The Medium Place
Page 11
Penelope peers down. She has on black and pink high-top Sketchers. They look brand new.
“These are my favorite shoes,” she says, turning her right foot from side to side. “I accidentally ruined them with glue last year, and I was so bummed. They don’t make them anymore.”
Penelope is in her favorite shoes. Her favorite jacket. Her hair looks freshly brushed and silky smooth. The cut under her eyes is fading as well as the mud. Which means one thing, Penelope is leaving.
Crap!
I don’t want to tell her this, because I don’t want to freak her out. If anything, she deserves to transition peacefully. But I’m not giving up hope. Not yet.
“Do you remember the Dead Sea Mud Mask Wes gave you?” I ask.
She touches her forehead. "Do you think?"
I nod. “I don't think you're by a creek anymore. I think you were applying the mask when your attacker broke into your room.”
“Who the hell broke into my room?”
“Two new developments while you were in the brown. First, there’s been a suspicious white truck driving up and down your street."
“Jack mentioned that. I don't hang out with anyone who drives a white truck, if that's what you were going to ask.”
It’s exactly what I was going to ask. "Second, Tag is a fake account."
Penelope grunts. “No, he’s not."
"Hear me out, Penelope. His account has been deleted."
“No, it hasn’t. You’re just not looking right. You said you didn’t have Instagram. Remember? Do you remember when you said that?”
"It's self-explanatory, and I'm positive. The account is gone, and do you remember the tree poem he wrote?"
“I love that poem.” She puts her hand to her heart. “It’s so sweet.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how you interpreted it. But I took it as Tag is a tree, and the real man is hiding behind the iris, which is part of the eye anatomy.”
“Are you saying Tag hurt me?"
"I'm saying Tag is not Tag. He’s a guy pretending to be Tag. A guy who is on the softball team, drives a white truck, smokes, was outside your window, and tried to kill you very early this morning. I don’t know if it was premeditation or a crime of drunken passion, but he made your bed, cleaned your room, grabbed your stuff, went back to your apartment—hence the Nike shoe print, and took your art—because we all know you’d never leave it behind. Then he took your car, parked it at the train station, and hoped everyone would believe you took off. Who knows where your body was dumped or if he’s holding you hostage.”
“You figured all this out while I was gone?”
“It’s a hypothetical situation based the information I’ve recovered. Anything sound familiar?”
“Like, do I remember someone trying to kill me in my bedroom? Then the answer is no.”
“The only part of my theory I’m stuck on is the timing. Your car was out front at four in the morning, but it would make more sense if the killer went from your apartment to your dad’s house. I’m sure your dad and stepmom would have heard the noise.”
“Not necessarily. My dad snores, and Michelle sleeps with earplugs.”
Then I could be right, the killer (or attempted killer) could have snuck into Penelope’s room shortly after she arrived home. “I read once that murderers don’t typically go far to deposit a body, so chances are you’re within Fernn Valley County.”
“What the hell were you reading?”
“In Cocky Baby Daddies, the main character is a homicide detective.”
Penelope looks forward. “You’re weird.”
“There’s one more thing that I need to tell you.”
“Like what?”
“I think it’s Mike.”
“Mike what?”
“I think it’s Mike who hurt you. He’s on the softball team, we know he was in Trucker last night, you know him, and he was acting weird today.”
“Why would he catfish me?”
“Um … huh?” What’s a catfish have to do with anything? Honestly!
“Catfishing is when you go online and pretend to be someone you’re not.”
“Why is that called catfishing … you know what? Never mind. Not important. Based on the poems, I think he catfished you because he’s secretly in love with you but doesn’t think you’ll feel the same once you’ve discovered his true identity.”
“But why wouldn’t he say so? Mike Handhoff is hot now. Like, I’d be cool going out with him.”
“I don’t know. Like I said, this is all theory.”
“So where are we going?”
“We’re going to Fernn Valley. I need to find Mike and a heart-shaped tree.”
“You’re making no sense. You sure you didn’t hit your head?”
“Yes, I’m sure. I’ll explain it all once we get there. But we have to sneak in.”
“Uh … Zoe? Does the white truck have a missing front license plate?”
"Yes! Do you remember who it is?"
“No … but there's a white truck following us."
I check over my shoulder, and sure enough, there's a white truck fast approaching. I slam on the gas, which does nothing. Brian's car has the horsepower of a lawn mower.
"Uh, Zoe!" Penelope attempts to grab for the seat belt. "Zoe! The truck is going to hit us."
I change lanes. The truck changes lanes. I change back. The truck changes back.
For the record, I really suck at being followed.
I will Brian's car to go faster by muttering, "Hurry up, you stupid hunk of worthless metal," but it's no use. I'm fairly certain if I opened the hood, I'd find a row of D batteries.
The truck revs its engine and rams into the back of us. We lurch forward. I check the rearview mirror. I don't have a clear view of the person's face, but I can tell by the hands gripping the steering wheel that it's a guy. He rams me one more time. I overcorrect the wheel, and we tumble down an embankment. It happens so fast and yet so slow.
I'm screaming.
Penelope is screaming.
I scream.
She screams.
I scream.
She screams.
We both scream.
She screams.
We do this for a while until we land upside down.
What … just …
…
Ugh.
…
It takes a moment to wrap my head around what just happened.
…
Still wrapping …
…
Wrapped.
I cough and peer down or … err … up. I’m hanging upside down, and the roof is merely inches from the top of my head. The engine is making a hissing sound, and it smells like gunpowder. I take stock of all my limbs and organs: everything is here and intact.
Penelope appears outside the window, lying on her stomach and looking in. "Are you okay?"
"Not sure yet."
I unbuckle my seat belt. Stupid idea, because my head falls hard against the smashed roof. It takes some creative maneuvering, but I'm able to crawl through the hole that was once the passenger side window, coughing and gasping for air.
"I think that’s the same white truck Jack was talking about," Penelope says.
I’m lying on my back and gaze up at her. "Gee, ya think?”
"The good news is Brian won't notice the scratch anymore."
I'm not in the mood for jokes. Even if she is right. "We need to get to Fernn Valley." I crawl back though the smashed passenger window and try to pull my briefcase free, but it's wedged in the back. "Crap! I don’t see my phone either.”
"Someone will drive by soon and call the police."
I stand, my body protesting the movement, and look around. Brian’s car is about ten feet outside of Trucker County (per the Welcome to Fernn Valley sign). Great. Sheriff Vance’s jurisdiction.
“They’re looking for me, Penelope. If someone calls the cops, they’re going to take me in for questioning, if not arrest me. No one is go
ing to believe me, and you're going to die!"
Penelope flickers. "Then let's go!" She takes off running into the forest.
I abandon the wreckage and follow. My heart beats in my ears, and my lungs burn, but I can’t stop. The adrenaline pumping through my veins pushes me to go faster, further, and do so without thinking about the pain radiating down my arm and across my chest. I jump over bushes, zigzag around trees, leap over a creek. I run until I reach the edge of town, and stop to catch my breath. Which is really hard to do. It’s possible I lost a lung along the way.
“We … need … to find … out … where Mike … lives." I pause to cough, gag, and gasp. “Except … I don’t know where…. Can you go to the brown place one more time and listen, tell me if you … Penelope? Penelope?"
“I’m here!” She’s studying her hands.
“What’s … wrong?”
“I feel different.” She rolls her shoulders. “I feel lighter.” The cut and mud are gone.
“Penelope, please. Please hang on for a few more minutes. We’re so close!”
“But if I leave now, I can see my mom.”
“No! I mean, yes. But you have lots of stuff to do on earth, remember? Remember? Remember!”
She nods her head. Then poof, she’s gone.
Dammit! I fall to my knees, clutching my chest. Between the car crash and the adrenaline rush, I’m fighting to stay conscious. Every ounce of my being wants to curl up into a ball and cry, or sleep, or both. Probably both.
But Penelope needs me.
I manage to get to my feet and shuffle forward. I'm behind the Muffins’ neighborhood. I can hear a group of people gathered in the street. I check my watch. It's almost five, when the search party is to commence. Not the best time for me to be out in the open.
I continue walking on the tips of my toes, hiding in the shadow of the trees. I'm not even sure where I’m going. The train station? The trailhead? The Muffins’ house?
I stop and close my eyes, hoping the unknown spirit from earlier today will guide me. Clearing my mind, I draw in a deep breath through my nose and push it out through my mouth.
It's not working.
I don't feel anyone. This is a terrible time to be left to my own devices. I fall back against a tree and drop my hands to my knees. The truth is, with two search parties, they're likely to find Penelope before I do. Unless Mike is the killer, and he’s involved in the search. There’s no chance he’ll lead people to where Penelope is, and Sheriff Wacko-doodle is still involved.
The situation once again feels hopeless.
There’s a part of me that wants to give up. Roll over, play dead, throw in the towel, and every other synonym there is for quitting. If Penelope is dead, what’s the point of rushing? It’s too late. I was so wrapped up in saving my own hide that I didn’t do what was right for her. I should have answered the door and shown the police what I found when I was at Penelope’s apartment. Or I should have called them when I found out about Tag and the heart-shaped tree. I messed this whole thing up, so, of course, I’m crying.
I’m crying because I’m frustrated with myself, with the situation, and … no, that’s a lie. I’m crying because a twenty-one-year-old paper artist is dead because of me. Also, I’m tired. And hungry. And hurt. And scared. And lonely. And sad. I’m so incredibly sad. I’m sad because Penelope is more than likely deceased, departed, gone, and every other synonym there is for dead. At least she’s with her mom. Maybe that’s why the spirit from before isn’t here, because it was Penelope’s mother. Now she’s reunited with her daughter, and there’s no point in helping me anymore.
She’s not dead.
The thought pops into my head, as if someone whispered it into my ear. I roll upright, wiping my eyes with the backside of my hand.
There’s still time, the small voice says again. It’s the spirit from before. She’s back!
“Are you Penelope’s mother?”
I’m not. But you need to hurry.
“Where is she?”
There’s a stretch of silence, and I can feel the spirit leave. Great! How hard would it be to say, hey, Penelope is alive, and here’s the exact location of her body? Good luck.
So it turns out the helpful spirit is not so helpful after all, and she’s not Penelope’s mother either. Not that her identity matters at this moment. If she says Penelope is alive, then Penelope is alive. Which means wallowing in the depths of despair won't to anything. There’s still time!
Okay, think, Zoe. Think.
The Instagram picture of the tree was taken from someone's house because of the backyard fence. The mountains in the background means the house is pointing … I spin around in a half-circle. It would be easier if Fernn Valley weren't surrounded by mountains (hence the name valley), but I have a keen sense of direction. The picture was taken at sunset, so it was …east.
No, west.
No, east.
Ah!
Whhyy can’t I remember this?
Answer: because you haven’t eaten since breakfast, have been searching for a half dead spirit’s body all day, have been accused of murder, was threatened by the sheriff, was in a car accident, and the man you’re in love with has a girlfriend.
In short, it’s been a traumatic day. It’s a wonder I’m still standing. Now I just need to force my brain to function. East or West?
“Zoe Lane?” Comes a familiar voice, and my heart thunks into my gut. I lick my lips and turn around.
"Sheriff."
Chapter Ten
The light peeking in through the trees makes lines across the sheriff's face, and a shiver of panic cause my knees to wobble. He takes a small step forward, the leaves crunching under his shoes. "I've been looking for you, Zoe Lane."
I take a small step back. "I've been looking for Penelope."
"So have we. She never did get on or off the train. But I suspect you know that."
"I had nothing to do with her disappearance, but she is hurt, and she does need help. Did you talk to Trucker PD? Did they go to her apartment? Did they look outside the window?” I know I’m rambling, but I can’t stop. Desperation has taken over my mouth. “There are cigarettes outside on the ground. Can't you run DNA on them?"
This question sparks an all-abandoned rage within the Sheriff Vance—and I don’t know why. I can feel the fury radiating from him, and for an instant, his gaze darkens.
There’s a pause while we both decide what to do next. Then the sheriff lunges forward, grabs hold of my right wrist, and swings it behind my back. "Zoe Lane, you have the right to remain silent."
“You can’t arrest me. You have no proof I hurt Penelope!”
"Anything you say can be used against you in the court of law …" He's still spouting off my Miranda rights, not listening to me. His thoughts are black and troubled.
"I didn't do anything!" I plead with him. "We need to find Penelope before it's too late."
"If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you …" He's struggling to get the handcuffs off his belt, I suspect it’s been a long time since he’s had to use them.
Also, I’m flailing around as if my life depended on it.
Because it does.
"You're not listening to me! We're running out of time!” There’s obviously no reasoning with him, so I start screaming. "Help me! Help me! Help me!"
"If you decide to answer questions now without a lawyer …"
"Help!"
Frustrated, Sheriff Vance pushes me to the ground and places a knee in my lower back.
"Help!"
"You have the right to stop answering questions at any time." He slaps the cuff around one wrist. I kick and scream and rock from side to side. Resisting arrest is a criminal offense, but so is arresting someone without probable cause … I think.
So I continue to fight.
Yes, a three-hundred-pound man has pinned me to the ground, but his spirit is dark, and his thoughts are troubling, and Penelope is dying. I won't give up.
Sheriff Vance is still struggling to get my other wrist in the cuff, while I'm struggling to break free. I throw my head back, giving one more cry for help when I see it. Off in the distance, facing west, three streets up, on a slight hill is the heart-shaped tree.
I summon every ounce of mental and physical strength I have, but it’s not enough. Sheriff Vance is too big, too strong, and too mad. He removes his knee from the center of my back and stands. I can see his shadow, I can hear his ragged breaths, and I can feel cold metal wrapped around each of my wrists.
“I found Zoe Lane sneaking around in the forest behind the Muffins’ house. She’s in custody now.” I don’t know who he is talking to, someone on the phone since I can’t hear a response. Unless he too has the ability to speak to the dead … I turn my head to the side to check.
Nope.
He’s on the phone. “Bring the search team and dogs out here.”
I didn’t know Fernn Valley had cadaver dogs. This is good, except, “You need to find Mike Handhoff and check the house with the heart-shaped tree!”
“That’s enough out of you.” Sheriff Vance pulls me to my feet. I can see the veins pumping in his neck.
“No, it’s not!” I snap. "I know about the brown-eyed child. I know about the woman in blue who took him away. I know you carry anger, resentment, and that you have a dark spirit. I know all this because I am a medium. I can feel your anger, and I can read your thoughts. I knew Penelope was in trouble because her spirit told me so!”
There’s a flash of terror on Sheriff Vance’s face, and he drops his phone.
“And if you’re not going to find her, I will!” I take off west, which is hard, being that my hands are cuffed behind my back.
I can hear the sheriff chasing after me, yelling for me to stop. I may not be the athletic type, but I don't have a beer belly. This race is in my favor.
I cut between two houses and through someone’s fenceless yard. An angry dog lets out a series of ferocious barks, testing the strength of the chain holding him back, as I round the corner. I swerve to get out of his way and keep running.