by Jason Parent
“Good,” Michael murmured.
“Good? You don’t sound too pleased. Is something wrong?”
“No, that’s good news about that psycho.” He fiddled with the strings of his hoodie. “I have something else I need to talk to you about, though.”
“Michael, you know you can tell me anything. What is it?”
“It’s this girl at school. I had another vision.” He paused. Might as well just say it. “She’s going to kill her father.”
“Are you sure?”
Michael shot Sam a look. After all they had been through with Glenn and Crotty, he couldn’t believe she could still doubt him. The insult hit deep.
“Okay,” Sam said. “Easy. I’m sorry. But you have to understand that accusing someone of murder without proof—the kind of proof that holds up in court—is one thing. Accusing someone of murder before it even happens is infinitely more problematic. The law is not equipped to handle psychic visions. We have to go about this carefully. That’s why I need to know you are one hundred percent certain of what you saw. There’s no room here for misinterpretation.”
“Believe me, I’m sure. I saw her stab him like thirty times. He didn’t have a weapon or nothing.”
“Okay. What’s the girl’s name?”
“I can’t remember her last name, but her first name is Tessa. She’s a sophomore.”
“When is the murder supposed to happen?”
“I don’t know.”
Sam pulled into the hospital parking lot. “So her father could be dying as we speak?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Can you recall any details that may help us determine when it might occur?”
He tried to picture the scene. “Nope.”
“No television programs playing, newspapers in the room, calendars, clocks?”
“No. Nothing that I can remember. I was more focused on the girl plunging a ginormous knife into her father.”
“No need to be sarcastic. Was it day or night?”
“Night, I think. The lights weren’t on, and it was pretty dark inside the house, but some light came in through a window. I thought it was moonlight, or maybe a porch light or streetlight, too.”
“Was it Tessa’s house? How can you be sure the man was her father?” The questions came without hesitation. The way Sam stared, all stone-faced and stern, made Michael’s hands clammy.
He wiped his palms on his pants, trying to collect his thoughts, wondering if she were treating him the same way she treated her suspects. “Th-There were pictures all over the walls of Tessa with the man and a woman. I’m pretty sure they were her parents. Who else would they be?”
“Was her mother there, too? Anyone else?”
“No one that I saw, but I didn’t see the whole house.”
“Anything else you can remember?”
“There were sirens. I think they were getting louder toward the end.”
“Well, at least we’ve pinned down the probable location.” Sam sighed. All at once, the sternness seemed to leave her. “I’ll be honest with you. I’m not really sure how to handle this situation.”
“That makes two of us.”
“Try not to worry. I’ll figure something out. Maybe I can put a police detail in the area. At least if they hear it going down, they might be able to save him or give him a fighting chance by getting an ambulance there quicker.”
“That doesn’t sound very promising.”
“No, it doesn’t. I’ll keep thinking about it. But do me a favor. Don’t go meddling in her affairs. Let me handle it.”
“I won’t.” But he wasn’t remotely satisfied with Sam’s idea of crime prevention. He remembered Glenn’s death with crystal clarity. He wondered if another person would have to die when he could have done more to prevent the death. His conscience wouldn’t let him just forget it and move on. Why did he have to foresee murder? Each time he did, that voice inside pestered him until he did something about it. He was batting .500 when it came to saving lives, not a terrible average. Couldn’t he retire with that stat and leave the life-saving duties to those who weren’t failing algebra?
Michael wanted nothing to do with Tessa or her father. Her face had been so… Michael couldn’t think of the right word to describe it. Haunted? Tessa had looked so lost, as though she was the one in need of saving. For a moment, he had wanted to be her knight, her savior. Then, his vision showed him what Tessa was really all about, slapping any notion of chivalry right out of him.
“Maybe… she’s the victim… somehow?” He wanted to believe it, but he couldn’t, not after what he had seen. He sighed. “I don’t know.”
“You care about her, don’t you?” She reached toward his hand.
Michael pulled his hand away and scolded her with his eyes. “No, I don’t. I don’t even know her.”
Sam grimaced and pulled into a parking space. “We’ll do what we can, for both of them. Maybe we can get her some help.”
He slapped his thigh. “Yeah! Help. That’s what she needs. We can find her a psychiatrist or maybe get her some pills. One of the kids in the Sutter Home used to take antidepressors or whatever they’re called, and he was never violent.”
“You never know. She really could be the victim in all of this.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Michael kept his doubts to himself. Victims don’t stab defenseless people thirty times when they’re already bleeding on the floor. Besides, Tessa seemed to enjoy it.
Sam got out and led the way to the door. Michael had never seen that part of the hospital. It looked more like a loading dock than an entrance to a hospital. He didn’t like hospitals. He thought they always smelled funny, as if they were constantly being sprayed with air freshener to mask the stink of death. The thought of corpses all lined up like sardines in a tin can in the morgue chilled him to the bone. It’s just a dead body, he told himself over and over again. There’s nothing to be afraid of.
“We don’t have to do this,” Sam said for what seemed like the ninetieth time. “If you’re not up for it—”
“I’m fine.” Michael took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and held the door open for Sam.
“Welcome back,” a portly woman said from behind a too-tall reception desk. “Here to see Gloria Jackson? Dr. Prentiss said you would be coming and that I should just show you right in.”
“Hi, Charlotte,” Sam said. “Yes, we’re here to see Ms. Jackson.” She grinned. Michael had known her long enough to know when her smile was phony.
Charlotte’s eyes fell on Michael. He felt small beneath her stare. Her gaze lingered long and hard, as though she was sizing him up. But if she questioned his presence, she kept it to herself. She rose and stepped out from behind the monstrosity of an oak desk to lead them down a hallway.
With the exception of the reception desk, which at least had a few personal touches, the morgue was somber and uninviting. Michael wondered if there was a policy against staff members having pictures of their families or posting awful art pieces their children made like most workspaces on TV seemed to have. The morgue was so dreary, Michael thought its atmosphere had to be intentional, and he didn’t know why anyone would want to work there. Even cemeteries have nice green grass and lots of flowers. He gave a mental shrug. I guess it’s not like the dead care.
Near the end of the hall, Charlotte led them into an area much bigger than the average-sized door suggested it would be. The room gave Michael the chills, and not just because of the freezing temperature. He felt as though he were standing in a walk-in refrigerator. Hugging himself tightly, Michael wished he had worn a jacket over his sweatshirt.
Large drawers lined one wall like a gigantic system of file cabinets. Michael had seen enough movies to know that he and Sam had reached their intended destination. The dead bodies are stored in those drawers. He wondered how many of them were
occupied. Will I end up in that wall someday?
Sam reached for Michael’s shoulder. Even if she were only trying to comfort him, he wasn’t having it. He stepped away from her.
“What are you doing?” he asked, almost yelling. “You can’t touch me. You know that, and that’s the second time you’ve tried. You can never touch me.”
“I’m sorry,” Sam said, eyes downcast. Meekly, she turned away. The always strong, always confident Sam looked as though someone had just bitten the head off her favorite kitten.
Michael instantly regretted snapping at her. “Just… don’t touch me is all. I don’t want to have another vision.”
“If it bothers you that much, maybe we shouldn’t be here. I don’t want to upset you, Michael.”
“No. I’m okay. Let’s get this over with.”
Charlotte had to have found their conversation strange, but again, she didn’t say a word. Her expression was as stoic as a professional poker player’s. She walked over and opened one of the drawers. Michael noted that it was marked “Number 16.”
Sam looked at her watch. “Will Dr. Prentiss be here soon?”
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “Any minute now.” She mock dusted off her hands and let out a long breath. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She turned and left the room.
Michael followed Sam to the open drawer. There, on a cold metal slab, lay what he assumed was the body of a guidance counselor he hadn’t really liked but had certainly never wanted to see dead. Most of her was hidden under a white sheet. The contours of her face and body shaped the sheet covering her. As still as she was, she looked as though she were encased in plaster or maybe a cocoon. He found the idea of death being some sort of one-way bus ride to something different, something better, pleasing. He had never really believed all that religious mumbo jumbo, but he wished it for Ms. Jackson. She didn’t deserve to be tucked away in that wall drawer. She didn’t deserve to have that be her final destination. Yet there she was, one foot jutting out of its covering at the end of the slab. A large tag was fastened around the big toe.
“You sure you can handle this?” Sam asked again. Her voice oozed concern. It made Michael feel like a child. “Her body, uh, it’s not in the best condition. Some of her wounds are really disturbing. You shouldn’t have to see them if I’m careful. I need to look her over, but I can do that with Dr. Prentiss after you’re out of the room.”
“I can handle it,” Michael said, trying to keep annoyance out of his voice. He knew she was just trying to help. “Besides, I don’t need to see her body to touch it.”
“All right.” Sam yanked open the drawer the rest of the way.
Ms. Jackson’s foot came closer. Michael stared at it. The skin was gray and wrinkled, as if it had been underwater for too long. He stepped toward it, thinking he would just touch it quickly and be done with it.
But as he got closer, Michael thought of toe jam and oozing blisters and Ebola and zombies and all sorts of other foul things that had nothing to do with that foot, but he linked them just the same. “I don’t want to touch her foot.”
“Her hand then?” Sam asked.
“Okay.”
Sam slid the sheet gently across Ms. Jackson’s body, exposing her right arm. The arm was naked up to the shoulder. Michael figured the rest of the body was naked, too. He was seeing naked girls in all the wrong circumstances lately and briefly wondered if it might turn him gay.
“That’s enough,” Michael said.
Sam dropped the sheet and stepped out of the way. Michael moved in beside the body, his thighs inches from the bottom of the drawer.
This is so damn stupid. Why put me through all this for nothing? His hand trembled as he reached for the exposed forearm. A mischievous idea popped into his head. He turned away from Sam and grinned. I’ll show her. The instant his finger touched the dead flesh, Michael started to shake. He stared blankly at the wall of drawers.
“Michael?” Sam called. “Michael? Are you okay? Michael?”
After a few moments, Michael relaxed. He gasped, releasing the breath he was holding.
“What is it, Michael?” Sam asked, a sense of urgency underlining the question. “Did you see something?”
Michael slowly turned to face her. “Yes. I caught a glimpse of Heaven, and it was beautiful, so beautiful that I didn’t want to leave.”
“Seriously?”
Michael burst into laughter. He laughed until he could hardly breathe. He couldn’t believe Sam actually fell for it. When he was finally able to talk again, he said, “Of course not. It’s like I told you, this is a waste of time. She’s dead. I didn’t see a thing.”
She scowled. “You’re a jerk.” But her grumpiness soon wavered, and she laughed along with Michael.
“Sam?” someone called from the doorway.
Michael was so startled that he nearly fell on top of Ms. Jackson’s body. That was the end of his laughter.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” the man said, strolling over to where they stood. He wore a white lab coat and carried a black leather bag. He extended his free hand to Sam.
She shook it. “Hello, Dr. Prentiss.” At once, she was the adult again, and adults didn’t laugh around dead bodies.
“I’ve brought Sixteen’s file with me. Shall we begin?” Then he seemed to notice Michael. “And who might you be?”
Sam acted naturally. Her demeanor suggested that a fourteen-year-old boy had every right to be there. “Michael, meet Dr. Louis Prentiss, resident medical examiner extraordinaire. He’s helped me solve more cases than I would ever like to admit.”
“I do my best,” Dr. Prentiss said, extending his hand toward Michael.
“Michael, here, is an intern of sorts,” Sam added.
Her last comment distracted Michael, and without thinking, he put out his hand to shake. Dr. Prentiss grasped Michael’s hand.
Michael stands next to Dr. Prentiss, who looks sad. The doctor stares down at the white sheet covering Ms. Jackson, who is no longer in a drawer but on a table.
More odd details confuse Michael. A tray set up beside the table is covered with what looks like an electric pizza cutter and a bunch of other shiny, sharp utensils. Dr. Prentiss shakes his head and pulls back the sheet. Instinctively, Michael turns away.
The body seems to call out to him. He needs to turn, needs to look, though the more the need increases, the more he doesn’t want to do it. It feels wrong.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Dr. Prentiss pick up a scalpel.
Michael starts to panic. He wants to run, to be anywhere but in that room. Still, he cannot stop his head from turning, his eyes from seeing.
It is not Gloria Jackson on that table.
Screaming and gasping, Michael returned to the present. For some reason, all he could see was a bright circle of white light that practically blinded him. He squinted, clawed at the air, and tried to get to his feet.
“You’re okay,” someone said in a soothing voice. “You’re okay. We’re here.”
Sam? Michael’s heart pumped fiercely. He tried to make out the shadowy figure standing behind the light. That need returned—the need to see who was there, who stood behind that god-awful light. He swatted the light away, and something that looked like a pen flew across the room and hit the far wall.
Michael began to collect his bearings. His eyesight slowly improved. His body felt cold and clammy. For some reason, his knee hurt. Had he fallen on it? The shadowy figure became Dr. Prentiss.
Michael’s heart started to race again. He leaped to his feet. “Sam? Where’s Sam?”
“I’m right here,” she said from behind him.
He twisted around to see her. “Oh, thank God you’re okay.”
“Me?” She chuckled. “You should be more worried about yourself. This floor isn’t exactly soft. You’re lucky you didn’t bang your head
. The doctor thinks you must have fainted. I told him that it has been happening to you sometimes lately and that your doctor says you just need more rest. Not to mention, this place is probably a lot for someone your age to absorb. I shouldn’t have brought you here. I’m sorry.”
Michael understood what Sam was saying between the lines. Don’t mention the visions. But he couldn’t keep quiet. “I saw something… something awful.” He pointed at Dr. Prentiss. “It was his future.”
The medical examiner scratched his head. Michael didn’t care what he thought. He only cared that Sam listen.
“I saw him, Sam,” he said, jabbing his finger at the doctor. “He was in a room kind of like this one but with operating tables. He had a scalpel in his hand.”
“It’s okay, Michael,” Sam said. “He’s the medical examiner. That’s what he does. He conducts autopsies.”
“No,” Michael said sharply. He started to cry. “You don’t understand. Yes, he was performing an autopsy. But you were on the table.”
Chapter 15
“When?” Sam croaked. But before Michael could answer, she cleared her throat and said, “Never mind that for now.” Any crack that might have been present in her shell, she completely sealed up.
Michael looked as if he might vomit. He fidgeted uncontrollably. His cheeks were blotched from crying. He’d had more than his fair share of scares for a kid his age—hell, he’d had more than enough for anyone.
Sure, Sam was afraid to die. The risk of injury or death was already high enough in her chosen employment without a psychic kid predicting it. What Michael saw in his visions became reality. She believed that. So she knew that without appropriate interference, she would be lying on an examining table, her cold, rigid body the canvas for Dr. Prentiss’s crude art.