So I'm perusing the rather skimpy employment section of the classifieds, realizing that January isn't exactly the best time to be looking for part-time work. I jump when my cell phone rings, probably because it so seldom does these days. But that's mostly because I use it primarily for things related to Ebony and the local police department, although Olivia occasionally calls me on it when she can't get me on the landline. This morning Ebony's on the other end. I'm surprised at how happy I am to hear her voice.
“How's it going?” she asks in an offhanded manner.
Okay. How about you?”
“I'm doing well. Had a nice break over the holidays. Now I'm back at work, and things are fairly quiet here.”
“I guess that's good, huh?”
“In some ways, it is.”
I can't think of anything to say now. And despite being glad to hear from her, I suddenly almost feel like crying.
“Well, I hadn't heard from you in a while, Samantha, and I sort of wondered if anything new is developing for you. Anything you want to talk about.
It sounds like she's fishing, like she thinks I've been having some incredible crime-solving dreams and have been holding back on her. Yeah, right.
I force a pathetic laugh. “Nothing new here. Just finished finals week, and it's a no-school day. The truth is, I'm just sitting around in my pj's reading the paper.”
“And you're really doing okay, Samantha?”
“I guess so…”
“You sound a little down.”
“Well, I suppose I'm kinda worried about something.”
“Want to talk?”
Do I want to talk? I'm not sure. What would I even say?
“Hey, got any plans for lunch?”
I sort of laugh. “Not really.”
“How about if I take you to Rosie's?”
“Sounds good.”
“Great. There's something I want to discuss with you.”
“Cool.”
A couple hours later, we're sitting at Rosie's, our lunch is history, and Ebony is telling me about a cold case she's working on. Apparently there has been a renewed interest in a young man who died from a gunshot wound to the head several years ago.
“His name was Peter Clark,” she tells me. “At the time it seemed pretty cut-and-dried. Everyone assumed it was a suicide—there was a note and the wound appeared self-inflicted. But some new evidence has surfaced that suggests possible foul play” Then she goes on to tell me that Peter's mother suspects that someone murdered her son. And while this is kind of interesting in a very sad way, I'm confused.
“I'm not sure why you're telling me this,” I finally say.
She looks uncomfortable now. “Well, I was hoping you might be able to help us.”
“How?”
“Well, I thought if you looked at some photos and things…maybe you'd get a message from—”
“Ebony,” I say a bit harshly, “you know that I'm not a medium. I don't connect with the dead and hear their—”
“I know,” she says quickly, “But I thought if you were thinking about this boy, his circumstances and everything, maybe God would want to use you—to show you something.”
“Usually the dreams and visions come as God gives them,” I point out, thinking that maybe I should be speaking in the past tense since God hasn't given any for weeks now. “I can't just force them to come.”
She nods. “I know… I shouldn't have asked.” ‘ Now I feel mean, like I've hurt her feelings. And then I think of all she's done for me, and I feel guilty.
“I'm sorry,” I say. “To be honest, I don't really know how this gift works. I guess I shouldn't be so quick to say that God couldn't help me if I looked at some photos or things.” I force a smile. “Anyway, it's probably worth a try.”
Ebony looks relieved. “It's not like we can force God's hand.”
I consider telling her my worries about God having removed His hand, but then maybe this is a turning point. Maybe God brought me to Ebony's mind because He is up to something. Anyway, I hope so!
As Ebony drives us to the police station, I am unexpectedly excited, sort of like something good is about to happen to me. And okay, I'm torn because I also feel really guilty for feeling like this. I mean, how can I be happy about the prospect of learning more about some guy's death? Whether it was suicide or murder or whatever, it's still extremely sad, and there must be a family somewhere that is probably still mourning the loss of their loved one. Not unlike how I feel when I consider how my own dad was murdered while working on the police force about five years ago.
And so, as Ebony parks in the employee parking area, I decide I'm definitely not happy about this. I'm simply enthusiastic over the prospect of being used by God again, to think that I might be a tool in the possible resolution of what could turn out to be a murder case.
I really want to make myself totally available to God today. I pray silently a§ we walk up to the back door of city hall. Once again, I tell God that I'm here for Him. I'm ready and available for whatever He'd like me to do. I ask Him to help me tune in to His heart and His Spirit and to use me however He sees fit.
Ebony leads me downstairs to the crime lab, and soon we are looking through a cardboard box of “clues.” Even though things are sealed in Ziploc bags, I have this very eerie feeling as I stare at them. To be honest, I feel like an intruder, like a voyeur who's peeking into private things, at personal items that I have no right to view.
“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask Ebony, my voice shaking just slightly.
“As long as you're okay.”
I pick up a plastic sealed package of what I'm guessing was once a pale blue hand towel, now stained mostly brownish-red with dried blood. And suddenly I feel sick to my stomach.
“I need some air,” I tell Ebony. She follows me back out of the stuffy lab, and I lean against the wall and attempt to calm my insides.
“Are you all right, Samantha?” She puts a steadying hand on my shoulder.
I nod and take in a deep breath. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea.”
“Maybe not. Evidence can be pretty grisly.”
“I hate to be such a baby. I mean, I saw some gnarly things in my dreams and visions when God was leading us to find Kayla. But somehow seeing these real things, up close like that, the dried blood and all…well, it's a little overwhelming.”
“Trust me, you shouldn't feel bad. I've seen grown men come unglued when looking at various pieces of evidence or at a crime scene. That old saying The bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ is really true.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Don't be sorry…” She pushes her bangs away from her forehead. “How about photos? Do you think that would help?”
I give her an uncertain look as I imagine reviewing some gruesome crime scene photos of a dead kid on the floor. “I—uh—”
“I mean photos of Peter when he was still alive, Samantha.”
Oh. Well, sure.”
Ebony gets me a glass of water, and we go up to her office, where Peter's file is already on her desk. She peruses through it and finally produces a couple of color photos. Just random shots, it seems. One by a lake and one in front of what I'm guessing was his parents’ Christmas tree. Sad. Peter Clark was a nice-looking guy with straight dark brown hair and what appear to be blue eyes. Not movie star handsome, but not a loser either. He does have what seems a sincere smile, and it makes me sad to think this guy is dead.
“How old was he when he died?”
“Eighteen.” She hands me another photo. This one looks like a senior picture. He's standing in front of a tree, arms casually folded across his chest, smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world. “He died just a few weeks before his graduation.”
“That's so sad.”
“His family agreed that he hadn't been himself the month or two before he died. His mother chalked it up to pregraduation stress. But we recently learned that he might have been dabbling in drugs as well.”
“Too bad.” I study that sincere smile. What is it that makes some kids gravitate toward drugs? If I only had this photo to go by, I would've guessed that this was a guy who knew better. But then I could've said the same thing about my own brother. You just never know.
“A suicide note was sent to the family by way of a website Peter belonged to. He prearranged to have the note sent through e-mail, if you can imagine that.”
“E-mail? How impersonal. But wouldn't it have arrived before Peter killed himself? Why didn't the family do something to prevent it?”
“It was all set up by Peter through this suicide website so it would arrive after his death.”
“A suicide website?”
Ebony nods. “I know it sounds bizarre, not to mention gruesome. But there are sites that actually assist those who want to end their own lives.”
“Assist them?” I am stunned. “How?”
“Oh, by giving information, handling suicide notes through e-mail so that they're sent after the fact, as in Peter's case. It's all very carefully set up, everything you need to know to check out.” Ebony makes a disgusted sigh. “This wonderful age of information just keeps getting scarier and scarier.”
“I guess.” I hand her back the photo. What am I doing here? Why do I think I can possibly assist Ebony with solving this crime? Well, if it was a crime, which is beginning to sound more and more unlikely.
“Sorry to sound so hopeless,” she says. “But sometimes I just get angry.”
“I understand. But like I keep telling you and everyone, I'm not a medium, Ebony. I'm really not sure how I can help…”
“I know. I just thought it couldn't hurt to try.”
“And like you know, God works in His own ways…His own timing. I don't control Him or His messages.” I want to add, “And lately He doesn't seem to be speaking to me anyway,” but I don't. I can't bear to say those words.
“I realize that. But He also tells us to ask Him. The Bible says we have not because we ask not. So I thought I'd just ask.” She smiles. “Can't hurt, can it?”
“I guess not. But still, I don't totally get this. Why is Peter's case suddenly being reopened? It sounds like a clear-cut suicide to me.”
“It did to everyone else too. Back when it happened. But now we've learned some things that cast a shadow of doubt over it. Consequently, we promised the mother we'd look into it again.”
“What kinds of things?”
“Well, for one thing, there's that bit about drugs. No one even suspected that Peter was involved with drugs.”
“But couldn't that explain why he killed himself?”
“Definitely. But according to his mom, there's something about Peter's good friend Brett Carnes that doesn't quite add up.”
“What's that?”
“Well, it turns out he was involved in drugs too.”
“Big surprise there.”
“Yes, I know. But apparently he continues to be quite heavily involved—it seems he's actually been selling meth, for years now according to our source.”
“Who's your source?”
“Peter's old girlfriend, Faith Mitchell.”
Oh.”
“She e-mailed Peter's family around Christmas, coming forward with some information that could change everything.”
“What made her come forward?”
“I guess she was into drugs too. According to Faith's note—it was sort of a confessional—she got hooked before Peter ever tried anything. Brett was her supplier. Faith had felt guilty for years, assuming she was the reason Peter gave in and tried drugs and eventually killed himself.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“But it seems she changed her thinking. In her letter, she said that she wasn't really certain that Peter had actually used at all, claiming they'd never done it together, and she'd never seen him do it. Brett had told her Peter was using, and she simply believed him.”
“Where's this Brett dude now?”
“We're not sure. Last we could track him, he was living in a small town in eastern Oregon, but he's not there now.”
“So how do you know that Faith is reliable? I mean why, after all these years, has she suddenly decided to tell Peter's parents this?”
“In her letter, Faith said she'd gone through rehab and has been clean for several years now. She recently got married and is expecting their first child. She wanted to leave all this behind her, but it seems her conscience got to her. That's why she e-mailed Peter's parents telling them that she had a strong feeling Peter didn't kill himself. She said she couldn't Rrove anything, but she felt sure that Brett Carnes was involved somehow.”
“Wow, that's quite an accusation.”
Ebony nodded. “And quite difficult to prove.”
“Where is Faith living now?”
“We don't know. She wants to remain anonymous. Even the e-mail was sent from an address that no longer exists.”
“Well, if what she's saying is true, you can't blame her,” I point out. “I mean, if I was involved with something that gnarly then cleaned up my act and was living a decent life, I'd want to leave it all behind too.”
“Plus, being pregnant, she might be concerned for her safety if Peter's death really was a murder.”
I sigh and shake my head. “Poor Faith.”
“So, we really don't have much to go on,” says Ebony. “Peter's untimely death, with physical evidence that all points to a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Faith's mysterious e-mail. A missing friend with a reputation in this town for dealing drugs. And the big question—did Peter really kill himself? Or was foul play involved?”
“But you mentioned that suicide website. Why would Peter get caught up in something like that unless he was really looking for a way out? And what about the suicide note?”
She nods. “Yes, lots of questions…not many answers.”
“Do you think it's possible Faith has an ax to grind with Brett, that she might've written the e-mail hoping to get him in trouble?”
“The thought occurred to me. But according to what we can find, Faith Mitchell left town shortly after Peter's death. Brett didn't. In fact, he remained involved with the Clark family. He even befriended Peter's younger brother, Cody Plus if Faith's still in contact with Brett and wants to get him in trouble, why wouldn't she give Peter's parents information regarding Brett's whereabouts?”
“I suppose you're right.”
“Would you be willing to come out to Peter's house with me this afternoon?”
I shrug. “Okay. But, like I said, I'm not sure it'll do any good.”
“I know. And it's not that I expect anything. But I'm just doing the asking thing. After hitting nothing but dead-ends, I've been asking God to show me the answers. And naturally, that made me think of you.”
Peter's family's house is in a slightly run-down neighborhood of older homes. Mostly split-levels with yards that could use some TLC. Not impressive. I wait as Ebony knocks on a beat-up door in need of paint. In fact, the whole house looks like it has seen better days. Or maybe it's just sad. A worn-out-looking middle-aged woman with mousy brown hair answers the door, and when she sees that it's Ebony, a trace of hope flickers across her faded blue eyes.
“Have you discovered something new?” she asks.
“We're still working on it,” Ebony assures her, introducing me. “Samantha has helped me on other unusual cases. She has a gift for things like this.”
Mrs. Clark looks curious, but thankfully doesn't press me with questions. “I just want to find out the truth,” she says to me. “I feel like I can't rest until I know what really happened—why it happened.”
“I understand.”
“Samantha's father died tragically too,” says Ebony. “She knows what it's like to lose someone dear.”
Mrs. Clark pats my arm. “I'm sorry for your loss.”
“I hope I can be of help,” I say, feeling totally helpless.
“Do you mind if we go down to the basement?�
� asks Ebony.
“Go right ahead.” Mrs. Clark nods toward a door near the kitchen. “But I won't go down there…I can't.”
“That's okay,” says Ebony. “I don't blame you.”
A preteen boy looks up from where he's using a PlayStation that's connected to the TV in the family room. “Are you the policewoman?” he asks Ebony in a flat-sounding voice that doesn't seem to match his inquisitive blue eyes.
“I am.”
“This is Cody,” says Mrs. Clark. “Peter's younger brother. There's no school today.”
We introduce ourselves, and I can't help but ask about the game he's playing since it's the same one my brother, Zach, used to play—until Mom discovered how violent it was and banned it from our home. “Is that Killer7T
He looks somewhat surprised, then nods. “Do you play it too?”
“It's too violent for me,” I say, hoping his mom will take a hint. I can't believe she lets this kid play a game that's all about murder and killing, especially in light of his brother's tragic death. But despite my comment, she seems totally oblivious.
As we go down the steep wooden stairs to the basement, Ebony tells me that Peter died down here. “I'm surprised his family continued living here,” she says in a hushed tone, although I'm sure Mrs. Clark can't hear us. “But I suppose Mrs. Clark had no choice since their marriage broke up shortly after Peter's death. Suicide can be hard on everyone.”
“They got divorced because of Peter?”
“I don't know all the details. I just know that when someone takes his own life, everyone tends to feel guilty.”
I remember how guilt ridden I was when my dad died. I blamed myself for not believing the dream God had given me—for not warning Dad—not that it would have changed anything. Still, it took nne years to get over it. So, in a way, I can understand how the Clarks might be feeling now. So sad.
I look around a frumpy room, which has bad wood paneling and a really pathetic plaid couch. “This kind of reminds me of That 70s Show,” I tell her. “Only in a Stephen King sort of way.”
“I know what you mean.” Ebony goes over and stands next to a coffee table that has fake wagon wheels for legs. “But Peter and his friends liked hanging down here. There used to be an old TV and VCR over in that corner. But I guess they moved that out.” She looks around. “Everything else is pretty much the same.”
Beyond Reach Page 3