The Man He Needs

by Sarah Masters

  “Were you crazy?” he asked, directing his flashlight beam at the corpse’s face. “Or were you brought here?”

  Oliver swept an arc of light over the grass either side of the body. Yes, there they were in a patch of exposed mud, the footprints of the victim and also someone else. A larger size, undoubtedly those of a man. And it was always a man, wasn’t it? At least it had been in Oliver’s experience. The grass was trampled so much in places it had been ripped from the ground. The footprints, prominent in a large muddy swathe, were dotted about, but a mass of them, like two people had stood together and tussled, dominated one area.

  “So you put up a fight.” Oliver hunkered down and studied the woman’s nails. Pristine, acrylic, long. “But it seems you didn’t get to scratch him. That’s a bit of a shit, isn’t it?” He winced at his use of language. “I really ought to curb it, but fuck, it just pops out. See?”

  Female laughter echoed inside Oliver’s head, delicate and sweet. At last, she’d made contact. He’d been waiting for it, had thought the victim would never break through again, but there she was, giggling.

  “What kept you?” Oliver laughed gently, saddened that once again he’d be speaking to someone he’d never get to meet in life. Someone who would never use her body to help express herself. Someone who had been snuffed out just because another human being had decided that would be so. “Fucking arsehole.”

  The giggle came again, then a sigh. Then a sob.

  Shit.

  “You see yourself here, right?”

  Why did he insist on stating the obvious? Oliver sensed her spirit had just caught up with the recent events. That she’d realised she was dead, left in a field for someone to find or for a wild animal to feast on. Or to rot, never to be seen again, unless you counted bones. Not something anyone envisaged for themselves at the best of times, but there it was. A bold, cold fact of life. Sometimes people got offed and didn’t get a decent burial.

  “Sorry if you heard my thoughts there. I really need to work on my empathy skills. Work on keeping you out when I’m thinking shit like that.” Oliver switched off his flashlight, suddenly unable to look at the body now her spirit was with him. It wasn’t just a body anymore but a person, one who was in his mind and would hopefully help him track the killer. “Listen, you can either stay here or find someplace else to be, but if you reach out, I’ll be listening. If you want me to help, I can. It’s just that…” He glanced at the horizon, obscured by a line of gnarly, leafless trees. “I have to call this in so the cops can get you out of this shitty place. Your body, I mean. You? You’re free to go wherever you want, but like I said, if you need me, just reach out.”

  Oliver slid his flashlight in his jeans back pocket. Fuck, what he’d give to be normal, to have his mind to himself.

  “Not gonna happen.”

  He’d burn his Nikes, buy a new pair. As usual. He hated wearing them again once they’d been worn to a scene.

  This damn gig was getting expensive.

  With another sigh, he walked across the grass towards his car parked on a verge beside the trees that lined the edge of the field. He’d ring the cops—Detective Langham to be exact—speak with him, then go home, get rid of his shoes, shower, maybe catch a bit more sleep. Or maybe, if he was lucky, the dead woman would contact him and they could get to the real work of finding the son of a bitch who had done this.

  In his car, he gunned the engine then switched the heat on, letting the vehicle idle along with his thoughts. Daylight might be imminent, but shit, he had to take a moment to compartmentalise what he’d seen, file away the insignificant and concentrate on the important. The woman had struggled so she had known she was in trouble. Did she know her killer? Oliver cursed. He hadn’t thought to fully check the area, to see if there were two tracks side by side in the grass leading up to the final resting place, or whether there was just one. Was she followed or with someone? Had she willingly walked with this guy or been forced?

  “This is where you come in, love,” he muttered, cocking his head, awaiting a response. Nothing. “All right, so you don’t want to talk right now, I’m cool with that. You just… Yeah, you just take your sweet damn time. Like we have it to waste.”

  Oliver clamped his lips closed and shielded his thoughts. The woman didn’t need to know Oliver was pissed off as hell at his lack of attention to detail, that he’d failed the woman already with his incompetence. He’d been doing this long enough to know the drill by now. Scope the damn area and find out as much as he could without disturbing the body. Get clues, anything to help him find the sick shit who had done this. Still, she’d made contact again, that was the main thing, and he’d have to be content with that.

  He glanced at the rear-view mirror and frowned. Was that another vehicle back there? Turning in his seat, he stared out of the back window. It was hard to tell whether it was a car or just a dark mound, a part of the verge. He hadn’t taken any notice when he’d arrived, hadn’t bloody concentrated again. What was up with him tonight? Okay, he hadn’t had much sleep, but usually he was a damn sight more alert when called out like this.

  A light flickered, right about where a windshield would be, and Oliver’s stomach muscles bunched. Was that an interior light going on then off? Had someone struck a match or lighter? He waited, breath held, for the light to appear again. His car engine hummed, the sound of it making him want to get the fuck out of there and back home. If someone was out there, he didn’t fancy meeting with them. No. He alerted the police and helped them track the killer. He didn’t interact with the insane motherfuckers—not if he could help it.

  “But it doesn’t always work out like that, does it?”

  No, it didn’t, but he sure as shit wasn’t going to encourage coming face to face with someone who had just killed. Or anyone in this area in the middle of the night. Besides, it wasn’t a car. The shape wasn’t right. It was a hill. Or something.

  A shiver went down his back and the hairs on his neck stood on end.

  “Who are you trying to kid? Someone’s back there. Someone saw you.”

  He gritted his teeth and pulled out his phone. Seemed he did this too often lately. The calls from the dead were becoming more frequent, and as soon as one case was solved and closed another came along. He dialled a number he knew by heart and waited for the pick-up.

  “Langham.”

  The strong male voice flipped his stomach.

  “Uh, it’s me.”

  A sigh, then, “All right. What have you got?”

  “Dead body.”

  “Now there’s a surprise. Where?”

  “The field on the Keach Road turnoff. Female. About thirty.”

  “Right.” Another sigh. “Wait for me there.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why the hell not?” Langham was getting testy. Not a good thing.

  “Because there’s a car parked a way behind me.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Oliver! Would you just stop visiting the damn sites? Just ring me when you get the information.”

  “I can’t help it. I have to visit. It’s how I connect. How I get the bloody information that helps you break the case and makes you look like a damn superstar.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Backatcha. So, you coming out here or what?”

  “I’d like to say ‘or what’ but—”

  “Look, do I wait here or go home?”

  “Wait. See if the car moves.”

  “And if it does? You want me to follow it?”

  “Fuck, no! Just take the damn licence plate.”

  “Right. You staying on the line? You want some company while you get yourself out of bed?”

  “I’m already out of bed, already dressed. I’m just getting in my car.”

  “Well, aren’t you just on the fucking ball?”

  “Your language, Oliver, is disgusting.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Deal with it.” He looked in the rear-view mirror again. The light flickered once more and headl
ights burst into life. His guts twisted. “Um, Langham?”

  “What?”

  “The car’s ready to roll.”

  “Shit. I’m ten minutes away. Get the licence plate.”

  “But what if it isn’t headed my way? It’s still back there, just the headlights on. What if it goes the other way?” The car nosed onto the road. “Uh, scrub that. It’s heading towards me.”

  “Good, sit tight.”

  “No can do. I mean, it’s heading towards me. For me.”

  “Then get the hell out of there, man!”

  Oliver wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear and eased onto the rain-slicked road, headlamps on low beam, their rapiers of light cutting into the darkness. A quick glance in the mirror told him the car was gaining on him at speed. He accelerated, hoping to make it to a farmhouse standing in the distance. It had lights on, creamy squares of hominess that called to Oliver, made him want a normal life with a family that gave a shit whether he lived and breathed. His? They’d cast him out the minute he’d hit eighteen, telling him never to bring his weird arse back because he wasn’t right in the head. Yeah, well, they ought to try living like he had for as far back as he could remember. Having dead people in his bloody head, asking for help, taking him places he’d never thought he’d go. Seeing things he’d never thought he’d see. Having mad people follow him in their cars in the middle of the sodding night.

  “Don’t even go there,” he snapped, pushing his foot down on the accelerator. “Too much thought makes Oliver a cranky bastard. Being followed by a possible killer makes Oliver a frightened bastard.”

  “You talking to me, the victim, or yourself?” Langham asked.

  “Myself. Nothing unusual. Nothing to fret about.”

  “Right. Give me an update.”

  “Whoever it is…well, let’s just say I think they know I’ve seen them. They’re right up my arse. I’m heading west. Farmhouse ahead. The road bends, leads to—”

  “Crooks Lane. Yeah, I know where you are.”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you interrupting was rude?”

  “Didn’t anyone ever tell you you’re an infuriating man-bitch?”

  He laughed quietly. It helped to calm his taut nerves and adrenaline-fuelled blood. “Yeah, plenty, but never by anyone I gave a shit about.” Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that. Shit, fuck and damn. “And that was fear talking.”

  “You’re scared?”

  “Hell yeah! I’m human. It’s natural when being chased by someone. You ought to try the feeling on for size sometime. It’s a good thrill.”

  “Much as I’m enjoying this interaction, Oliver, we’ll have to continue it some other time. I’ve just turned onto Keach. Couple of minutes away. Road’s long. Uniforms will be here in a bit, but not in time to deal with this fucker. What’s going on?”

  He eyed the mirror. “The car’s right up my arse.”

  “Uncomfortable.”

  “Very fucking funny.”

  “The farmhouse?”

  “Still too far away.”

  A smack to the back of Oliver’s car had him shunting forward.

  “Shit! Shit!”

  “What? What’s happening, man?”

  “He’s bumped my tail.”

  “Well, drive faster!”

  Oliver shook his head and stomped on the accelerator, irked that, like him, Langham had a habit of stating the obvious. Maybe that was why they got along—after a fashion. He pelted down the road, creating space between his car and the other. Adrenaline flowed faster, and he coached himself calmer, only to have his nerves jangle as the car pulled across the road and sped up, riding alongside him.

  “He’s beside me, Langham.”

  “Yeah, I see that. I’m a good way back, but I see your tail lights.”

  “Well, drive faster!” he mimicked, smirking despite his fear.

  Oliver glanced sideward. The driver stared at him.

  “Um, Langham?”

  “Yep?”

  “You know I said he’d bumped my tail?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Make that a she.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. Some chick. Black hair. Either that or it’s an effeminate man.”

  “Don’t joke about it. Stranger things have happened.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  The other car suddenly slewed towards Oliver’s car, the side of it crashing into his. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and focused on the road ahead, driving faster in an attempt to get away.

  “Shit,” Langham said.

  A siren split the air, and a blue strobe of light illuminated the interior of Oliver’s car. He looked at the other driver, the woman’s face clearer now. Her hands clearer—great big hands that had no business being on a female. After checking the road ahead, Oliver stared back at the car.

  “It’s a damn mask,” Oliver said. “The driver’s wearing a damn mask and wig.”

  “Yeah, and that driver’s going to be moving pretty fast away from me any…second…now.”

  The driver didn’t. The car crashed into Oliver’s again, an almighty whack that jolted Oliver across the road and onto the verge. The uneven ground beneath his tyres made for a bumpy ride, and he struggled to control his vehicle. Panic threatened to overtake, and he fought to remain alert, on target.

  “Oliver, watch yourself.”

  “I’m trying!”

  “There’s a damn tree ahead. Move over. Now!”

  “I can’t! Can’t you see the other car’s stopping me?” Oh, fuck. Get me out of here. Please, just get me out of here safe.

  The tree loomed up ahead, and Oliver yanked the wheel, hoping to make it past the wide trunk in time. He did, but his front tyre clipped an exposed root and his car overturned, rattling his teeth and bones. His head smacked the side window, dislodging his phone, and he held back a string of curses. The car kept on rolling, and he heard Langham’s voice, tinny and distant, coming out of his phone, wherever the hell it had fallen.

  “Follow her!” Oliver shouted. “Or him. Don’t worry about me. Just go!”

  His car came to a lurching stop. Upside down. He hung, hands still on the wheel, heart beating like a bitch with a score to settle. And shit, he had a score to settle now. Not only did he have a killer to catch, but someone who had also tried to kill him—and pissed him off into the bargain.

  When his car had spun, he’d felt one of his fingers break.

  And that was enough to make him see red.

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  About the Author

  Sarah Masters is a multi-published author in three pen names writing several genres. She lives with her husband, children, and three cats in an English village. She writes full time and is also a cover artist and blog designer. In another life she was an editor. Her other pen names are Natalie Dae and Charley Oweson.

  Sarah is busy co-authoring with Jaime Samms. They have several books in mind so will be writing for a couple of years to come! She also needs to finish her M/M novel, the tale she’s dubbed The Book That Doesn’t Want To End. She’s at the last chapter but is afraid to open it in case that last chapter isn’t really the last chapter…

  Email: emmyellis@live.co.uk

  Sarah loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.totallybound.com

  Also by Sarah Masters

  Always

  Cabin Fever

  Beautiful Sunset

  Blinded: Part One

  Blinded: Part Two

  Blinded: Part Three

  Blinded: Part Four

  Blinded: Part Five

  Voices: Needing

  Voices: Wanting

  Voices: Keeping

  Voices: Aching

  Vincent: Part One

  Vincent: Part Two

  Vincent: Part Three

  Vincent: Part Four

  Vincent: Part Five

  With Jaime Samms

&nb
sp; The Dreaming: Tools of Justice

  Totally Bound Publishing