She sat back and looked up at John, who was frowning. “So we have five patients who suffered from a terminal illness and none of them died from natural causes?”
“I know. Too many to be a coincidence, right?”
“Yeah, I would say so.” John opened his mouth like he was going to say something else but stopped.
“What?” Felicia asked.
“This feels like it’s going to fall into the category of unanswerable questions, but why didn’t Greg Tolliver show up in Richard Anderson’s dreams? But that presupposes that these dreams function in a coherent, orderly fashion.”
“They actually have so far. Anyway, if there isn’t any order to them, then there’s nothing else to find out here. I think I found contact info for Greg Tolliver’s fiancée, Lynn Redbanks; her maiden name was Walsh. I was just about to call her before you came in. But maybe you should call her; it would sound more official that way.”
“Sure. What’s the number?”
Felicia read the number off to John, who immediately dialed it. A female voice answered after the third ring.
“Hi, this is Detective John Harrison, Woodside Police. I was wondering if I could speak to you for a few minutes about Greg Tolliver.”
After a brief pause, Redbanks responded, “What’s this about?” Her tone indicated a mixture of concern, skepticism, and a bit of defensiveness.
“I’ve been looking into the break-in at Stevenson Industries that took place a few days before Greg died. We’re following up on Greg and some of the other people who were being treated by a Dr. Jerry Banks. Are you aware of that incident?”
“No.” Her voice was flat.
“Greg never told mentioned it?”
“No, he didn’t. Why does it matter?”
“Dr. Banks was killed in the break-in. The research he was doing on Chapman-Bower’s Disease was destroyed. It just seems like something Greg would’ve told you.”
“Maybe he didn’t know. It wasn’t even the nineties then. Information just didn’t travel quite as fast as it does now.”
Felicia scrawled down something on a piece of paper and flashed it Harrison: ‘Side effects.’ Harrison nodded at the unnecessary prodding.
“Some of the other patients who were treated with Greg spoke of side effects. Did you see Greg experiencing any side effects?”
“What kind of side effects?”
“Could be anything out of the ordinary. Even changes in mood.”
Redbanks sighed. “Well, Greg did have bouts of nausea, headaches. I wasn’t sure if they stemmed from the illness or the treatment. Greg didn’t like talking about his health to me. I don’t think he wanted me to worry. But the last few days, he did act kind of strange. He seemed paranoid, like someone was watching or following him.”
“Did Greg display any unusual anger?”
“He was dying, Detective.” Her tone bordered on contempt. “So yeah, sometimes he had trouble keeping his emotions in check. So would you. Why does any of this matter, anyway?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I know this must be difficult for you after so many years. We’re just following some new leads in this very old case, so anything you can remember would be helpful.” He paused for a moment before asking his next question. “The accident that killed him—was there anything unusual about it? Something that didn’t add up to you?”
“The entire accident was strange. He ran into a parked propane truck that was along the side of the road making a delivery. The doctors said it wasn’t unusual for someone with Greg’s condition to lose control of certain neurological functions. So maybe it was one of those freak things.”
In a vacuum, Lynn Redbanks was correct. But she lacked the context of the other four test patients’ deaths.
“These questions...what are you suggesting? Are you saying that Greg’s death wasn’t accidental?” Redbanks’ tone had become even more charged.
Harrison struggled over his next question. He could inform Redbanks that the other four patients treated with Greg had all died in similar accidents. Such information might prompt Redbanks to remember other seemingly trivial details that took on new relevance given the context. But it could also unearth more memories for Redbanks—ones that would cause undue pain and distress.
“Did someone from Stevenson Industries contact you after Greg’s death?” he finally asked after deciding he had prompted Redbanks enough about the accident.
“Yes. Someone called a few days after Greg had died. He wanted Greg to come in for further testing. I told him Greg died, he asked how, and then he said ‘sorry for your loss’—or something like that—and that was the end of the call.”
“Do you remember this person’s name, ma’am?”
“No. I’m sorry. It was too long ago. Greg had just died, so I was barely listening.” For the first time, Redbanks’ voice became soft enough to hear the pain of her loss.
“I appreciate your time, ma’am. If you do think of anything else that seems important, please let me know.”
“Okay.” Redbanks hung up and John put his phone back in his pocket.
Felicia leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs Indian style in the chair. “She didn’t seem too eager to talk.”
“Not really.” John bent forward and itched his head.
“Maybe Stevenson Industries threatened her or offered her some kind of payout to keep quiet,” Felicia suggested.
“Maybe. But Patricia Oliver didn’t say anything about a payout and Redbanks didn’t really seem scared. Almost more annoyed. Like she didn’t want to remember this.”
Felicia pursed her lips. “I could see why. Like she said, it was a lifetime ago for her. She’s moved on, married someone else. Maybe deep down she even feels guilty that she moved on.”
“She did get a bit defensive when I asked about Greg’s anger. There’s definitely something more there,” John said.
Felicia spun back and forth a few times in her chair. “Like maybe he showed the tendency to move objects with his mind when he was angry?” Though Matt had shared a recording of his interview with Patricia Oliver with John and Felicia, none of them had had the opportunity to unpack her testimony about George seemingly smashing the vase without using his hands.
John ran his hands through his hair and sighed. “I feel like most people would dismiss that kind of thing—depending on how dramatic it was, of course. Most humans want to explain away stuff like that because it’s easier that way.”
“Or they wouldn’t want to broadcast it to other people,” Felicia said. “I know I didn’t, not until I found people who I thought would believe me.” She picked up the photo of George Oliver, the one used in his obituary. “So do we really believe that Jerry Banks invented a serum that did not cure a rare genetic disorder, but did give people telekinetic powers?”
John chuckled. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this, but it does kind of make sense. At least, it might create another link between Anderson’s dreams and Grace’s dreams because both involved someone with telekinesis. But it doesn’t explain how Josh Williams ended up with telekinetic abilities or who killed Banks and destroyed all the research. If Stevenson Industries killed Banks, staged the break-in, and then arranged for all the test patients to die because they wanted to cover up Banks’ illegal research, why would they go to the trouble of creating Research Division B all these years later when they had what they were looking for years ago?”
“Maybe they never knew what Banks’ serum actually did. Or maybe they never really destroyed Banks’ research, but couldn’t replicate it. Who knows.” Felicia set the photo of Anderson back down on the desk.
“But this scenario with Stevenson Industries killing off everyone still feels like a bit much, even if we think Stevenson Industries is some ruthless corporation,” John said.
“So now what?” Felicia asked.
“I guess we call the rest of the test patient families, see if we can come up with any other evidence or claims of telekinesis.”
Felicia nodded at John’s suggestion. Then she gnawed on the tip of her right index finger. “John, where do you think these dreams are coming from?” She spun her chair back to face him. “We haven’t even really asked that question.”
“That might be the hardest question to answer,” John replied, patting the top of the cubicle.
Felicia looked deep into his eyes. “You’re a religious person, right?”
John nodded.
“You think God has anything to do with this?” Felicia asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied, rubbing his temples. “I don’t know what God is doing a lot of the time. I just trust that it’s going to work out according to His plan. So I’m sure he’s involved in this somehow. We just might never know how.”
The reporter bowed her head. She had no expectations for what God might do and very little trust that any sort of coherent plan was being worked out in their midst.
Harrison’s phone started to vibrate. He looked down at the number. “Just a minute, I need to take this.” John stood up and walked away from the cubicle to a deserted alcove in the newspaper office.
“Detective Harrison,” he answered.
“This is Detective Franklin—we spoke yesterday.”
“Yes sir, I remember. Did something happen?”
“You could say that. I’m standing over his body right now. He died earlier today.”
“Whose body?”
“Our alleged domestic abuser.”
“How’d he die?”
“Blow to the head.”
“From what?”
“A streetlight.”
“Streetlight?”
“Yeah, the whole thing fell over on him. Pretty strange, huh?”
“Yeah.” John paced the perimeter of the alcove, drawing a few looks from newspaper employees passing by.
“You still think your suspect might be involved?” Franklin’s voice sounded uncertain.
“He could be. Why, do you have a lead?”
“Maybe. We found a motel key card next to the body. It’s possible that our favorite domestic abuse suspect was staying there. But maybe it’s this Williams guy. You said he was on the move, right?”
“Yeah, he is.”
Franklin cleared his throat. “On any other day, if this kind of thing happened, we’d just shrug it off and think about what a funny world this is. But given our conversation the other day and the unusual circumstances of this death, I’m at least open to other possibilities. You want to come with me and see if your suspect is at the motel?”
“Yeah. Where should I meet you?” John headed for the door, bypassing Felicia so he didn’t need to make a lengthy explanation for his exit. He could fill her in en route.
“Warwick Motor Inn.”
“Okay, I’ll be there in half an hour.”
Getting a line on Williams was a fortunate break. But executing the plan he had worked out with Matt to take down Williams and bring him in would be a little difficult with Detective Franklin present. Especially since parts of their plan weren’t exactly legal.
48
Grace’s head shot up when she woke, just as it had done every other night she had one of the dreams. The disruptive visions always disoriented her. That morning, she awoke in the living room with Matt Harrison reclining on the sofa behind her. Gradually, the memories of seeking him out and resting against his sturdy frame trickled back.
Grace’s abrupt motion jerked Matt out of his own slumber. He rubbed his eyes as he struggled to regain his own bearings.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
She turned her eyes away from him toward the bedroom. Without answering, she stood up and walked down the short hallway to her room. Inside, she grabbed her sketchbook and sat down on the bed. Grace feared losing pieces of the dream if she didn’t transcribe its details immediately. Not the faces, because those would be burned into her memory forever, just as Richard Anderson could still recognize the people he dreamed about nearly three decades earlier. But Grace worried that the more subtle details of her dream—the textures and scenes of the backdrop—would slip away along with any ability to figure out where her dreams were pointing them.
Matt had followed her and now stood on the threshold of her bedroom. He watched as she drew. “I take it you had another dream?” he asked.
She ignored his obvious question and continued her work. There were too many details to remember for idle chit-chat. Too many faces, this time. She filled in the blank ovals she’d composed two days ago, making her faceless mannequins into people. Leaning closer to her work, she sketched the smallest features she could recall: the shape of noses, the definition of cheekbones, and the arcs of hairlines. She could have omitted some of the faces. There were too many to identify, dozens even. Some she saw better than others. One face she saved for last because she knew that one the best. For the time being, she moved onto the background of the dream.
While Grace worked at her drawing, Matt paced up and down the corridor, waiting for the unveiling. After a few cycles of fruitless movement, he disappeared from her view and she heard him drop down on the couch.
Grace closed her eyes and focused in on the background. It almost seemed like some sort of vacuum, like the kind used to depict shapeless and formless dimensions. But no, there was light. Not the ethereal white light of the afterlife, but something harsher, more fluorescent—the kind of lighting used in schools, libraries, and municipal buildings. That was hard to capture with pencil and paper. The walls were white, too, and the floor a kind of beige. She did what she could to represent these facts and then moved to the final face.
As Grace sketched this last person, she felt a sense of destiny and closure. This seemed to be what all the dreams had been leading up to and what would finally bring a stop to them. She sketched a slender oval and then drew in the angular cheekbones. After penciling in the straight hair that dropped just below the woman’s shoulders, Grace moved onto the eyes. These eyes were hollow. Not necessarily sad, but resigned, maybe even a little relieved. And they seemed as if they were staring into the face of inevitability.
Now finished, Grace held the sketch away from her eyes to get a better look. Satisfied, she walked over to Matt and held out the notepad to him. He took it from her and examined it. His eyes widened. Grace could tell he had seen past the smaller masculine faces to the right of Jack Walton. She might as well have left them off completely because his troubled expression indicated the only face that mattered to him in the drawing belonged to the woman on the left.
He looked up at Grace. “Is this...you?”
She nodded. The sketches might not have one hundred percent represented reality, but Matt recognized the woman in the drawing, even if Grace hadn’t colored in her auburn hair.
“Does this mean you’re going to die?”
She shrugged and crossed her arms. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
Matt dropped the sketch pad to his lap and covered his mouth with his hand. He glanced off to the right, in the direction of the window. Then he stood up.
“We have to get you out of here,” he said. “I’m going to get you as far away from Stevenson Industries as possible.”
Grace shook her head. “No Matt, you can’t. You can’t stop this from happening.”
“Why not? Look, if the dream is right, you have to be next to Jack Walton for this to happen. If you’re not next to Jack Walton, you can’t die. This is the easiest solution in the world.”
“No. It’s inevitable. It’s going to happen.” She laid her hand on his shoulder, but he walked away.
Matt’s face scrunched up in frustration. “You’re not making sense, Grace. You wanted to warn Jack Walton. Now, he wouldn’t change course because he’s too stubborn, and he’s meddling with forces outside of his control. So was Thomas Wilson-”
“What about George Oliver? Was he meddling with forces outside of his control? And what about all those other men in the picture with him that Richard Anders
on saw? It wasn’t their fault. They just wanted to get better.”
“Grace, you hired me to stop these dreams from coming true. Maybe we couldn’t convince Jack Walton or stop what was going to happen to him, but we can save you.” After Matt uttered that last phrase, he froze. “Unless you don’t want to be saved.” He stared into Grace’s eyes, the same ones she had just drawn. She was sure they looked the same now as they did in her dream. “You want to die, don’t you?”
Grace broke away from his gaze; she couldn’t bear to hold it any longer. He took two steps toward her and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.
“I can’t tell you how to look at the world right now because I know depression colors everything you see. But I’m asking you to believe that this is something that can pass. You won’t always see the world like this.”
She looked away from his eyes. “I’m sorry. I just want to sleep and not dream anymore. That’s all.”
“Grace, please-”
His phone rang, cutting him off in mid-sentence. He glanced at the number then back at Grace. “Sorry, just a minute. It’s my brother.” He stepped away from Grace. “Hey, we have a problem. What? Where? Now? Yeah, I got it; it’s in the trunk.” As Matt fired back these abrupt replies, he looked back at Grace. “Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Matt hung up and reentered Grace’s personal space. “I’m sorry, I have to go. John got a lead on Josh Williams. If we can stop him, then maybe we can stop any of your dreams from coming true.”
She rocked back and forth on her feet. “What if it’s like Jack Walton said; what if by trying to stop something from happening, you set that event into motion?”
Matt retrieved his coat from the back of the couch, then knelt down to slip on his shoes which were next to the door. “It’s a chance we’ll have to take. I can’t stand by and do nothing, Grace.”
“Why not? You don’t really know me. I’m just a depressed woman to you. Maybe you think I’m pretty, but you can’t have any other reason to try to help me.” She still wouldn’t look at him.
Matt rose to his feet and put his hands back on her shoulders. “That’s not true. Look, I can’t take away your depression, but I can stand by your side. But you have to hang on, okay?” Although Grace didn’t nod or respond in any other positive fashion, Matt seemed to conclude she would heed his directions. He gathered her in an impromptu embrace. “Just don’t go anywhere right now,” he said softly, his arms wrapped around her.
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