Foreteller

by Anne McAneny

  She turned onto Forbidden Road and meandered along, feeling every bump and rut. As she drove, her left hand drifted up to her pounding head. It ached for rest, yet her thoughts would not slow down. Aloud, she said, “You’d better be tied up and suffering right now, Jake Medeiros, because I’ll kill you if you’re not.” The irony of her lament made her frown, but that hurt her head even more; she lowered her windows for fresh air. The quiet of the surrounding area closed in on her without warning, and she realized just how alone she would be out here. Suddenly, she was exceptionally grateful for Farnham and his protective presence. She wasn’t sure she could have done any of this without him.

  She found the place where she was supposed to park, brought her car to a juddering stop, and killed the engine. The GPS unit chirped for the eighth time. Every time it sensed a change in her starting point—something that happened frequently in a moving car—it beeped obnoxiously. She tried to redirect her annoyance to relief that the unit at least worked.

  She glanced at the box in the back seat. Might as well get busy. Maybe her mother had included something useful in there, like a pamphlet on how to foil foretellings.

  Suddenly, a siren sounded. Zoey started and feared that something had already happened to Jake. Then she realized it was only her phone—the ring tone she’d set for Farnham. She answered. “Hey, Farnham.”

  “I’m in place,” Farnham whispered. “I see the boulder, but no one’s around. Nothing suspicious so far.”

  “Okay, excellent.” Zoey felt relief, but had no small talk in her and didn’t know what more to say.

  “You be careful,” Farnham said.

  Zoey smiled just a little. “Got it. You, too, Farnham.” Another call beeped into her phone. “I’m getting another call. Hold on.” She pulled the phone from her face to check the Caller ID. “It’s Bernadette.”

  “Okay. See you soon.” Farnham’s casual dispatch gave Zoey a moment’s ease. She tapped a button to receive the second call.

  “Bernadette,” she said into the phone, “you will not believe—”

  “Kyra! I figured it out!”

  “Your timing might be a little off, unfor—”

  “Your mother used to say that, too. My apologies. But listen up. It’s a problem with the point of view.”

  “Whose point of view?” Zoey asked.

  “In the foretelling. Susan’s foretellings were usually from the point of view of the subject. At least those I knew about. She should have seen your attacker. Why didn’t she?”

  Zoey thought back for a moment on the foretellings she knew about. When her mother had foretold the banker’s sister’s cancer, it had been from the sister’s point of view. The sister had seen the mole on the doctor’s face as he delivered the bad news. When Susan had foretold the rapist’s future, she had seen what he had seen—the name on Elena Baxter’s apartment buzzer.

  “Bernadette, you’re right. But it’s definitely my foretelling. I didn’t tell you, but Aunt Eva saw the same vision. And believe me, there are far too many other things falling into place already, right down to the running shorts I almost wore. My mother described them perfectly.”

  “Could have been the stroke,” Bernadette said with a sigh. “Works in your favor, though. If your mother was off on the point of view, she may have been off on everything.”

  Zoey brightened. “Let’s hope so. And Bernadette?”

  “Yes?”

  “If anything happens to me in the near future, and I do mean the very near future, please know that I appreciate everything you’ve done, and I’m so grateful that my mother had a person like you in her life.”

  “You mean another freak?”

  “No, I mean someone who didn’t doubt her. Someone who believed in her.”

  “She had someone else like that, you know.”

  “Matthew?”

  “No. You. You never doubted her. You believed in her every word when you were little. You used to shout at her, ‘Foretelling. Foretelling,’ and she would make up silly little predictions like, ‘Mommy’s going to hug Kyra in the next minute.’ And then, of course, it would come true. It meant the world to her—and you.”

  Zoey stifled a sob. “Thanks, Bernadette.”

  “Don’t you worry, my dear. I’m sending you good vibrations and positive outcomes. And I’m pretty good at this stuff.”

  They ended the call. It was news to Zoey that she’d known about the foretellings as a little girl. She hoped like heck that the few years she had believed in her mother—and found her wondrous and fascinating—made up for the 26 years she’d wasted with a false impression.

  She got out of her car and took in as much of the rich atmosphere as she could, the early-morning air so pure it almost shocked her lungs. Her eyes gazed upon the magnificence of the area, the remote location allowing her to enjoy a substantial view of pastoral majesty. Trees loomed tall and lush above her. The choral music of frogs and birds greeted her with a steady background beat of water rushing over rocks. If lives weren’t hanging in the balance, she’d love to explore this area with its historic layers of granite, shale, and obsidian that served as the foundation for centuries of Lenape Indian stories. But for once, her interest in the history of others was trumped by a personal need—to face her future.

  She grabbed the box of memorabilia from her back seat and set it on a dry patch of plush grass. Upon opening the box, she was surprised to see a long scroll sitting on the pile of random items. She unrolled it. When she realized what it was—a continuous letter that Matthew and Susan had mailed back and forth over the years in a tube—she felt as thrilled as if she’d discovered an entire civilization.

  Twenty minutes later, Zoey held a new appreciation for the depth of her parents’ love and devotion. Susan had undoubtedly loved Matthew’s artistic and musical side, his passion for his country, and his straightforwardness—such a change from Susan’s childhood with Magda. And Matthew had adored Susan’s wit and quirky ways of expressing herself, along with her striking hair. Like sunlight reflecting off a redwood forest, he’d described it in one letter. And he even seemed to know her thoughts without her verbalizing them.

  During their dating years, before Matthew had gone overseas and suffered his accident, his missives were fun—straight up with an undercurrent of humor and whimsy. In one passage from a letter eight months into their relationship, he’d written:

  “My Dearest Susan the Red,

  “I am heartily sorry for my tardiness the other evening in picking you up for the movie. Although you claimed you understood that yes, people taking naps do oversleep, I sensed from the way you crossed your legs in the car and turned your torso from me that some anger lingered in your usually upbeat spirit. Please know I would never intentionally leave you stranded atop your apartment building staircase, humiliated by the stares of neighborhood boys who—jealous not to be your escort that fine spring evening—undoubtedly felt a twinge of delight in the possibility that your date had stood you up. I do hope you turned your delicate nose up at them in the secure knowledge that your tardy beau would soon arrive, bearing the humblest of apologies and the deepest of regrets.

  “Which I did. Which I hope you’ll allow me to do again… because I’d love to continue dating. It sure beats flushing the last eight months down the loo, right?

  “All my love, Matthew.”

  Susan had written back in a style reflecting Matthew’s:

  “Dearest Matthew the Tardy,

  “I am so grateful to have been informed that the stance of my body conveyed to you what I failed to do with words. You are correct. My words lied; my torso spoke volumes. I do fail to understand how a man as assuredly excited about our date as you must have been, could even consider a nap, let alone succeed in the taking of one, or rather, the over-taking of one.

  “Although I understand that your preparation for military duty leaves you tired and in need of physical and mental restoration, I would think that the anticipation of our date would be enoug
h to reenergize your weary bones. Alas, I once again overestimate myself and the pleasure of my company. Perhaps it is a habit I can break over the course of the next eight months, during which time I trust you will pick me up in a punctual manner so as to spare the poor loo the chore of disposing of an entire eight months of the finest relationship of my life.

  “Most of my love, Susan the Red.”

  Zoey could imagine the teasing smiles on their faces as they wrote the notes, each of them secure enough in the other’s love that they could play at such verbal sparring.

  The letter, written in its one continuing volume, endured for ten more months, at which point Matthew was sent overseas. During his short stint in combat, Matthew suffered not only the physical injury from the exploding grenade, but an emotional wound as well. Although Bernadette had described it, Zoey did not appreciate the toll it had taken on him until she read a letter he’d written to Susan from his hospital bed. It seemed as if all the humor, lightness, and confidence had been blown away by that grenade.

  “Dear Red,

  “Still here. The treatment in these facilities is humiliating. I question every day if I’ll be man enough to return home to your loving arms. Several injuries to my left leg will take years to heal, if ever. My kidneys, despite the operations, may not function the way they used to, and I have so many scars across my stomach, chest, and hands that I look like a bumpy road map. At least my arms were spared so I’ll be able to hold you tight, but I worry about the internal machinery.

  “Move on to other men if you want—real men who are still whole inside and out. Just don’t tell me until I return home. I couldn’t take it right now. It is only thoughts of you that keep me going.

  “All my love, Matthew.”

  Susan had responded immediately:

  “Dear Matthew,

  “I’ll take you in any way, shape or form—in parts or pieces, working or not—as long as you’re still my Matthew. Please don’t despair. I’ll be here for you when you return. We’ll pick up right where we left off and start our family.

  “Love always, Susan.”

  Zoey cringed at how her mother might not have realized the severity of Matthew’s injuries or his possible post-traumatic stress disorder. A simple message to “not despair” would hardly pull him from the depths of his grief over his injuries and the loss of his full functionality. Did he know he’d been injured enough to affect his ability to have children? Was that what he meant by internal machinery? It could just as easily have referred to his kidneys or some other injury.

  Zoey recoiled when she thought about how her arrival, via the horror of rape, must have plunged Matthew to the greatest levels of agony. For him to think that even a lowlife rapist could impregnate his wife, when he possibly could not, must have sunk his already weakened heart. He would never be “her Matthew” again, at least in his eyes. He would never start that family she longed for.

  Zoey pulled more material from the box. She pieced together from address change cards, receipts, and a copy of an apartment lease, that Matthew and Susan had married immediately upon his return. The lease had been signed only two days after Matthew’s flight home, so her mother had gotten things rolling, either as a show of support or as a woman still in love—perhaps before fully understanding the new man with whom she’d be sharing her life.

  Zoey then came across a letter certifying Matthew’s employment as a Pennsylvania bridge and tunnel inspector. How humiliating it must have been for him to settle for a civil career when he’d dreamed so mightily of a life in the military. Couldn’t he have continued in some role with the military despite his injuries?

  Zoey plowed through the box. At the bottom, she found an envelope from the United States Army. It contained Matthew’s honorable discharge papers. Another sheet, folded into eighths in the same envelope, was dated two months after the discharge papers. It broke Zoey’s heart. Matthew had not passed the psychiatric exam required for consideration to continue in the army. While they thanked him for his service, his sacrifice, and his continued interest in serving the U.S. Military, they could offer him no position that might lead to an officer slot. Simple as that, in black and white. The end of a lifelong dream. Nothing else in the small pile of papers indicated that Matthew had pursued further entry into the army. She looked at the date of the rejection letter again; eight years and five months later, Matthew had taken his own life—two months after the love of his life had died. No, Zoey corrected herself—two months after the love of his life had been murdered.

  A dong on her cell phone indicated the arrival of a text message. She grabbed the phone off the front seat of her car and retrieved the message. It was from Farnham. As she read the short text, her head shook in incredulity.

  “No!” she shouted aloud. “No way!”

  Chapter 47

  Bad enough Corbin Black had been forced to sit in his car all night while the uppity cop hung out in the whore’s apartment, but then Black had experienced more than a little trouble staying out of sight while tailing the pig to the middle of nowhere out here by the river. He’d had to drop back significantly at one point for fear of being spotted, and then he’d lost all visual contact with the Chevy. But every time a fork in the road came up, he had trusted his instincts. After three more miles and multiple turns, Black turned onto a dusty patch of wobbly road and cruised another half mile as the road narrowed to a path.

  Yes! He’d gotten it right; his lifetime of good luck was holding steady. Black always knew that God had a higher station in mind for him, because there was the old Chevy, parked plain as day on the grass. No pork in sight, but Black’s days of hunting with his father in West Virginia had turned him into something of an expert tracker. He had certainly put those skills to use in more ways than one.

  Black parked his car, not real concerned about hiding it because only one of the cars’ drivers would be returning here. He stepped into the fresh air, took a moment to stretch his wiry, weary body, and then took a good look around. Ha! He knew in an instant where his quarry had entered the woods. Not real hard to track somebody when they didn’t give a hoot about the lumbering trail they left. Who cared if the pig had a generous lead on him? The unwieldy giant would hardly be one of the faster prey he’d stalked. Besides, he wanted the cop to get all nestled in wherever the hell he was going—until he got what was rightly coming to him.

  A vicious, eight-inch Bowie knife with a curved, stainless steel blade and a dagger sharp point dangled from Black’s belt. He almost regretted there’d be no time for gutting and skinning, but the sound of the Bowie’s juicy, precise entry as it performed its craft would be satisfaction enough. Everything about this hunt worked to Black’s advantage, especially the pig’s cocky attitude. Just like dear old Dad. This cop and Black’s father both thought they were above everybody else, like they deserved special treatment and first pickings at everything. Bullies. He’d show this bully what happened to creeps who tried to put a tail on him, who tried to limit his opportunities.

  Black’s heart raced as he thought about the pending confrontation. He knew how this guy thought—that a no-good lowlife like Corbin Black would never dare confront him. And that, of course, would be the pig’s fatal mistake. Just like it was for Daddy.

  A perverse grin made the scar at the corner of Black’s lip curl into a twisted crevasse.

  Chapter 48

  Zoey, leaning against the hood of her car, read Farnham’s text message for the fifth time, just to be certain: Officer Wilkinson called. DNA results came back. Corbin Black not your father.

  If Corbin Black wasn’t her father, then Matthew Collette must have been. Zoey wanted to scream, to pound the ground and cry out in emotional pain for her father. He had never known. He had never considered her his daughter. The toll that must have taken on the already fragile relationship between her parents… she could scarcely imagine. All that misery and humiliation. For naught.

  She kicked her car’s front right tire and regretted it imme
diately as her toe sent messages of throbbing pain along her nerves.

  Now what? Corbin Black would remain free for the rest of his days? At most, he’d be charged with attempted rape against Elena Baxter, and what did that get these days—a few months? A few minutes if the jails were overcrowded? They’d probably negotiate it down to simple assault and let him off with community service. Not fair! Not fair to her mother—or the next victim. And it sure as hell hadn’t been fair to her father.

  Zoey paced in the wet grass, tangled thoughts lapping over one another in her mind. The next victim—what if it was Jake? And for what? Nothing! Zoey’s existence didn’t even serve as proof against this creep anymore, so kidnapping her fiancé had been pointless.

  Internally, she screamed—a scream built of insurmountable frustration. For days, she’d been experiencing the sensation that her mind was traipsing through quicksand, desperate to reach rock-solid ground that would give her all the answers, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t quite get there. Something was niggling at her brain, but what?

  Her phone alarm dinged gently, in contrast to the shrill madness in her head. It was her reminder alarm. Time to move. She threw the box of memorabilia back in the car and locked the doors. With a glance at the GPS unit, Zoey entered the woods.

  Chapter 49

  The knife entered the flesh once, finding its ultimate path after hitting something rigid on the wide back. Probably a rib. Felt just the same as when a pointed blade hit the T-bone on a nice cut of meat.