Foreteller

by Anne McAneny

  If Kyra hadn’t changed much—and really, who did?—she would receive the message and go to great pains not to open it. She would return, however, to view the subject line and sender name several times, her insatiable curiosity baiting her. Perhaps she’d even forward it for investigation to a computer expert who could decipher the contents of the message without actually opening it.

  And all this, Cesar thought as he smiled to himself, would be known to him immediately.

  Chapter 30

  Louisa, Virginia

  Zoey listened to the ringing of Detective Farnham’s cell phone as she pulled into the motel down the road from the Watkins Senior Center. It was her third time trying to connect. This time, he answered.

  “Yeah? Farnham here,” said a voice in such an angry tone that it sent a bolt of fear through Zoey.

  “Hi, Farnham, it’s Zoey Kincaid. You okay?”

  “No. Are you?”

  “No. But I doubt we’re suffering for the same reasons.”

  “We will be in a minute.”

  Zoey’s heart lurched. “What is it?”

  “They’ve let the rapist go.”

  It took Zoey a full five seconds to internalize the words. She stared at the Vacancy light spluttering on and off above the motel, in seeming rhythm with the wind. “How did that happen?”

  “I’m sorry. We tried everything we could from this end. It’s the red tape, the legal loopholes, and the activists. As if their platform is to return scum to the streets as soon as possible.”

  “What about the new attempted rape he was charged with?”

  “Case fell through. Mishandling of evidence. Got contaminated by some mugger.”

  Zoey knew all the loopholes from a couple cases in which she’d testified, and from hearing Jake bemoan the legal system, but she couldn’t let her mother’s killer go as easily as the cops might. “The physical evidence might be compromised, but what about the victim’s testimony?”

  “Bit of a One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest thing going on there. This whole deal has freaked her out.”

  “Rape would freak anyone out, but—”

  “There’s something I didn’t tell you earlier. About the recent case.”

  Zoey waited. She already had experience with Farnham when he had unpleasant news to deliver, so she gave him some space.

  “I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you,” he finally said, “but screw it. You deserve to know. Thing is, it’s going to strike you as really weird.”

  Zoey snorted. “Try me.”

  “The victim’s name is Elena Baxter. Your mother—somehow—this is beyond bizarre—but your mother sent Elena Baxter a letter warning her about the rape. It was written when Elena was just a baby. It was mailed by your mother’s lawyer about a month ago.”

  Two points to Farnham. He had indeed come up with something really weird. “Do you have any more details?”

  “Not a lot, but your mother somehow knew this monster would try to rape this woman, years later, and that it would happen shortly after the woman got married. The victim—who, remember, wasn’t a victim yet—got the letter a few days after she got married. It freaked her out, so she kept it to herself, but something in it made her believe.”

  “My mother could be very convincing, I’ve learned.”

  “Anyway, this Elena Baxter went out after getting the letter, on her own, and bought a twenty-two caliber gun, you know, something small enough to fit in a fanny pack. Sure enough, a few weeks later, Corbin Black follows her and corners her in this little tunnel that goes under a creek in Clover Park, same place where your mom was, uh—”

  “Got it.”

  “So Elena Baxter gets a shot off during the struggle. Misses the scumbag, unfortunately. Oh geez, is that rude, considering—”

  “Please, Farnham! He’s not my father, even if I share his DNA. I want him dead as much as you do.” The sentiment surprised Zoey as it left her mouth. She, unlike Jake, did not believe in capital punishment; maybe because she’d studied so much extinction from the past, she placed a high value on life while it could be lived. But she’d meant what she said.

  Farnham continued. “Because of details in the letter, Elena provided a good description, almost like she knew what to look for. They tracked down Corbin Black, and had planned to match his DNA to some hairs and other trace evidence on her clothing—”

  “But it got contaminated.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There’s no other evidence? Her testimony? Blood in the tunnel? Skin under the fingernails? Anything that wasn’t included with the contaminated stuff?”

  “That’s where the cuckoo’s nest comes in. Elena’s now in a mental ward. According to the detective down there, her husband lost it when he found out about the letter from your mother. Accused her of wanting to be attacked or something, and he’s pissed off that she bought a gun without telling him. The guy’s some rich hotshot worried about his family’s reputation. Real controlling son of a bitch. Told his wife she brought this on herself by buying a gun, tempting fate, and being out alone.”

  Zoey understood how hard it must have been for Elena Baxter to accept a letter from a stranger predicting her future—and how hard it would have been to ignore. Heck, Zoey still had trouble accepting her letter, and it had come from her own mother.

  Zoey surmised how the letter had come about, and it didn’t make her happy. While being raped, her poor mother must have experienced a foretelling of the assailant raping someone else. She’d seen his future. Did that make her mother’s trauma twice as horrific—or had the foretelling served to block out what was happening to her? Zoey slumped back in her car seat as she absorbed this new information.

  “Farnham, what does all this mean?”

  “For now, you don’t have to worry. I’ve taken it upon myself to hire a guy to follow Corbin Black 24/7, at least for a short time, until we can sort this out.”

  “You mean until you can make an arrest when the DNA comparison comes back?”

  “Um, hopefully, and…”

  A long hesitation followed. Zoey thought maybe she’d lost the connection, but she became aware of the background noise of the bustling Philadelphia police department, so she knew Farnham was still there.

  “Zoey,” he finally said, “he knows your name and address.”

  Zoey’s overloaded mind cranked to a stop. Surely, she’d misunderstood. She shook her head, hard, to clear it. “I’m confused. Corbin Black knows who I am?”

  “He knows who you are ‘cause his lawyer’s a prick—pardon my French—and we have idiots on staff here. As you know, you’re the only link right now to him being arrested again.”

  “And you think he’s coming after me? After the source? Does he realize my DNA is the evidence, not necessarily me?”

  “You’re a strong link to an otherwise weak case. To be honest, the case will probably dry up without a champion to push it through. Black is smart enough to figure that out if he’s managed to stay free all these years.”

  Zoey appreciated the honesty. “Well, I have some news for you, Farnham. Corbin Black murdered my mother.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “The injury during the rape led to her stroke. If we can prove the rape, we may be able to get him on murder. So he’s right to be after me, because I’m damn determined.” Then Zoey sighed, all of her recently learned knowledge taking its toll. “On the other hand, all these details may not matter anymore.”

  “What details? What are you talking about?”

  “I’m afraid all these events are scenes in a much larger script, and we’re just playing our parts, Detective.”

  “Hold on, now, Zoey. You’ve got to hang in there. Don’t start talking crazy on me.”

  Zoey appreciated the fatherly tone, but no longer trusted herself to distinguish crazy from sane. “You know what, Farnham? You’re doing a heckuva job playing your part, so keep it up. And keep your private-eye guy on Black 24/7, okay? It’s all part o
f the plan. We’ll see how it plays out.”

  “Nothing’s written in stone, Zoey.” Farnham’s voice held both urgency and concern. “We still have a hand in how this turns out. Listen, you said you were in Virginia. I think it’s time you came home, where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “I’m driving home tomorrow, but Black thinks I’m in Philadelphia, right? Maybe I’m safer here, far from the Schuylkill River.”

  “The Schuylkill? What does the Schuylkill have to… ? Isn’t that where your father… ? Listen, this may all be too much for you. You’re not thinking about—”

  “Suicide?” Zoey almost laughed. “No, Detective. Quite the opposite. I’m trying to save my ass, pardon my French.”

  “You’re losing me here.”

  On impulse, Zoey flipped open her laptop, determined to eke out its last bit of battery power. She clicked on her email and opened her inbox. There it was. The message from Cesar. “Speaking of people gathering at the Schuylkill—”

  “Were we?” Farnham asked.

  “You said you could help me with this message from my college stalker.”

  “Yeah, of course. We’ve got a guy. Works down the hall. Computer whiz, computer anything. The guy practically glows. He’ll tell you what you need to know about that message without disturbing so much as a nanoparticle of it. Can you forward it without opening it?”

  “Absolutely. And I’m very impressed with your nanoparticle reference.”

  “Cops ain’t such dolts, eh?”

  “I’ll have to change my entire belief system,” she said. It felt good to be able to lighten up, although she noticed the words held a broader meaning for her life right now.

  “I wouldn’t worry about this college stalker guy,” Farnham said. “He probably sent out two million messages in the hope of getting one response. Must be buried under ten thousand replies by now, from angry husbands and Kyra Collette wannabes.”

  Zoey might have taken comfort in Farnham’s words, except for one thing. She knew she’d be seeing Cesar in the near future. Aunt Eva’s confirmation of the foretelling had forced her all the way to the believer side.

  “Farnham, one more thing. Did you get a copy of my mother’s report from the Richmond police?”

  “Yes. I’ve got it here.”

  “And what about the letter my mother sent to the recent victim?”

  “Can’t help you with that one. I doubt they’ll release it until the case is officially closed.”

  “Where is this Elena Baxter? You said she’s in a psych ward down here. What’s the name of it?”

  Farnham hesitated. “You can’t be thinking of going to see her.”

  “The name?”

  An exasperated sigh reached Zoey’s ear, but she knew before it had finished that Farnham would relent. “Phelan Health Center—in Richmond. I really think you should just come home.”

  “Don’t worry, Farnham, I will. After all, there’s only one Schuylkill River.”

  After they disconnected, Zoey almost closed her laptop, but she clicked one more time to make sure the message from Cesar had gone on its merry way. Cesar probably knew how much it frustrated her to see a message in her in-box without being able to pry it open. She’d show him.

  As she stared at the screen, it morphed into her Time Flies screensaver showing primitive man evolving into the modern homosapien. She rubbed her abdomen as thoughts of evolution and survivalism filled her mind. All species, from insects to dinosaurs, shared one overwhelming urge: to ensure survival of the species through reproduction. For species with two week or two-hour life spans, the drive to survive dominated their entire lives—an all-encompassing, self-sacrificing desire to leave a successor. Even the repugnant Corbin Black had sent his genes on, for God’s sake. So what in the hell was wrong with Jake? She mentally scolded him as she got out of her car. Then she grabbed her things and stomped to the motel, with one thought blocking out all others: Guess what, my darling fiancé? You might want to kill me on the banks of the Schuylkill; Corbin Black might want me out of the picture for good; and my college stalker is lingering only one mouse click away. But no matter what, this baby will survive. Because no one knows the ending to that foretelling… yet.

  Chapter 31

  Richmond, Virginia

  Corbin Black, fresh out of prison and back in possession of his belt, finished his egg sandwich, wiped his hands on his pants, and entered the one place that made him feel secure, maybe even wanted: the public library. In the thirty years he’d possessed his library card, no one on the staff had ever mentioned the scar on his left cheek or his sometimes grease-spattered clothing. They’d never stared at him like the well-to-do customers in the restaurants sometimes did—as if they’d wished him dead. The buttoned-up librarians didn’t tease him with flouncy skirts or high heels, nor did they threaten his manhood with come-hither looks while mocking him on the inside. Truth was, he’d never once felt the urge to put the librarians in their place.

  After passing through the main entryway, Black headed straight for the public computers. Only occasionally did he feel the need to stop at one of the corner units reserved for the viewing of intimate websites. In fact, he usually rolled his eyes at the reprobates huddled there, with their long coats and shaggy hair, doing reprehensible deeds as they performed their research.

  At one of the reference desks, he spotted a middle-aged librarian who wore her graying hair long, with a bobby pin secured neatly on one side. She smiled at him, using only her lips, but it was enough to soften her severe, pale face. She’d helped him several months ago to find a recipe book he’d seen advertised. He gave her a small wave and continued on his way.

  Why couldn’t all women behave like her—respectful, quiet, and undisruptive to his mellow state of mind? His mother and sister had known their places: his sister cowering in her room most nights, his mother in the kitchen or upstairs, keeping her mouth shut about things that were none of her business anyway. Why was it so hard for other women to understand their responsibilities: no sassy talk; no shows of superiority; and no sexual displays served up to remind Black of his place in the world—worth nothing and worthy of nothing, at least according to his father.

  When society’s reminders built up to the point where Black felt like a caged animal tortured at the hands of his caretaker, he would rebel and set things right again. He’d rearrange the stations, as it were. It only happened every five or six years, but when it did, he let everyone know that the high and mighty status they’d found so secure and comforting over the years was nothing more than an illusion. A single whore knocked off her high horse spoke volumes to the masses; it put everyone on equal ground again. And if Black could demote the mighty to the realms of insignificance, well, then it freed him, at least for a while. He could explore any station he chose, regardless of the limitations shackled onto him by his father’s low expectations.

  He found an open cubicle, made himself comfortable, and set the chair just so. Then he arranged the height of the keyboard to satisfy his shoulders and elbows before resetting the brightness and contrast of the computer screen so as to keep his mind calm. He liked calm.

  He breathed deeply. Never had he done it like this before—struck before ready—and never had he killed for the sake of his own protection. He knew he needed to tread carefully. He’d been feeling off his game ever since that Baxter woman at Clover Park. Freaky girl, that one. A step ahead of him the whole time. She’d even yelled something before firing her pea-shooter: Screw you, asshole! I knew you were coming! But he must have misheard, because he hadn’t even known he was coming until a few hours before. The whole episode brought to mind the eerie sensation that he’d suffered during his very first encounter, years ago, also in Clover Park. That chick had said some weird stuff, too. And damned if it hadn’t nearly set him on a different path in life. He smirked, thinking back on it now. Luckily, he’d overcome the urges to listen to that whore.

  Preparation, plain and simple. That’s what would g
et him through his upcoming task. If only this job could be as neat and tidy as the chopped red peppers and diced onions he prepped at work, but no, it would be far from neat. If he were more comfortable with a gun, it would make things easier, maybe provide some distance, but his expertise lay in the handling of knives. He’d stick with what he knew.

  First things first. A quick search on rental car companies. Within minutes, a Chevy Cavalier was rented under an alias he’d established years ago, complete with driver’s license and credit card. He’d even built up a credit history under the fictitious name.

  He clicked on another site to get driving directions. Yes, it had definitely been worth the extra five hundred bucks to his fatty of a lawyer to get the additional information on Zoey Kincaid. He harrumphed at her name; sounded like a whore’s name for sure. He didn’t believe for a second that she was his daughter, and he couldn’t believe the police were even investigating the possibility, but on the off chance it was true, well, things needed to be set right. Couldn’t have a remnant of one of his illicit encounters running around willy-nilly, now could he?

  He typed his starting place into the website: Richmond, VA. And then his destination: Pine Street, Philadelphia.

  Chapter 32

  Louisa, Virginia

  Zoey had always heard that pregnant women slept better than anyone. When she woke up to a sunny day, she knew she had finally experienced a positive side effect of her condition. The eight hours of rest had done their job, allowing her brain to sort everything into its proper place. She thought about her encounter with Aunt Eva and realized that Eva seemed to be viewing the event from a different perspective than her mother had. Then again, Eva had thought Zoey was Magda, so everything should probably be taken with a grain of salt.