What She Saw

by Sheila Lowe

  WHAT SHE SAW

  SHEILA LOWE

  Also by Sheila Lowe

  POISON PEN

  WRITTEN IN BLOOD

  DEAD WRITE

  LAST WRITES

  Non-fiction

  THE COMPLETE IDIOTS GUIDE

  TO HANDWRITING ANALYSIS

  HANDWRITING OF THE FAMOUS & INFAMOUS

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  What She Saw

  Copyright © 2012 Sheila Lowe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 9781492309161

  ISBN-10: 1492309168

  Jacket design: Lyn Stanzione

  Second Edition

  Praise for What She Saw

  “Sheila Lowe’s What She Saw is a gripping, psychologically astute thriller, with a sympathetic heroine and enough suspense to keep any reader turning the pages!”

  — Dennis Palumbo, licensed psychotherapist and author of the Daniel Rinaldi Mystery Series

  “Lowe spreads the mystery out one delicious morsel at a time. Both her characters and her plot are flawless.”

  — Peg Brantley, author of Red Tide and The Missings

  “From the foreboding opening chapter to the explosive climax, the reader will experience non-stop anxiety about who this woman is and what jeopardy is about to engulf her.” —Jackie Houchin, reviewer

  “Twists and turns, a riveting tale of suspense that will keep you on the edge of your seat.”

  — Connie Archer, national best-selling author of the soup lover’s mysteries

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With grateful thanks to the usual suspects, who comprise the best critique groups in all the land: Bob Bealmear, Bruce Cook, Gwen Freeman, Barbara Petty. Dr. Doug Lyle always provides helpful insights on medical issues, Suzanne Bank in matters of interior design, and George Fong, whose generous sharing of his FBI expertise makes all the difference. Add to that esteemed crew Jane Myers, who answered questions about the mental status exam. To Kristen Weber, who was my wonderful editor at Penguin and continues to have important comments to make on my work.

  And last but in no way least, to the early readers who caught my errors and reminded me not to rush things at the end. Thank you Bob Joseph, Jackie Houchin, Becky Scott.

  o n e

  The first thing she noticed was the sound. Metal wheels rolling on rails, thrumming in time with her heartbeat. Instinct whispered that if she could only screw up the courage to pry open her eyes, she would see the world hurtling past with the breathless rush of a roller coaster. But that kind of courage had deserted her.

  How long had she been sitting upright, hands clasped in her lap, knees and ankles pressed together as tightly as if they were bound? Hours? Days? Despite the gradual unraveling thread by delicate thread of the veil that separated consciousness from the abyss, the answer was proving elusive.

  Her mouth tasted as toxic as the dregs at the bottom of a mescal bottle. Had she had too much to drink? Was that why she felt so fuzzy? She couldn’t remember.

  If she refused to think about it, did that mean it wasn’t so?

  The chill of refrigerated air stippling her flesh with goosebumps was a reliable indicator that at least her sensory perceptions were in working order. Rubbing her arms, she continued the inventory. Sense of touch, check. The ropy odor of a pot smoker nearby—olfactory, check. Valley Girl chatter somewhere behind her—hearing, check.

  There the inventory came to an abrupt halt. To test her sense of sight would mean facing a truth too grotesque to name.

  A truth that was hammering her brain like a little demon with a pickaxe.

  The blare of the train’s horn ripped the decision out of her control, and for just a split-second, her eyes popped open of their own accord. A split-second was time enough to absorb the sight of gauzy mist drifting above grey, choppy water.

  Ocean. West Coast. United States. Pacific.

  Words that floated through her head, failing to attach themselves to any personal meaning. A thousand questions wanted to form, but the little demon wouldn’t let them. More untethered words came at her, and this time, she reached for them:

  Breathe. Relax. Focus.

  Five times; ten times; fifty. Silently, she mouthed the mantra until the outside sounds receded and the demon was vanquished.

  The abyss welcomed her back.

  Startling awake again, she recognized the loud clanging outside was a railroad crossing. No point in trying to keep her eyes closed any longer. She arched her back, wriggled her toes inside her shoes, stretched out the kinks in her legs. How long this time had she been unconscious?

  Long enough for the scenery beyond the window to have changed. Scrubby weeds and dirt stood in place of the ocean. Beyond the train tracks, patches of dense fog brooded low to the ground like a ghost cat on the prowl, an eerie landscape where anything might be lurking.

  The train rounded a bend in the tracks, slowing as it approached a graffiti-covered truss bridge. Vaguely aware of her fellow passengers beginning to stir, she pressed her cheek to the cool window, straining to see up ahead.

  There was the coastline again; there, a neat patch of yellow rental umbrellas and beach chairs lined up on the sand; a long wooden pier jutting over the ocean.

  A half-mile later, the vanilla walls of the Crowne Plaza rising from the promenade. The conductor’s voice over the PA announced “Coming up, Ventura Station.”

  Like a convict whose cell door unexpectedly swings open offering freedom, she lurched to her feet and stepped into the aisle. The exit sign at the far end of the carriage beckoned but she faltered, distracted by a murmuring inside her ear.

  They all think you’re crazy.

  That’s because you are crazy.

  She gave her head a sharp shake, but the whispers expanded to a murmur, swelled to a loud buzzing, exploded, finally, a cacophony.

  Her hands were slick with sweat. Swaying with the motion of the train, she grasped hold of the royal blue upholstered seat backs for balance and took a few unsteady steps. Ahead of her, the carriage bent and elongated—a hall of mirrors, the end of the compartment stretching to infinity.

  Waves of nausea threatened to bowl her over. There was no way she would make it to the washroom without collapsing. Gulping like a landed fish, she slumped into an empty aisle seat and bent over, elbows on thighs, willing herself not to vomit.

  The soft touch of a hand on her shoulder made her jump. “Are you okay?”

  Ignore it. You’re hallucinating.

  “Miss? Hey, miss?”

  Sane people don’t act like this.

  “I’m gonna call the conductor. You don’t look so...”

  Not a hallucination.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine.” She looked up sideways and pasted on what she hoped was a smile, though she suspected it emerged as more of a grimace.

  The truth was, her face was hot and tingling and she was shaking like a dry drunk. An image flashed across her vision: a chorus line of pink elephants in tutus. A wholly incongruous giggle slipped past her lips.

  The man, someone’s grandpa judging from the wrinkled skin and concerned eyes, was looking unconvinced. “You sure? I’d be glad to...”

  “No,” she interrupted, more firmly this time. “I’m fine, really.”

  The man shot one more troubled look at her before returning to his seat across the aisle, where she could feel the heat of his gaze as he continued to watch her. Something about the scrutiny made her uneasy.

  By sheer force of will, pretending she was just a normal person on a train, she pushed herself upright against her seat
and closed her eyes. Counting silently, she focused on each number as it moved across her eyelids, as if it were a buoy in the middle of the ocean, placed there for her to cling to.

  You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.

  What am I? The fucking little engine that could?

  Watch your language!

  Shut up.

  By the time she reached twenty, her breathing had steadied. Avoiding looking at the man across the aisle, she pulled herself to her feet again. She was a tightrope walker on a high wire, the exit sign the termination point she must reach without falling off.

  She moved with care, past the Valley Girl, still yakking on her cell phone. Past the pot smoker, the sickly sweet odor wafting off him like the dirty cloud over Pigpen’s head in the Charlie Brown cartoons.

  He jerked his chin at her, trying to catch her attention, but she could not afford to be distracted.

  The exit door was as far as she could make herself go. Debarking passengers flowed around her, new passengers climbed aboard. Some threw curious glances as they maneuvered around the person pressed against the wall, fingers locked around the handrail as tightly as a barnacle clinging to a rusted hull.

  She could already read the questions on the face of the conductor ambling along the platform toward her. Is this your station? Are you staying on the train? Where are you headed?

  Her need to avoid those questions was stronger than her desire to remain in the relative safety of the train. He was ten feet away.

  Forcing herself to release her grip on the handrail she sucked in a deep breath for courage and jumped down from the step onto the platform. As though she knew where she was going, she averted her eyes from the conductor and walked briskly in the opposite direction.

  A mere strip of concrete maybe 50 yards long, the Ventura Amtrak station was comprised of a couple of benches, an electronic ticket machine. She hurried to the end of the wrought iron fence separating the tracks from the street.

  “You’re late.”

  She whirled to face the man who had spoken the accusation, her heart pounding like the hooves of a runaway horse.

  Not quite sure whether to be relieved or disappointed, she realized he was addressing the Valley Girl who stood there, hands on hips, earbuds still plugged in.

  “Oh, like I was driving the train or something,” Valley Girl retorted in a rude tone. “It’s only five-thirty anyway. We’re not all that late.” The pair hurried off, still grousing at each other.

  As she watched them climb into an Audi parked at the curb, the train’s engine began to rev. At the same moment, a sudden sharp breeze sprang up from the ocean, nipping at her bare arms, reminding her too late that she had brought no jacket with her to cover her thin T-shirt.

  No purse, either, she realized in a panic, jamming her fists into the pockets of her Levi’s. First the front, then the back, she clawed at the denim in desperation. Came up empty. Not so much as a dime hid in the seams. No ID.

  You don’t get on a train without some means to buy a ticket—cash, credit card—cell phone...

  Whirling, she dashed back onto the platform, but the behemoth was already on the move. “Hey!” she yelled, running alongside the train, heedless of the massive steel wheels turning mere inches from her feet; beating her fist uselessly on the siding. “Hey, wait! Wait!”

  The last compartment lumbered past, forcing her to jump back as it picked up speed. How could she have been so stupid?

  Alone now in the deserted station, she bit down hard on her lower lip to keep from breaking into tears and turned in a slow circle. A marquee on the corner across the street told her that the immense parking lot served the Ventura County Fairgrounds.

  To her right, the road that ran alongside the railroad tracks dead-ended where the train was disappearing from view.

  Moving on autopilot, she turned left and started walking toward the cross street at the end of the block.

  And as she walked, the thing that had been clamoring at her since the first inkling of consciousness hit her full bore.

  The truth she had been warding off—a truth that refused to be silenced—a truth from which she could no longer protect herself. Like some vile creature emerging from the muck it came at her, the mind-shattering question to which she had no answer.

  Who am I?

  t w o

  The street sign read Harbor on the Amtrak station side and Figueroa on the other. The names meant nothing to her; she might as well be on Mars.

  Questions reverberated in the vacant space where her identity should have been.

  What was I doing on that train?

  Where did I travel from?

  What day of the week is it? What month? What year?

  Omigod, why can’t I remember anything?

  It was light now, but in a couple of hours it would be dark and cold. What then? Was it safe to sleep on the beach? Was it even possible, as cold as it would be? And what about the tide? Would it cover the sand and rocks, leaving no place for someone lost and alone with no place else to go?

  Figueroa was a short, empty street spanned by two highway overpasses. Across the top of the nearer one, etched in the concrete was the word DOWNTOWN.

  Downtown sounded like a place where she might be able to find some help. Maybe by the time she reached it a brilliant idea would have inspired her and she would know what to do. Yet, staring at the lengthening shadows under the overpasses, she balked.

  You’re not going to get any help standing here, dumbshit.

  Leave me alone.

  The underpass area would otherwise have been dead space, but tucked beneath the elevated highways were two long mesh screens decorated with artwork.

  At another time it would have been interesting to peruse the local talent, but at this moment, the unnerving sensation of being watched was giving her the willies.

  Passing the first screen, she threw a furtive glance over her shoulder. The sidewalk was deserted. A few more hurried steps took her halfway past the second one. She heard a coarse laugh. Then she saw them.

  Two men sprawled on the incline, a case of Budweiser and a scattering of battered empties between them. Lowlifes in wife-beater T-shirts and dirty jeans, half-hidden behind the mesh screen, leering at her. She could feel them sniffing her vulnerability. Her imagination had not been playing tricks.

  Looking straight ahead, determined to pay no attention, she sped up her stride. But when one of them yelled out, her head jerked around as if it had been on a string. Her legs stopped pumping. She froze where she was.

  “Hey, sweet thing; you friendly, honey?” The creep rubbed his fingers together as if suggesting a financial transaction. “Come on over and show us a little ass. C’mon, baby girl.” The second creep laughed and hoisted his beer.

  She stared at them, an angry retort stuck on her lips: Do I look like a hooker? A pulse bumped hard in her throat.

  Oh God, do I? Am I?

  Why couldn’t she make her feet move? What had happened to fight or flight? Her brain was sending commands, but fear had completed its circuit and shut down her ability to respond.

  Creep number two stuck out his tongue and wiggled it at her like some obscene species of overgrown lizard.

  Creep one pushed himself to his feet making wet kissing noises. He staggered toward her, hands outstretched like claws aimed at her breasts. “What’s ya name, babydoll? C’mere...”

  He was close enough for her to smell the beer on his breath when his eyes went wide. He skidded to an abrupt halt, twisting to hiss at creep two. “Hide that shit, dude.”

  His buddy didn’t need to be told twice. While he shoveled their empties under a bush with the urgency of a man of fire, creep one turned back to her, any vain fantasies he might have had of a hookup vanished. “You fucking keep your mouth shut,” he warned.

  Seconds later, when a black and white patrol car pulled to the curb, she knew she ought to be grateful for the intervention. But for a tense moment as the police officer climbed out
, she felt paralyzed, her body as stiff as a brick. And for no reason she could identify, she was not grateful at all.

  The officer, resting his hand on his nightstick, scanned the two dirt bags with a practiced eye, then turned his attention to her. “Is there a problem here, miss?”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but her voice seemed to have deserted her as thoroughly as her memory. And it wasn’t just creep one’s threat that stopped her. The cop’s clean-shaven square jaw jutted with authority. “Miss? Have you—”

  “No, there’s no problem,” she managed breathlessly.

  Then, without stopping to question why the policeman’s appearance had shaken her more than the potential threat from the two horrible men, she spun on her heels and ran back toward Harbor Boulevard.

  The policeman was yelling something, but it didn’t matter, she had no intention of stopping. At the corner, she turned away from the Amtrak station and tore up the sidewalk like a witless thing chased by a pack of the Undead. She ran until the air was rasping in her throat and painful shin splints forced her to flop against a concrete block wall.

  Standing there panting, she rummaged in her mind, frantic for something to grab onto, some morsel that would provide a clue to who she was, where she belonged—anything. But a memory as empty as her pockets had nothing to offer.

  What if those men had raped and killed her? When her body was found, no one would know who she was. She didn’t even know who she was. But something else was nagging her. The appearance of the policeman had terrified her, thoroughly and irrationally.

  Why? Why? Why?

  The little demon was back again, hammering viciously at her eyeballs until she thought they would pop right out of their sockets. Up the street, no more than a quarter mile away, the Crowne Plaza was the closest public place she could see.

  Fresh out of other ideas, she started toward the hotel, rehearsing what she would say to the smartly-uniformed clerk she imagined would be manning the front desk. I have no money and I don’t know who I am.