The Accidental Audience

by Faith Wood

  As Ryan clicked off, Colbie attempted to sort out and make sense of what he just told her. Curiosity overwhelmed every rational thought of simply hitting the sack for a good night’s sleep, so she plumped her pillows, making herself comfortable—no reason to wait to invoke her perceptive mind. This time, however, she wouldn’t concentrate on Brian—now, Nicole Remington was the target of her intuitive scrutiny.

  Her muscles relaxed as she allowed her mind’s eye to serve as a movie screen. At first, she didn’t tune in on anything in particular—over years of self-training, she knew to enter her psychic space slowly. Without intent. She must trust the knowledge within her to present itself at the right moment, and at the pinnacle of her reception.

  Colbie lay motionless on her bed, envisioning her feet wrapped in a brilliant white light, inviting it to travel the length of her body, cocooning it in its soft energy. When fully encased, she surrendered to her mind’s eye, knowing just the right time to ask for answers to her questions—it were as if she felt nothing but warmth, love, and spiritual awareness. The more she relaxed, the more her mind and body prepared to accept the answers that were sure to come. At precisely the right moment, she requested only good and valid information to remove the possibility of a negative force coming through. Usually, answers to her questions presented themselves as symbols, and it was up to Colbie to interpret them correctly. Sometimes there was only one, sometimes several—she never knew what to expect.

  Aware her intuitive mind was open, she fired her first question—how is Nicole Remington involved in Brian’s disappearance? Within moments, images of crosses appeared on the screen in her mind, dotting an expansive area. Not religious crosses for she experienced no feelings of a spiritual connection. No, these were crosses that resembled the letter ‘t’, and there were many—twenty. Maybe thirty. She made a mental note of what she saw in her mind’s eye, knowing objective interpretation wouldn’t come until later. Colbie knew better than to put her subjective thoughts and beliefs into her reading process—the chance of misinterpretation was too great. Mix truth with what she thinks is truth and the reading would be inaccurate, the process squirreled.

  The scene of the crosses lingered then dissipated into nothingness as another took its place. A hammer ride at the amusement park. Scotch plaid. Colbie couldn’t quite discern whether she were viewing a blanket, or maybe a dress. Or, skirt. The image vanished as quickly as it appeared leaving her with a dark viewing screen, indicating the information regarding Remington’s involvement was complete.

  Next question—who is helping Nicole Remington? Immediately, her viewing screen exploded from black to a vivid crimson as her body braced against a strong, consuming force. Shards of crimson hurled from a tornadic vortex shredded her screen, coming together only to disappear and respawn. The vision repeated several times before vanishing into itself, self-destructing, forcing Colbie to abandon the reading. Holy crap! I’ve never experienced anything like that—ever! She lay still, making certain her breathing was evenly paced in an effort to calm her racing heart. What the hell was that? The ferocity of the vision was stunning, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Its sheer strength was unsettling—did her guarding against such negativity fail? Her prayer didn’t work? One thing was certain—Colbie knew there was a driving force behind Nicole Remington, and it was unrelenting. Fierce.

  Evil.

  The coffee shop was a ghost town except for a few stragglers who looked as if they camped there for hours engrossed in their laptops, tablets, and phones. The only chatter was between two baristas, and Colbie could barely hear them as she strategically chose the table in the furthest corner from the cash register. The small partition wall offered some privacy and, if Alex sat facing the wall, there was little chance of anyone overhearing—unless someone sat close to them, or he discovered Colbie’s ruse and went ballistic. It was a chance she’d have to take if she wanted to get a glimpse through the window of what happened the weekend of the camping trip. As she waited, patrons darted in for the quick grab-and-go. No one paid attention to her, and Colbie wondered if they ever noticed anything—each seemed entrenched in his or her own world, completely disregarding any opportunity to interact with something other than technology—such as a human.

  After picking up a tiny digital recorder that morning at a store specializing in surveillance, she carefully arranged it in her fanny pack, perching it on the table, zipper slightly open. The recorder cost a pretty penny, but it was instrumental in her search, and since she wouldn’t take many notes during the interview, she had to rely on the stashed recorder to fill in any blanks. After each interview, she planned to listen to the recording, analyzing it as if she were back on the force.

  She was particularly interested in the voice inflection of each answer—her training taught her how to recognize stress by listening to the slightest nuances, and her intuition would come in handy since she could tune in on each person in the privacy of her own home. It was a good plan and, if everyone cooperated, she could tick down her suspect list in short order.

  “Alex! Here!” Colbie motioned for him to join her, acting as if she were greeting an old friend.

  “Hey! Sorry I’m late . . .”

  “Not late enough for anyone to notice! Thanks for meeting me—have a seat . . .” Colbie guided Alex to the seat directly across from her—optimum for surreptitious recording.

  “I really appreciate your meeting me today. As you know, I’m trying to piece together everything that happened before Brian disappeared. I know we talked before, but I don’t have enough to continue my investigation.” It was a good plan—by telling Alex she wasn’t making much progress on the investigation, he would exhibit a subliminal reaction—relief. His body tell may be a brief sagging of his shoulders, or even an audible sigh. If he weren’t involved in any way, there would be no reaction at all.

  “Okay—how can I help?” No sagging shoulders.

  “As I understand it, you went camping with Brian, Ryan, and two friends whom they hadn’t met before. I’m kind of at a loss because I don’t know those two guys, so if you can take me through the entire trip, I’ll appreciate it. I know it’s been nearly three weeks, but even the littlest thing might make a difference.”

  “Got it—okay—well, the trip really didn’t have too many highlights. It was more of a weekend to get the hell away from everything. I remember Brian wasn’t planning on going, and changed his mind at the last minute.”

  “Do you know why?” Alex paused, as if questioning whether he should tell Colbie what he knew. “Alex—you can tell me. You’re not going to hurt my feelings.”

  “Brian mentioned you two weren’t . . . in the best place, and he wanted to get away to think and clear his head. He didn’t talk about it, though, when we were on the trip. In fact, he didn’t talk to many of us, at all—he kind of kept to himself.”

  “Really? That doesn’t sound like Brian—usually, he talks to anybody and everybody even when he goes through a rough patch.”

  “I know—weird, huh?”

  “What about the two other guys—had Brian ever met them before?”

  “I’m not sure, but I don’t think so . . .”

  “Okay . . . tell me about Kirk.”

  “Nice guy. Quiet. He and Vinnie seemed to be good friends, although I couldn’t quite understand it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Vinnie made snide comments about Kirk whenever he could . . . in fact, now that I think about it, Kirk seemed . . . whipped, if you know what I mean.”

  “Whipped? Really? I wonder why . . .”

  “I don’t know, but Vinnie is a strong, solid guy, and he seemed to like to tell us what to do—which might go along with what he does for a living.”

  “Which is . . .”

  “He’s some sort of outdoor guide, I think. Let me put it this w
ay—Vinnie ain’t small, and he ain’t stupid!”

  “Did you like him?”

  “Me? No . . . not much.”

  “Did he and Brian seem to get along?”

  “I guess—like I said, Brian was on the trip, but his reason for taking it wasn’t for camaraderie, and we respected his privacy.”

  “Did Vinnie talk about anyone in his life? Friends? Girlfriend?”

  “No, not really—the only thing I remember is his mentioning a guy he worked for.”

  “Name of the guy?”

  “I don’t know—it wasn’t important to remember the name at the time.”

  “Did he mention what he did for a living?”

  “Security, I think.”

  “Security? What kind of security?”

  “I got the impression he was some sort of security guard.”

  Colbie sat back, absorbing what Alex just told her. This was a completely different take than she had before—she had no idea Vinnie was involved in security, or anything else that required him to carry a gun. Then again, anyone who heads into the woods unarmed is an idiot. Brian probably took his .40 cal, too . . . still, it was something.

  “Do you know his last name?”

  “Alberico . . . Vinnie Alberico. The only reason I remember is because I asked him about it. I hadn’t heard it before, and he confirmed it’s Italian.”

  Colbie turned the name on her tongue trying to jog her memory, but something didn’t feel right. Something didn’t track . . .

  “Wait a minute—didn’t you say he was an outdoor guide? He has two jobs?”

  “I’m not sure—maybe the guiding thing is a weekend gig.”

  “Maybe . . .” Colbie couldn’t take the chance that Alex would catch on to her recording, so she thought it best to cut the interview short, and move on. She watched Alex carefully throughout their conversation, and he gave no indication of dishonesty—her gut told her she could count on him anytime.

  She checked her watch. “Good heavens, I’m late!” She hurriedly snatched the fanny pack and stood, offering Alex a bogus dismissal.

  “I’m sorry, but I have an appointment at four forty-five—I can still make it if I leave now.”

  Alex grabbed his leather coat from the back of an empty chair. “Okay—I hoped this helped. I’m sorry I couldn’t remember more . . .”

  “Well, if you happen to recall anything else, will you call me? You have my number . . .”

  “Yeah, sure . . .”

  Colbie sat hunched at her kitchen table transcribing the notes from her conversation with Alex. It wasn’t enough to hear them—she had to see them in writing to understand their full effect. Most of what Alex told her she already knew—but, the information about Vinnie Alberico? That piqued her interest. She closed her eyes to tune in—maybe something would come to her as she considered Alberico’s possible connection to the case—at most, he would turn out to be the key for the lock and, at the least, his involvement would be nil. She considered the latter—she didn’t think so. Colbie’s gut told her Vinnie was involved somehow, and now it was time to investigate him just as she was investigating Remington.

  What about Kirk? She concentrated on his name, requesting information from her intuitive being. Nothing. Nothing causing alarm, and nothing of interest. Alex’s perception may have been correct—Kirk was a meek follower, incapable of harming anyone.

  Vinnie was the one driving the bus.

  Chapter 11

  Colbie sat cross-legged on her bed, sketching memories of her visions from the prior evening on her trusty yellow legal pad. To anyone else, they were chicken scratchings—to her, they embodied answers to all of her questions.

  Each small ‘t’ she drew was different from the others as she attempted to recreate the field of letters, none resembling the symbol she received while meditating. There was something about them not quite right, yet the longer she stared, the more she had no idea of what they meant. I don’t understand! What is it you want me to see? What do I need to know? A dull headache took root as she lay back against the pillows and grabbed one of two books on her nightstand, flipping to a dog-eared page. Chapter Three. Reading was her therapy, really—without it she’d never get to sleep and, without sleep, she wouldn’t be worth dirt in the morning. She slipped off her glasses, closed her eyes briefly to relieve mounting eyestrain, then focused on the page in front of her.

  Without her specs the print was blurry, but she could see well enough to understand—Chapter Three, written out as two words, each word capitalized. She stared at the title and, in a second of serendipitous clarity, Colbie realized her mistake. That’s what I was doing wrong! She traced the capital ‘T’ with her fingertip as she played the vision in her mind—it’s a capital ‘t!’ The capital ‘T’ in ‘Three’ had a downward stroke on each side of the t-bar, and the letters she drew had a cross stroke bisecting the t-bar. Oh, my god! That’s it! That’s it! Instantly, she recognized the significance of her error—the capital ‘t’ resembled a hammer ride she often enjoyed at the county fair when she was a kid, but, she couldn’t figure out what it had to do with her vision and the current situation—it seemed something to do with nothing. Yet, she trusted her intuitive mind to provide only true and valid information, so she couldn’t go any further until she figured out what she needed to know.

  By then it was a given that sleep was out of the question. Colbie logged on to the Internet searching images of hammer rides, thinking if she looked at pictures, something might jog her memory—or, provide further information about her reading. Photos of the popular carnival attraction popped onto the screen the second she clicked enter—some were double hammers, but it was the single hammer ride that interested her most. Two, conical-shaped compartments—enough room for four people, two on each side—positioned at the ends of a single long bar or beam, resembling jelly beans stuck on both ends of a toothpick. Still, she couldn’t make a connection—what does a hammer ride have to do with anything? I need more! Her fingers clicked furiously on the laptop’s keys.

  A false dawn creeping through the bedroom window cued her promise to take a shower in ten minutes—if she didn’t find anything by then, she’d have to wait until the evening to resume her search. She Googled anything resembling jelly beans on a toothpick, yielding little of interest—until she was ready to shut everything down. The last click on enter yielded images of oil jack pumps looking just like a jelly bean stuck on the end of a toothpick—like a hammer ride cut in half! In that moment, Colbie knew Ryan was right—the hammer ride and ‘t’ in her vision corroborated Ryan’s speculation that Remington’s involvement in Brian’s disappearance was predicated on untapped oil reserves. This has to be it! She wondered how irritated Ryan would be if she called him before sun up . . .

  She dialed anyway.

  “Ryan—Colbie. I know it’s late—well, early—and I’m sorry. But, now I know without doubt that Nicole Remington is buying up the land because of hushed up oil reserves.”

  “How do you know that?” Ryan’s voice was hoarse with sleep, sounding only mildly irritated.

  “My vision—my vision!” Colbie recounted her story of her intuitive evening session, the hammer ride, and the capital ‘t.’ “And, it wasn’t until I saw a picture of an oil pump jack that it all made sense! You said it first, Ryan—you thought it might have something to do with oil reserves, and you were right!”

  “Are you sure? You got all of that from a vision?”

  “Yep—and, I learned a long time ago to trust my visions.”

  “This is weird—freakin’ weird, if you ask me . . .”

  “I know—but, for now, you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Now, we need to find out everything we can about Remington’s real estate deals—it shouldn’t be too hard, since all transactions are public record.”
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  Fifteen minutes later they said good night, each armed with important orders for that day. Ryan was to research real estate deals in adjacent counties brokered by Nicole Remington, and Colbie’s responsibilities included an interview with Vinnie Alberico—if he consented to meet with her.

  Her mind reeled with thoughts of Remington, her faceless accomplice, and someone named Al as she tried to get in a quick nap before beginning her day.

  I’ll figure it out, Brian—I promise! Just hang in there a little bit longer . . .

  Remington snapped on the light, filling the room with a starkness revealing the worst in life. A sickening stench permeated slatted wood, and splintered fragments of glass lay on the floor, dull and without refraction, waiting to be swept into a better place. A floral couch jammed against the wall reeked of mildew and stale Doritos, a small end table made from a barrel standing staunchly by its side.

  “Here’s your dinner.” Remington shoved a styrofoam to-go container at a figure sitting in a straight-backed chair centered in the middle of the room. “If you don’t eat, it’s your problem.”

  Brian raised his head to meet the eyes of his captor. “Thanks.”

  Remington removed the cuffs tethering him to the chair, his wrists bruised and swollen.

  “What day is it?” Brian calculated he had been there for over two weeks, but how much over he wasn’t sure.

  “Thursday.”

  Three weeks. He rubbed his wrists and hands as the cuffs came off, returning warmth and life into them. Up until then he spoke little to his captor, but perhaps now was the right time.

  “You seem like a nice person,” he commented, wolfing down fried chicken and mashed potatoes. No gravy, and definitely not homemade. “Why are you doing this? What did I ever do to you?” His tone wasn’t accusatory—only questioning—a ploy he hoped would work.