“I want to go,” Peyton repeated.
“Good,” Taggart said. “I’ll get the ball rolling today. In the meantime, I’ve convinced Social Services to let you stay at the Williamses’ house.”
She was a little taken aback once she realized what he’d said. “Thank you, Detective. You don’t know how much I appreciate that.” This man cared about her, genuinely cared. He knew nothing about her, but was willing to help. It was a good feeling.
“Is there anything you need, or would like to have from your house?” Taggart asked. “I can have one of the officers get your clothes, or—”
“There’s just one thing I want,” Peyton said quickly. “A box of pictures in my bottom dresser drawer.”
“I’ll have someone bring it over to the Williamses’ house as soon as possible.”
“Thank you,” Peyton said. The memories held in that small box were all she wanted to remember about her childhood. Only the happy ones.
“That’s all I have, Peyton,” Taggart said. He had never seen someone her age handle a personal tragedy with such strength, especially considering the conditions she’d been forced to endure at home.
Taggart always told the younger officers to keep a safe distance, focus on the case, and avoid getting personally involved. Before he could let Peyton walk out his door, he decided to ignore his own advice. “You’re a remarkable young lady, Peyton, and I know you’re going to get through this.” He slid one of his cards across his desk. “If you need anything at all, please give me a call.” He stood and opened his door. Professionally, it was time to move on, as there were other cases that required his attention, but personally, he wasn’t ready. The sense of dread he’d felt the night of the Sayre murder was still with him, and none of what he saw or heard from Peyton made it go away.
Peyton paused in the doorway, and then turned to face him. “Detective?”
“Yes?” He wanted to say something, to warn her, but about what?
“Thank you for all you’ve done,” Peyton said. As if reading his mind, she added, “Don’t worry about me. You’re right. I’m going to be okay.”
I hope so, Taggart thought to himself as his door swung closed.
*
The police officer jotted down answers as quickly as he could. The smell wafting from the dumpster was turning his stomach. “What time did you discover the body?”
“About seven this morning, man. Me and James were just, you know, doing our job when we saw it. We usually look inside before we dump them just in case there’s a drunk sleeping in there or something. We lifted the lid, and smelled it. James puked his guts out.” Yes, Officer, I’m quite thorough about such things, because I surely wouldn’t want to be the cause of injury to an innocent human being who’s down on his luck.
“And you didn’t touch anything?”
“No, man, no, we didn’t touch a fucking thi— Um, we didn’t touch nothing. We called dispatch right after we found her.” No, I didn’t taint your precious evidence. I left it nice and clear, so you could catch the depraved lunatic who did it. His wallet will be easy to find, too. Believe me.
“That’s all I need right now. You guys did the right thing. You and your partner are free to go.” The police officer turned and walked toward the dumpster, which contained the remains of an as-of-yet unidentified nude female, red hair, throat cut from ear to ear. And missing her left ring finger.
They hadn’t found the other one yet. The redhead had brought a friend, a perky little brunette who had no idea her promiscuous adventure would come to an abrupt end. She’d be found soon, too. And before long, the English gentleman with the penchant for filleting stewardesses—who was wandering the streets of Omaha without his wallet, alone—would be found as well, and be on his way to death row. The trashman smiled. He enjoyed collecting refuse, as it was much like his regular line of work.
The Traveler hadn’t come to Omaha for redheads or brunettes, though. He had someone else he wanted to meet, someone very special.
Gentlemen prefer blondes.
14
From the darkness . . .
Zach heard his mother’s voice, felt her holding his hand, stroking his hair. He heard his father telling him the score of the last Broncos game. Comforting murmurs, gently pushing through the darkness, existing for but a moment in his silent world, his black world.
He was in a hospital again, but this time, he was sure it wasn’t because of something he’d done to himself. Something had happened to him—he just couldn’t remember what it had been.
He recognized other voices, softly drifting to him through the darkness.
Randy York, upset and sorry. What’s wrong, Randy? I’ve never heard you sound sad.
He felt another hand, warm, delicate. He could smell perfume. A girl? He felt her tears on his arm. She was sorry, so sorry for what had happened. She said it was her fault, told him to get better, and left a rose on his pillow. He recognized her voice, but it was no longer hurtful. Instead, her voice was gentle, caring. He had never heard Rakel Anders speak to him like that before. Rakel? You’re talking to me? Why are you crying?
Suddenly, he found himself looking down at a person lying in a hospital bed. The room was sterile, coldly functional. There were people rushing about, clad in hospital greens, moving with a purpose.
Two people were rushed out of the room by a nurse, a man and woman, holding one another. They were crying. His mom and dad.
He looked closely at the person in the hospital bed and saw his own face. There were tubes coming out of his mouth, out of his nose. There were wires, monitors. He saw the doctors and nurses trying desperately to . . . save me?
Zach watched as the doctor pressed two large pads on his body, one on his upper right chest and the other on his left side, slightly lower. His body convulsed then, rising off the bed and falling back. Again. Again. And again.
With each jolt of electricity, Zach felt himself being pulled further away.
No! I don’t want to leave! Please! I want to stay! I’m not afraid anymore! He watched the line on the monitor go still. Flat. A steady, unwavering tone. The hospital room slowly began to fade.
The doctor stepped away from the bed. A nurse pulled a sheet over his head.
Zach Regan was dead.
*
He felt himself falling, a terrible pain in his chest and in his stomach. He hit something hard, cold. A floor? The sensation he felt—heart pounding, a numbness in his extremities, and a warm wetness spreading across his body—was familiar. He’d felt much the same thing that night years ago when he’d tried to take his own life. He was bleeding out, sprawled on a floor.
Zach opened his eyes, and stared into the face of a woman lying beside him, her face turned toward his, all life gone from her eyes.
But she wasn’t dead.
“I know who you are,” she said, her voice clotted and thick. “Your name is Zach.”
Zach had never seen this woman before, but he was overcome with a sadness so deep, it was crushing in its intensity.
“You have to go back,” she said.
Zach spoke, coughing blood. “Go back from where?”
“Everything depends on you, Zach. He’s tried to speak to you, warn you, but he hasn’t been able to get through.”
“I don’t understand,” Zach gurgled, his throat full of blood.
“It ended here, and began again with you. Find her, before it’s too late. Go back.”
As in his dreams, Zach could sense something drawing close, something evil. Someone was walking toward him.
The woman reached for him; her cold fingers touched his cheek. “He’s gone, isn’t he,” she said, her voice full of loneliness and regret.
“Who?”
“Let him in. Listen for him. He’ll be back, I know he will . . .”
“I don’t understand who you’re—”
“You can’t die, Zach, you have to return. Hurry, before it’s too late. Find her, before it does.”
&nbs
p; Someone was standing over him, laughing. Zach knew who it was; his personal demon had followed him here, and if he died—if he didn’t go back—there would be no heaven for him.
The decision was an easy one.
Zach wanted to live.
*
“All right, I’m calling it,” Dr. Vinson said, lowering his head in defeat. It was never easy to lose a patient.
One of the nurses turned away from the bed and raised a hand to her mouth. She took a few steps and attempted to discreetly wipe a tear from her cheek.
Dr. Vinson approached Zach’s mother and father, dreading what he had to do next. He looked into their faces, so full of pain. Their hearts, he knew, were broken. “I’m sorry, Tom, Linda. He’s gone. We tried everything—”
An electronic beep-beep-beep resonated throughout the hospital room, the sound of a strong, steady heartbeat.
“Doctor?” The nurse shouted, “Dr. Vinson!”
Zach was alive.
*
Peyton woke suddenly. She heard a voice. The shadows in this room were still foreign to her, murky shrouds falling in unfamiliar patterns, throwing shapes across the walls, coalescing in the corners, pooling across the floor and under the bed. “Justine? Is that you?” She sat up in bed, and listened.
There was no one in her room, and her door was shut.
Maybe she was dreaming, but the voice . . .
Peyton grabbed her robe from the foot of her bed, and hesitantly stepped to her door. The hinges squeaked as she slowly pushed it open. She stood still, listening to the faint ticking of the clock in the living room, but heard nothing more.
She padded down the hall toward Rick and Justine’s room, the hardwood floor creaking softly with each step, cool against her bare feet. There was no light peeking out from under their door, and she could hear both of them snoring. Sound asleep.
It was nothing, she convinced herself. Even though she had been here for a few weeks, she was still getting accustomed to the sounds this house made in the middle of the night. Peyton went back to bed and slipped under the covers. The digits on her bedside clock clicked by, and she slowly drifted back to sleep.
Ten minutes later, a woman’s voice startled her awake again, the same voice she heard before. She sat up in bed and looked around her room. There had to be someone there. Gooseflesh crawled across her body, and she pulled her blanket tightly to her chest. As before, though, she was alone. And confused. The voice sounded so real, as if someone leaned over her pillow and whispered into her ear.
Three words. Spoken clearly, and softly.
You are chosen.
15
“Zach, you have a visitor,” the nurse said. “Do you feel up to it?”
“Who is it?” Zach asked, tossing aside the magazine he’d been reading.
“She says she works with you.”
Zach figured it must be Cora. He was glad she’d finally decided to pay him a visit. “Okay.”
The nurse turned toward a person standing just out of view. “Go on in, but just for a few minutes.”
Not Cora. In fact, it was the last person Zach expected to see.
Rakel stepped into the doorway, holding a single red rose. “Can I come in?” she said, her voice tinged with uncertainty.
Zach nodded, still too surprised to speak.
As Rakel entered the room, Zach noticed she looked different. She wore black leggings, tan leather dress boots, and a matching leather jacket. A scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold. Illuminated by the bright fluorescent lights, her long blonde hair fell about her shoulders, framing her face in a golden cascade. No, she didn’t look different—she was just as beautiful as always—but it was the look in her eyes that had changed. The meanness Zach was accustomed to seeing wasn’t there.
Rakel stood by the head of Zach’s bed. “I brought you this,” she said, holding up the rose.
A vase on the bedside table held another single red rose. “You brought that one too, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. A few days ago.” She slipped the rose into the vase, and then came right to the point. “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“To be honest, I’m surprised to see you,” he admitted. More than that, though, Zach was curious. Rakel always made it abundantly clear that she didn’t think much of him. She never once treated him like a human being, consistently ignoring him, acting as if he didn’t exist. But now, she brought him flowers? Twice?
“I want to tell you I’m sorry about what happened. That night.” Rakel’s voice was unsteady, as if she were on the verge of tears. “I wanted to tell you in person.”
Not only had the blow to the back of his head nearly killed him, it had caused him to forget things. A lot of things. He could recall sitting in his car outside the Van Pelts’ house, but after that everything was a blank. “I only know what people told me about that night. There was a fight, and then this happened,” he said, touching the bandages on his head. Rakel dropped her eyes, as if ashamed or guilty. “Were you there?” he asked.
Rakel abruptly turned away. “You really don’t remember?”
“No, I don’t,” he said.
She turned to face him. “It happened because of me, Zach. It was my fault.” A tear slowly ran down her cheek. “When I saw you lying there, not moving, and paramedics putting you in the ambulance, I thought you were dead.” Rakel was crying now, her words coming between broken sobs. “If I hadn’t told Greg that you were some sort of psycho, this never would have—”
“You did what?” Suddenly, the Rakel he knew from work was standing in the room, the Rakel who treated him like a second-class nobody.
Rakel turned away, covering her mouth with her hands.
Zach was speechless.
When Rakel finally spoke, her voice was filled with shame. “Yes. I did it, Zach. I lied and told Greg I was afraid of you because you wouldn’t leave me alone. All I wanted to do was make him—” She clasped her hand over her mouth, as if trying to stop an ugly truth from spilling out. She looked down at the floor, took a deep breath, and turned to face Zach again. “I was trying to make him feel protective, to want me. Greg was drunk, and he—”
“Stop, Rakel. Just stop.” Now, he knew. It had happened because of her. He wanted nothing more than for her to go, but he needed to know one thing first. “You told him I was a psycho. Why would you say something like that?”
She wouldn’t look him in the eye as she said, “I saw your scars, Zach. On your wrists.”
So there it was. He tried to hide them, but she had noticed. He held his arms in front of him, palms up. “That’s right, Rakel, I have scars. I tried to kill myself when I was twelve.” She wouldn’t look at him. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid to look now? Are they too ugly for you? I have to look at them every day and remember what I did to myself.” Still, she wouldn’t look. “Look at my scars, Rakel. Look at the psycho’s scars,” he yelled.
Rakel opened her mouth to speak, but Zach cut her off.
“No, I don’t want to hear it. These aren’t me, Rakel. Not anymore. If you’d have taken the time to know me, you might have realized that.” He dropped his arms and looked away. “You need to go.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her start to leave, then stop. She spoke.
“No,” Rakel said. “I came here to tell you I was sorry, Zach, but I also came here to thank you.”
“Thank me? Look, if this is some kind of game you’re playing, you need to stop. What you did almost got me killed, and I’m not going to sit here and—”
“I know, Zach. I know. What I did was horrible, and I wouldn’t blame you if you never forgave me.”
“You want forgiveness? Is that why you’re here?” Zach shook his head. “Fine. I forgive you. Now you can leave and feel better about yourself.”
“I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”
“Please leave, Rakel.”
“No. I don’t care if you do
n’t listen, but I’m going to say what I have to say, and then I’ll leave and you’ll never have to see me again.”
Her makeup was smeared, tears leaving mascara tracks down her cheeks, and her lip was quivering. Rakel’s perfect-girl mask had been washed away, and underneath it, Zach saw a side of her he’d never known existed. She was a person who could be hurt. And he’d done it. He felt no satisfaction from it. “Okay, I’ll listen.”
Rakel nodded. “That night, I thought you were dead, Zach. Clark hit you so hard, and I knew it was all my fault. I took a long look in the mirror the day after it happened, and I didn’t like the person who was staring back. I’ve decided to change, and I have you to thank for that.”
Zach didn’t say anything at first. He was terribly angry at Rakel for what she had done, but now he felt something entirely different. Coming here and admitting it—in person—took a lot of courage.
“Now I’ll go.” Rakel turned toward the door.
“No,” Zach said. “You don’t have to leave.” She stopped and stood in the doorway, her back to him. “Look, what happened, happened,” Zach said. “There’s nothing either of us can do to change that. You coming here, though, and admitting what you did, means a lot.” He wasn’t angry with her anymore. Maybe the Rakel he’d known at work really had changed.
She turned. “I am sorry, Zach. And I meant everything I said.”
Zach nodded, feeling guilty for treating her as he had been treated. “I’m sorry I made you cry.”
Rakel wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “God, I’m a mess.”
Zach offered her a box of Kleenex from his bedside table.
She walked toward him, pulled a tissue from the box, and wiped her eyes. “You have every reason to be mad at me. I deserve it.”
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