The Accidental Audience

by Faith Wood

  “What did you do?”

  “I raised my hands—I felt as if I were in a grade B western—and, as soon as I did that, she backed off. Then I popped the question, ‘Do you know Nicole Remington?’”

  “And?”

  “She commanded the dog to lie down, and asked me what I had to do with that bitch.”

  “What? Seriously?”

  “I’m not kidding! Her exact words were, ‘That bitch? Don’t come another step!’ I told her I didn’t have anything to do with her—and I explained everything while standing behind the driver’s door of the car.”

  Colbie sat back, stunned at Ryan’s story. “What does she have against Remington?”

  “Turns out the lovely Nicole Remington is the demon nemesis of land owners—she snatches up land foreclosures in the area and, for the last couple of years, she’s been putting pressure on land owners to sell, taking full advantage of a tanking economy.”

  “Why? What’s so great about the land out there?”

  “I’m not sure and, when I asked, she clammed up.”

  “Altogether?”

  “Yep. Until she told me to get off of her property.”

  “I gather you left . . .”

  “Of course I left! You think I was going to stick around chatting with a woman who could—and would—command her dog to attack? Or, shoot me in the ass? I don’t think so!”

  “I can certainly relate to the attacking dog thing . . .” Colbie subconsciously placed the palm of her hand over the scar extending the length of her arm.

  “Clearly, there’s something about that property—something we need to find out. Problem is, I’m not quite sure who to contact. Or, about what . . .”

  “My guess is there’s an added value to the land no one knows about . . .”

  “Such as?”

  “Oil, maybe? Minerals? Treasure?”

  “Oil? You think?” Silence. “If that’s the case, then I need to contact a geologic surveyor. You don’t happen to know one, do you?”

  “No, but I might know someone who does . . .”

  By the time homemade mud pie arrived, the conversation turned to Colbie’s investigation of Remington’s former employer, which turned up nothing. It was tour day for the agents, and the receptionist was the only one there—and, she wasn’t talking.

  “I don’t know—there was something about her that raised my antennae. She didn’t have a receptionist kind of look . . .”

  “A receptionist kind of look? And, that is . . .?”

  “I’m not sure I can explain it. This woman has an undercurrent of intelligence about her—and, distrust.”

  “Is that your intuitive side talking?”

  “Probably—but, you know what? After all these years, I know to listen to it. There’s just something about her . . . anyway, I didn’t stay long because I didn’t want to tip my hand. I used the excuse of needing to find a place to rent, and the receptionist told me to come back the following day. So, that’s what I’ll do—I’ll go back tomorrow.”

  Coffee. A nightcap. Plans. Colbie and Ryan parted at the close of the evening, determined to make progress the next day. Ryan was to check out the geologic surveyor lead, and Colbie would head back to the real estate office. As they confirmed a phone call for six o’clock the following evening, Colbie questioned whether Ryan truly knew the peril of his best friend.

  How could he?

  Chapter 9

  She kicked off the covers as the vision formed and percolated in her mind’s eye. Everyone was there—herself, Ryan, and Remington. Brian. Each wearing a blindfold, sitting silent and stationery as if cemented in time, neither acknowledging the other, separated only by ignorance. A ticking clock, its hands spinning around the circumference gaining a frenzied momentum each time they passed twelve. Alvin.

  Colbie lurched awake, her nightshirt clinging with sweat, hair plastered to the back of her neck. Tremors twitched her muscles as she attempted to orient her conscious mind, unsure of what she just witnessed—she should have known her senses would explode with information as lay down to sleep. By purposefully bypassing her conscious mind, she tapped into her place of peace and comfort—and, information. She’d been there many times when needing to heal her mind and body by her own intuitive wisdom and, as she descended into the depths of her soul, she felt as if she were in the presence of an old friend.

  This time, however, was different. There was an urgency—an impression of emotional chaos—propelling the vision, casting a sense impending critical mass. Why blindfolds? Why weren’t they moving? Why Alvin? Right now, none of it made sense. The only thing Colbie understood was what she suspected all along—time was running out.

  She also understood her vision was a revelation.

  Keeping a class schedule was nearly impossible as the search for Brian progressed. Colbie almost cashed it in by contacting the Registrar’s Office to call it quits for the semester. She called, but the person on the other end convinced her there was a solution to her problem—online. The university offered online instruction for each of her classes, and by taking advantage of the online service she would free up valuable time for the investigation. It was worth a try—she had to do something, or her money for that semester would be down the toilet.

  Most classes were audio lecture, except one—Behavioral Abnormal Psych, and her class was the first of three sections with Professor Blackwell who preferred video to audio lectures. His exams included trick questions to ensure students actually viewed his lectures, and they weren’t based on the obvious such as what he was wearing that day. No, his questions required students to think and explore the possibilities of the mind, and how they affect human behavior. His reputation was legendary, his classes at the university always full.

  Colbie clicked the play icon.

  “Today’s topic—Willful Blindness.” Blackwell’s voice was smooth, yet strong. “If I say the word blindness, different images materialize for different people based on their own past perceptions of what blindness means to them. Perhaps you think of Helen Keller, or maybe you think of a grandparent who is blind. Or, you envision a person walking down the street with a white, red-tipped cane. Each of us is different.” A pause. “So, what does this have to do with you? Well, think about this . . .

  Some of us are God-fearing people, and some of us are God-loving people. Some of us are atheists, and some of us are in between. Some of us hold onto the hope that Thomas the Apostle made it into heaven, and so will we. Yet, all of us have a blind spot—perhaps more than one—in our lives.” Colbie scratched down notes as the professor lectured, circling the words willful blindness, punctuating them with a question mark.

  “There are various levels of blindness, but today’s topic—willful blindness—isn’t a physical phenomenon, although it could manifest itself with physical attributes. No, willful blindness takes over when an individual has the power to allow light to penetrate thought in the form of knowledge or fresh data. Think about that—the power to allow light to penetrate thought in the form of knowledge or fresh data. But, here’s the kicker—individuals choose to remain in darkness. Why? Because, sometimes, it’s the easiest thing to do. Or, they linger in darkness to avoid making a decision—a decision that makes them uncomfortable.

  Willful blindness is when the light of knowing is there, glowing brilliantly—yet, when we reach for and grab the brass ring, we extinguish that light. Willful blindness is the moment we grab that brass ring, and pop off that light.” Professor Blackwell paused a moment to take a sip of water. It were almost as if he were standing in front of her, behind a lectern, and she were his only student—such a feeling of intimate learning was not only a surprise, but a clear benefit of online learning.

  “Just as there are various levels of blindness,” he continued, “there are various levels of dark
ness. If total blindness is the complete absence of form and light, with little or no perception, then what is willful blindness?” The professor made the most of a well-timed, dramatic pause. “Just this—willful blindness oozes into daily life like a cracked egg through one’s fingers while preparing breakfast. You knew you should have cracked that egg gently into a bowl with two hands, but you chose to do it a la Julia Child with one hand. Ah! And, there you have it! Yellow yoke, and clear goo seeping through your fingers.”

  Colbie stared at the screen, no longer taking notes, her mind flooding with instantaneous clarity. Everything began to make sense—last night’s vision. Remington. The blindfolds.

  The professor continued. “You see, willful blindness is a choice—we choose to not see, reason, or listen to an inner voice. We choose to allow our personalities to control bad choices—to choose willful blindness—while placing values on a convenient shelf. We often choose willful blindness knowing the outcome will cause conflict. Recall the example I used about the egg yolk—the knowledge of the possibility of breaking the yolk was present. Yet, that knowledge did not supersede the possibility of the yolk breaking, thereby persuading the person breaking the egg to do so with two hands. Generally, people perceive conflict as a bad thing rather than to try to see it as an impetus for change.

  There is so much we read about in today’s world—we wake up to horrifying, beautiful, and mediocre news. We awake with the choice before us to move toward action inspired by what we hear. But, most of us just shake our heads, making tch-tch sounds, and do nothing. Some of us have jobs requiring us to make decisions that affect our employers, our co-workers, and, perhaps, even the world. When we recognize something is a little off, or rubs us the wrong way, do we take decisive action even if it means we might experience some type of discomfort? Probably not. What do we choose? Willful blindness. We choose willful blindness by willing ourselves to look the other way. We hope someone else will come forward. We wish the issue will resolve itself—quietly.”

  The lecture continued for another thirty minutes before the professor doled out questions to be completed in essay form, and submitted by the end of the following week.

  “In closing, brilliant students, I will leave you with this—rearranging one’s entire life to keep one’s eyes wide open rather than eyes wide shut is not an easy endeavor. Willful blindness is as strong as a hurricane setting its sights on a specific target—sometimes it can’t be avoided. The good news is everyday life choices fall somewhere in the middle, and those choices don’t have to result in total destruction. Simply recognizing the choice opportunities in front of you is half the battle—you can choose willful blindness, or not. Sun Tzu in The Art of War, chapter three, paragraph eighteen states, “If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.”

  Colbie stopped the video as the professor bade good day to his students, her brain reeling with a new revelation—the intensity of her vision the night before was directly related to Brian and his disappearance. Those in her vision were participants in willful blindness—all members of an accidental audience willfully unaware of what was happening around them.

  She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes, envisioning herself taking off a blindfold. As light engulfed her, Colbie understood Nicole Remington’s Achilles heel—her willful blindness. For the first time in two weeks, Colbie understood—not everything, but she knew Remington was the tip of the iceberg and it was time to discover her reasons and motivations for participating in Brian’s disappearance. The how was no longer imperative—it was the why stepping into the light, taking center stage. Colbie realized Remington’s willful blindness centered around making bad choices for the sake of money—no surprise there. The car. The clothes. Her style. But the real revelation was understanding Remington’s willful blindness was also her weakness. If there were such a crack—a chasm—in her personality capable of bilking unsuspecting landowners of millions of dollars due to oil speculation, then she’d crack and sing like a canary about who was behind Brian’s disappearance. Nicole

  Remington wasn’t as formidable as Colbie once thought—in fact, Colbie sensed Remington’s fracturing under the pressure, exposing weakness and fear.

  It was time to grill everyone who saw or was with Brian during the week of his disappearance. So far, her investigation was all wrong and, even though she and Ryan gained pertinent information, it wasn’t enough. Now, everyone was a suspect.

  Time to start over.

  GREED CAN BE MURDER . . .

  CHECK OUT CHASING RHINOS, BOOK 2 IN FAITH WOOD’S AWARD-WINNING COLBIE COLLEEN COZY, SUSPENSE MYSTERY SERIES!

  SEND MY FREE GIFT!

  Chapter 10

  Colbie reviewed her list of everyone who saw Brian within a forty-eight-hour period before his disappearance, checking off those who clearly didn’t have any idea of what happened. Ryan’s friend, Alex, as well as his two friends, Kirk and Vinnie, were with Brian immediately before his vanishing, and she needed to concentrate on them. Then there was anyone associated with Nicole Remington—it was imperative to dig deeper into Remington’s real estate deals to ferret out anything lending credence to Ryan’s suggestion of homeowners unwittingly sitting on a boatload of money. During the early stages of her investigation, she didn’t consider such a convoluted mess. Now? Worse.

  Winter turned the corner to spring that week. Soft spring grass resembled green velvet as it stretched across lawns and early gardens, the freezing drizzle and snow a fading memory. Brian’s parents, however, didn’t get to experience the new season—they bagged it as soon as the temperature hit twenty degrees. They instructed Colbie to keep them posted about each step of her investigation no matter how seemingly insignificant—with the caveat, of course, they may be difficult to get a hold of due to no cell service on the island. Colbie could, however, leave a message with the housekeeper. Colbie dutifully agreed knowing how well that went on the first go-round, and wished them well on their voyage. She thought better of offering to keep Brian’s sister in the loop for doing so would be nothing but a meaningless exercise. Even so, Colbie felt oddly rejuvenated—with the changing season, there was also a freshness to her investigation. Her vision reaffirmed her belief that Brian was still alive, and she knew she must be painstakingly careful in her investigation from that point forward.

  Evenings were the most difficult—too quiet. Too empty. Brian’s energy was still strong and, even though they were going through a rough spell, she knew in her gut their relationship was worth saving—accepting its demise was unacceptable. She crawled into bed that night, mentally prioritizing her to-do list for the next day—first, call Alex to ask him to meet her at the coffee shop on First and Cross at three-thirty. She counted on it’s not being too crowded because she needed to surreptitiously record the conversations, and the din of crowd noise wouldn’t help that effort. Although he probably wouldn’t mind being recorded, plopping a recorder on the table lent an air of police investigation—just what she didn’t want to happen. Conversations with each suspect must be as comfortable as if they were sitting at the kitchen table, or like best friends talking at the end of an evening out. From experience, Colbie knew achieving such an element of comfort was easier said than done—slap someone in an interrogation room, and they usually did one of two things—spilled their guts, or clammed up.

  No taking a chance on the latter.

  Colbie switched off the light on her nightstand just as her phone vibrated its notification of an incoming call. She considered ignoring it, but when the vibrating ceased and started again immediately, she recognized the code—ring twice, hang up, ring again.

  “Ryan? Hey—what’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  “Sort of . . . I saw Nicole Remington at the Rio del Sol.”

  “What? Tell me—everything!”

  “There’s not a lot to tell, ex
cept she was with some guy, and they seemed to be involved in a deep discussion.”

  “Who? Have you seen him before?”

  “No—but, there was something familiar about him. I’m not sure why . . .”

  “Familiar how? What does he look like?”

  “A big guy—solid. Red hair—or, it used to be red. He had grey hair by his temples. Fair complexion.”

  “Do you think their evening out was personal, or business?”

  “It seemed personal. Remington looked upset and, at one point, she left the table. But, maybe she just needed to use the ladies’ room—I don’t know.”

  “What time were they there? I’ll check with the restaurant in the morning to see if they made a reservation under his name.”

  “I knew you’d ask me that—I checked my watch when I saw the maître d’ seat them. Ten o’clock.”

  “That late? Seems an odd time for a business meeting, don’t you think?”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “What time did they leave?”

  “I don’t know—we left before they did.”

  “That it? Is there anything else?”

  “Only one—I saved the best for last. The guy who was with her? She called him Al.”

  “Al? Are you sure?”

  “Yep—I heard it as I passed their table. I took the long route to the restroom . . . she said, ‘Damn it, Al!’ as though she were really pissed about something.”

  “Really?” Colbie’s wheels were turning. “Interesting. Anything else?”

  “Nope—just thought you should know.”