The Accidental Audience

by Faith Wood

  Advance praise for the Accidental Audience:

  “I enjoyed every second of it! Well-written, and a fun read.”

  —BRIAN McCULLOUGH, AUTHOR, On the Edge of Now

  “Faith Wood created a detective novel gem in the Accidental Audience with lead character, Colbie Colleen, the female equivalent of Raymond Chandler’s Philip Marlow. A finger-biting tale, it has all the twists and turns of a great detective novel. A must read!”

  —DAVID TAYLOR

  “A fun, good read. Favorite chair and coffee good . . .”

  —FLOYD JONES, AUTHOR, Blueberry

  “If you’re looking for an entertaining story, this is it!”

  —DENNIS CRAIG, EDITOR, Pro Manuscript Review

  “I don’t know what it is about Wood’s writing, but I absolutely love it! A great book for curling up in your favorite chair!”

  —R.J. BRENNER

  “I can only hope there will be more from this new author—fabulous!”

  —MARY ELLEN BARKER

  the

  Accidental

  Audience

  Faith wood

  Double Your Faith Productions

  British Columbia, Canada

  Chapter 1

  The jagged scar stretched from the underside of her wrist to just below her armpit. Surgeons said the dog ripped too much tissue, and they did the best they could—but no way could they sew her up in one straight line. Fifty-seven staples later and stitches too many to count, Colbie’s arm resembled a craggy mountain range. She traced the thick, smooth scar with her fingertip, recalling her dad’s words, “You’ll have days made by the devil himself, Colbie Colleen, but you must be strong. Pull up your socks, stand tall, and get on with it,” his Irish brogue ringing as strong as if it were yesterday.

  He was right.

  Recovery. Physical therapy. The pink slip. Of course, her C.O. said how sorry he was to cut her loose, but since she couldn’t manage a firearm to safety standards, she had a choice of life at a desk, or taking a new path. The thought of being shackled to a slab of metal was repugnant, so the latter seemed the better choice. Either way, it was ten years down the drain. Her plan was to retire in her early fifties as a decorated officer with enough time left to enjoy life—the thrill of going to work each day rarely subsided, and six months ago Colbie considered herself lucky to enjoy her chosen profession. She delighted in debunking the myth that cops were only good for drinking coffee and eating donuts and, yes, there was stress, but not so much that she couldn’t handle and compartmentalize it—an attribute she found handy on those few dark days.

  “Heading out?” Sergeant Rifkin jolted Colbie from unpleasant recollection, snapping her back to reality. He knew his question was lame, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. It was a damned shame—he was losing a good officer.

  “Yeah—I guess it’s a good thing I don’t believe in keeping anything other than the essentials in my desk. One box ought to do it . . .”

  “Good . . . that’s good.”

  “Do you want my plant?”

  “Thanks, but I kill everything I touch. Even cactus.”

  “Me, too. I’m surprised it’s still alive . . .”

  “Right. Okay—well, I’ll catch you later. Don’t be a stranger.” Colbie stood and shook his hand, thanking him for the last ten years.

  And, with that, her career on the force came to an unceremonious close.

  Decade done.

  Chapter 2

  The physical therapist patted Colbie on the arm as a final dismissal. Six months later, she was done with physical therapy, free to move on with her life.

  “That’s it—you’re done!”

  “Really? I’m done?” Colbie pumped her fist as if she were lifting a five-pound weight. “You’re sure?”

  “You are, indeed—you’ll have to keep up the exercises, but you can do those at home. And, if you’re not already, I suggest joining a fitness center or gym. You’ll be surprised how much exercising your entire body will help rehab your arm.”

  Colbie made a mental note to check out registration fees, but she wasn’t sure if she could afford an actual fitness center. Now that she had to shell out money to pay for school, pinching pennies was going to be a way of life—at least until she completed her degree. She wasn’t worried about shaking the few extra pounds from her usually slender frame—running would take care of that, and she could probably find some weights at a garage sale. So, when she thought about it, she couldn’t think of a reason to pay for what she could accomplish outside and on her own.

  “I’ll check them out, I promise!” A quick hug sprinkled with last-minutes instructions, and Colbie was out the door to a new life.

  By June, the scar receded significantly, and it was time to decide on a different career. She put it off as long as she could for leaving the force proved more difficult than anticipated; no matter how she tried to figure out her next steps, Colbie couldn’t motivate herself to dive into something new. It wasn’t until she rifled through her mom’s hope chest looking for the pocket knife her dad gave her when she turned twelve that she discovered her life’s direction.

  A small box nestled among two sweaters and a wool blanket appeared untouched—clearly, it was placed there for safekeeping as its corners were pristine, original packing tape securing the top. Usually, her mom labeled the crap out of everything she wanted to keep as mementos—items of a practical nature were different than those with sentimental value, each tagged with pertinent information—when and where it was purchased, as well as how long it was used. Her mom’s need to organize and label everything bordered on obsession—but, the hope chest wasn’t large so only items of importance made it into the cedar-lined box. The small package, however, didn’t have her mom’s illegible scrawl, providing nothing to indicate its contents.

  The pocket knife was exactly where Colbie thought it would be, crammed in the lower left corner of the chest. She hadn’t thought about the knife for at least twenty years, and it was a bit of a mystery as to why she wanted it now. Yet, she couldn’t get it out of her mind, and the two-hour drive to her mom’s seemed an insignificant inconvenience in order to retrieve the gift from her father. She tested its blade on a stray piece of paper, then carefully sliced the clear tape on the small box, careful not to damage the package’s contents. Her mom told her she could go through everything, and the cardboard yielded to a gentle tug as she carefully opened the flaps—there lay the drawings Colbie sketched as a child, free of creases, each separated by thin, parchment-like paper. Seventeen in all, perfectly preserved.

  Her drawings of scarred trees and their subsequent individual rejuvenation transported her back to her youth, once again filling her with feelings of inferiority. Ever since she was a little girl, Colbie noticed things others didn’t see or, perhaps, acknowledge. On family camping trips, she spent hours perched on a log or curled up in a lawn chair, sketching anything that piqued her interest—lightning-scarred trees—examining them with a detailed eye, noting the depth and extent of damage. New growth encircled the scars, allowing the trees to adapt to their new conditions, no two alike. Witnessing such regeneration was intriguing when she was young, and she gave little thought as to why she was so enamored with recognizing trauma and healing—back then it was just cool, and it was a fun thing to pass the time during the summer. As an adult, she marveled at the fact that nature created beauty amid such distress, always flexing to accommodate its new reality.

  Perspective according to age.

  The truth was Colbie’s class
mates considered her a little—odd—as she progressed through school, and she never felt as if she fit in. Her brother was the one who got the goods—quick witted, charming, and good looking—including their mother’s favor. Her mother treated him as the golden child, showering him with devotion while offering little in the way of discipline. Girls in Colbie’s class feigned friendship with her as a path to his highness, hoping for a glimmer of attention and a possible date. But it didn’t take Colbie long to figure out their intentions and she soon retreated into herself, considering it a lucky thing that she didn’t have any friends at all.

  By nature, she was rebellious and, in her world, she endured constant criticism. She laughed too loud. Sang off key. Talked too much. No matter what she did, there was always something to irritate those around her and she felt as if she could never achieve a perfect balance. She was good at sports, but not an all-star—the harder she tried, the more she blended in rather than stood apart. As she matured, she practiced fading into the background, observing rather than participating, becoming nearly invisible in the crowded high school hallways. No one noticed her, and she found she could adopt an apparition-like existence on command, enjoying the anonymity it provided.

  Other times, she was lost in the shadow world of her own creation.

  It was sometime during her sophomore year when she realized she could recognize the shadow world in others—without considering age, Colbie quickly discerned the behavior and decision making of those around her. Psychics claiming to foresee the future fascinated her, as well as illusionists who created thoughts and environments they wanted others to see. Her world bloomed and she felt, for the first time, that she belonged; it wasn’t until she studied hypnosis, mentalism, and forensic profiling toward the end of her police career that she began appreciating and respecting her ability to ‘feel’ what was important to others.

  The need to navigate conflicts led to her polishing the craft she developed during youth while understanding her unique perspectives of the human spirit—and, through her curiosity, she created her own body of knowledge. The tree drawings solidified what she already knew but refused to acknowledge—her life was now, and always had been—about reading others. Profiling behavior. Anticipating actions. It was deep in her soul, and no matter how she tried to reject it, it always appeared as a comfort in her life. Class instructors at the Department veiled the art of reading people as something mystical and complicated, but Colbie understood they, as well as her colleagues, didn’t appreciate that people were the sole reason they had their jobs. Without people’s behavior, abhorrent or otherwise, every police officer would have little to do.

  Regardless of the claims by her instructors, Colbie realized in the real world there are two compelling needs driving people: a desire to belong, and a desire for significance. She understood souls crave communities and with that understanding came the belief that once we have a place to belong, we need to believe we can influence something. We need to make our own decisions, be in charge of something, or be important to a cause—each reflects our need for significance.

  And, so, it was a forgotten box filled with drawings of trees that inspired Colbie Colleen to immerse herself in her new life’s path.

  Psychological profiling.

  “I don’t know—it sounds screwy to me.” Brian didn’t believe in anything mystical and, to him, Colbie’s plan to become a profiler represented nothing more than playing psychic.

  “It’s not screwy, and I think I’ll be good at it. Look at the FBI—they sure as hell don’t think profiling is screwy!”

  “Yes, but this isn’t the FBI. You can’t work on the force, so what are you planning to do for a living? How are you going to make money as a psychological profiler?”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this—and, you’re copping an attitude! Can’t you just support me for once?”

  “For God’s sake, Colbie—think about what you’re doing! How long will it take for schooling? After you’re done with that, how long will it take for you to make a living—one that provides the money to pay bills? The whole thing doesn’t make sense! And, let’s face it—you’re no spring chicken.”

  Colbie stared at her coffee cup, absorbing Brian’s puncturing comment. She was stunned at his lack of support and sensitivity, and she questioned if there were an underlying motive. For being together eleven years, he certainly couldn’t be surprised by her choice.

  “What the hell, Brian! It’s my life, and I’m sorry if you don’t like it. I’m not asking you to be involved in it—I’m asking for your support. And, I shouldn’t have to ask!” She stood, her body poised for conflict. If Brian couldn’t get behind her, how could their relationship survive? Her stance stood as a challenge, tempting him to take the bait.

  Without comment, he gently pushed back his chair and headed for the back door.

  “I’m out of here . . .”

  Professor Burton droned on about the human condition, and Colbie couldn’t have disagreed more with his assessments of anthropological behavior. He believed in the need for humans to lead a thought movement and instigate change, while Colbie believed humans seek to build a community before anything else. She also believed in what she calls the ‘shampoo strategy’—lather—rinse—repeat. The way she saw it, if people followed her ideas, they would find it easier to navigate convoluted human behaviors described by Pavlov and Maslow, parroted back by milk-toast professors.

  She watched and learned from her prof as he attempted to make his subject interesting. He and Colbie sparred often, and his attitude toward her made it clear he deemed her too uneducated—too pedestrian—to present a dissenting alternative. As she listened, her first boss’s voice played in her mind.

  What they think of you, her boss once lectured, isn’t your business—live your life in a way so no one believes the crap they say. Losing is not an option. Then her superior officer tucked a small, torn piece of paper under the corner of her desk pad, tiny handwriting scrawled at an angle across its face:

  When you come to the edge of all you know and you are about to step off into the darkness of the unknown, trusting in the universe is knowing one of two things will happen: one, there will be something solid to stand on. Or, two, you will be taught how to fly.

  At first she wasn’t sure what to make of it, but over time she understood the quote and why people make decisions and behavior choices. They act and react according to two specific ‘drivers’—a desire to belong, and a desire for significance. Now, ten years later, the yellowing, tattered paper—some of its writing obscured by age—lay in a hidden drawer in her jewelry box. Every so often she read it, wondering if she could trust its sentiment—she wanted to embrace the wisdom, but terror prevented her from testing the philosophy given to her so many years ago. What if it proves untrue? What if both things are untrue? Where does that leave me? It wasn’t the stepping off point that frightened her—rather, the aftermath of a crash landing.

  She likened the quote to the crux of emptiness an addicted person faces each day—one day more toxic than the previous—and it was an albatross in her own life. Her addictions weren’t for drugs and alcohol—they were for work, food, and exercise. All were means for escape and distraction, as well as opportunities to fill the emptiness. Colbie’s in-service training taught her addicts use heroin, booze, and other substances to numb themselves, as well as to insulate them from a harsh, judgmental, and potentially unsafe world. Others choose a lesser route, such as tobacco or sex, but they are equally as dangerous. When she thought about it, she realized addictions are the same for everyone and, perhaps, we’re not all as different as we wish others to believe.

  Colbie snapped to as the professor dismissed class, her mind still considering belonging and significance were too important to ignore. She knew her instincts were right—when she coupled her beliefs with the quote from her boss, she discovered she co
uld predict decisions and behavior choices of others simply by thinking about which of the two drivers were influencing them—somehow, it made everything easier to dissect. No, she didn’t see eye to eye with her professor at all, and it was only in a pure moment of clarity that she realized how her own personal experience contributed to her easily interpreting human behavior.

  Psychological profiling was no longer an interest.

  It was her passion.

  Chapter 3

  And so it went for another six months—school, work, and more school. Colbie was lucky to snag a part time job that was just enough to pay bills, but it left little for anything else—a situation Brian loathed and barely tolerated. He displayed his displeasure by spending as little time with her as possible and, as winter rounded toward spring, the weekend of St. Patrick’s Day was no different.

  “I’m heading out for a hiking trip with Ryan, and there are a couple of guys going whom I don’t know—we won’t get back until late Sunday night, so don’t wait up. I’ll have my phone if you need me.”

  Brian didn’t look up as he delivered the news.

  “That’s cool—say hi to the guys for me!” She, too, didn’t bother to look at him as he hoisted his backpack over his shoulder. She had no intention of calling him, and she was clear he didn’t want her to.

  “Schooner has an appointment this afternoon at the vet’s—the growth on his stomach is getting bigger, and we need to have it checked.”