my premium cocaine far too much to risk my cash flow being interrupted. It takes my present six-figure income to keep up with my lavish spending.

  The board is comprised of five middle-aged men, two hoity-toity bitches, and Richard. Luckily, it only takes a majority ruling to carry a new station policy forward. I’m hoping to sway the male members with some titillating body language. Sucking on the end of a ballpoint pen can be quite seductive. I need to play dirty because they are about to vote on a new bylaw regarding death threats. Tonight’s broadcast will not be grandfathered-in to benefit my career.

  “We’ve gathered to make a decision whether or not to include Extreme Copy’s lead-in segment this evening,” Richard states, opening the debate. “Although the voice on that call has yet to be confirmed as Agnew McAllister, we cannot take such a threat lightly.”

  “We have been talking amongst ourselves before the two of you arrived,” Bill Wilson comments. He’s not without his own sins, which is part of the reason he is on the board of a company that broadcasts more than its share of trash television. He has green-lighted afternoon talk shows that exploit low-income cheating housewives and small-time drug pushers. “From a liability standpoint, we’re very concerned that this segment may be a little too risky.”

  “Bill, you never seem to worry about the guests whipping chairs and throwing fists during Mitch Mandalay’s talk show.” Right out of the gate, I come out swinging. “I mean, you could avoid riots like that if you secured the damn chairs to the floor. Where is your liability in the shows you produce?”

  “Ms. James, I don’t want to quibble with you, but there is a big difference between an aggravated talk show guest and a murderer threatening to kill the entire Extreme Copy staff. These are your people. Aren’t you concerned about their safety? We have a responsibility to our employees to keep them safe from danger.”

  “Apparently, your minds are already made up. I don’t know why you invited me to this meeting if an unfair decision has already been reached.” I shouldn’t be confrontational, but it will take more than a risqué oral display with my pen to influence the poindexters collected in this room.

  “Ms. James, we haven’t even got into our talking points yet, so please don’t jump ahead,” he adds. “We need to . . . ”

  His speech is interrupted by a hard knock on the door.

  “That’s odd,” Richard mutters. “I clearly instructed Angie that we were not to be interrupted for any reason.” When Richard opens the door, a geeky courier wearing a bright pink shirt and a cheesy white visor is holding a bouquet of multi-colored roses. “May we help you?”

  “Yes, you may, sir,” the young man states, effervescently. “I have an important delivery for Ms. Melinda James.”

  “Please take those to her office down the hallway. My secretary will give you the directions.”

  “The secretary was not at her desk,” he states.

  “That’s strange,” he says, glancing into the hallway toward her desk. “She will be right back if you don’t mind waiting for a few minutes.”

  “Richard, there is no point making this young man carry the flowers all the way to my office,” I interrupt. “We could use a little color to brighten up this uninspiring room as well as these somber proceedings.”

  “As you wish,” the courier states, moseying into the boardroom like a scatterbrain without a care in the world. I often feel sorry for flower delivery people. It must suck bringing love to others when the closest a guy like this gets to true intimacy is when he switches hands on a Saturday night.

  “Can you give me a hint on who sent such a stunning bouquet?” I ask, lightening the mood since he must be feeling awkward.

  “Let me just see.” The courier sets the vase on the table. He reaches into the middle of the bouquet, removing a silver pistol with a long barrel. “The flowers are a gift from Mr. Agnew McAllister!”

  As he removes his hat, strands of long black hair fall to his shoulders.

  “Oh my God, it’s you.”

  “You would be correct,” Agnew says, grinning menacingly. “Am I to assume that this collection of straight-laced suits have gathered to make the decision about airing the second part of your hatchet job? Well, I’m here to make certain there isn’t any undue influence over the proceedings.”

  Agnew walks to the door, locks the handle, and slides the thick deadbolt at the top. With his white hat, pink shirt, and sunglasses, no one would have pegged him for the infamous murderer. He typically wears a black t-shirt and black jeans. Crafty boy!

  “Young man, how did you get inside this building with that weapon?” Edna asks.

  “Effortlessly,” he states, smugly. “Your security guard let me walk through the scanner while he held the flowers.
He then handed the bouquet back on the other side of the scanner. That type of security breach happens when greedy fat cats will only pay $11 an hour to the chump. A man’s mind wanders when he’s on edge about the size of his paycheck.” In actuality, I’m terrified of being face-to-face with the megalomaniac. It’s easier to talk shit about him when he’s hundreds of miles away.

  “You’ve wasted a trip showing up,” I tell him, trying to remain calm. “They’ve decided to pull the segment. Not that I haven’t tried to argue my side.”

  “I’m more concerned to hear the justification for allowing last night’s transmission to go forward. Will one of you imbeciles care to explain that decision?”

  “Can I ask who you are?” Bill questions like a fool. He’s a little slow on the draw. Agnew loves his prominence as well as his infamy, so not being recognized could produce an unfavorable outcome.

  “Don’t you watch your own programming? I was the subject on last night’s Extreme Copy. This should confirm that the threat was indeed placed by yours truly.” He walks to the window and pulls down the shades. “With the barrel of my gun stuck in her temple, I gave your secretary explicit instructions to make the police aware of the situation. She was instructed to have the building surrounded within 15 minutes. Otherwise, I promised to put a bullet through her eye socket. It has been my experience that ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ rarely gets the job done; the threat of a bullet through the ocular motivates a person to do all sorts of shit. It won’t be long before a team of anxious uniformed men begins to aim loaded rifles in this direction. I’m certainly not about to make myself an easy target. As soon as those corrupt news outlet nostrils get a whiff of chaos, they always show up like cockroaches to a pile of cookie crumbs.”

  “Listen here, young man,” Edna Brimeyer states, “the board is having a private meeting. We’ve included Ms. James as a courtesy. You must leave this instant. To attend one of our meetings is strictly by invite only.” Throughout her entire life, Edna has had a silver spoon lodged up her ass, so she is clueless about the short-fused lunatic she’s confronting. It would be in her best interest to shut her pie hole before she unintentionally rattles his cage. She thinks being filthy rich protects her in all situations. This isn’t one of them!