The Widening Gyre

by Chuck Grossart

  Taggart removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Exhuming Bannock’s grave is the first step. Once we prove that he’s alive, then we go from there. In the meantime, we need to find out what his connection is to Regan. Did the families know each other? Did Tom Regan ever know this guy? Serve together? Check the Anders family, too. There’s got to be something there.”

  “Got it.” Mauger hesitated before speaking again. “Like you said, if we find an empty casket where Bannock is supposed to be buried, we’ll have a new suspect. But if we do find him right where he’s supposedly been laying for the last twenty years, then we’ll have a real no-shit mystery on our hands.”

  “If there’s a body, then it’s not him. Bannock is alive. I don’t even want to go there.”

  Mauger nodded at his partner. “It shouldn’t take too long to get the court order, once the judge hears what I’ve just told you, unless, of course, he throws me out of his chambers for being a complete babbling idiot. I wouldn’t blame him, either.”

  “Thanks, Jack. This is fucking crazy.”

  “So what do we do with Regan?”

  The evidence they had on Zach Regan was all circumstantial, and Taggart had seen juries convict on much less, but if the ME was correct (which she always was), and the desk clerk knew how to tell time (as a time-stamped ATM camera proved he did), then Regan wasn’t there when Anders died. He may have brought Rakel Anders to the hotel, but he wasn’t there when she was killed. Regardless, they couldn’t hold him for murder. “We’re going to have to release him, but as far as I’m concerned, he’s still a person of interest. He stays put. I want to meet with Regan and his attorney before he walks out our door.”

  Mauger turned to leave, then looked back over his shoulder. “You know, all of a sudden I feel like I’m working The X-Files,” he said. “But you’re not as good-looking as Scully. Not even close, as a matter of fact.”

  Taggart smiled. “Just don’t come in here in a couple of hours and tell me aliens did it, okay?”

  Mauger grinned, shook his head, and left the office.

  Taggart leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. Someone else was in that hotel room after Zach Regan left. Someone named Mitchell Bannock, supposedly murdered twenty years ago in Twin Creek . . .

  A name suddenly popped into his head, the girl who had lost her parents a few months back. Murder-suicide. “Peyton Sayre,” he said out loud.

  He recalled the overwhelming dread he’d experienced that night, a feeling of impending danger somehow involving the girl. The feeling was back. He rubbed his forearms, trying to erase the goose bumps that suddenly peppered his skin.

  Twin Creek.

  30

  Peyton hadn’t contacted Dezi since moving to Twin Creek, and she hoped her friend would understand.

  When she’d watched the Woodmen Tower and the First National Bank building disappear from view as she and her aunt drove away from Omaha, Peyton decided to make a clean break from her past life, to forget it and move forward. But now, she needed to talk to Dezi, and not with a text. Peyton needed to hear her friend’s voice. “Hi, Dez. It’s Peyton.”

  “Peyton! It’s about time you called! I’ve been freaking out since you left—I miss you! How’s it going?”

  It was good to hear Dezi’s voice after all these months. “I know. I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner.”

  “No sweat, girl.” An awkward pause. “But you still should’ve texted me or something.”

  “I know, I know. How are things?”

  “I’m so ready to graduate, it’s not even funny.”

  “Me too.”

  “How’s your new school?”

  “Not bad,” Peyton said. “Pretty small, but it’s okay. All my credits transferred, so I’m going to be able to graduate on time.”

  “Cool! That’s great news.”

  In a short time, they eased into a comfortable conversation, just two friends catching up on all the high school gossip over the last couple of months.

  “Hey, whatever happened with you and Randy?” Peyton asked.

  Dezi snorted. “He’s a dork. A complete dork. He hooked up with Lindsay Shannon.”

  “Silicone Shannon? No way!”

  Both girls laughed. It was great to be talking to each other again.

  “How are you getting along with your aunt and uncle?” Dezi asked.

  “They’re great, really great. They’ve made me a part of their family. It feels like home.”

  “That’s awesome. I’m happy for you, Peyton. You deserve it.”

  Peyton hadn’t called her friend just to talk. She needed to know something, and hoped Dezi could help. “Dez, can I ask you something?” she asked hesitantly.

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you remember the party? That night?”

  “Yes,” Dezi said, all the enthusiasm gone from her voice.

  “Do you remember a guy there, in the kitchen?” Peyton asked. “He walked in right before your mom called you.”

  “Um, maybe. What did he look like?”

  “He was about my height, dark hair, had on a sweater, jeans. We walked right past him on the way out.” Peyton remembered the boy’s name from her dream. “I think his name was Zach?”

  “Yeah, I know who he is.”

  Peyton was taken aback by the sudden coldness in Dezi’s voice. The silence stretched for a long moment before Peyton spoke. “I was just wondering.”

  “You don’t want to know him.”

  “Why?” Peyton asked, surprised at her friend’s reaction.

  “Do you remember Rakel Anders?”

  All at once, Peyton’s nightmare came rushing back. Rakel had been standing at the other end of the hallway and had turned into that thing, the horrible monster that’d torn into Zach. Peyton’s hand started shaking, and she almost dropped her phone. Had the nightmare been a warning, an omen of some sort? Had Rakel done something to Zach? “Yes, I remember her,” Peyton said, trying to keep the sudden fear she was feeling from creeping into her voice. “What does she have to do with Zach?”

  “Rakel is dead, Peyton. That guy you saw at the party, Zach Regan, killed her. It’s been all over the news. Don’t you have TV up there?”

  It took a second for the words to sink in. No, it can’t be. Justine and Rick very seldom had the TV on, so Peyton wasn’t surprised she hadn’t heard anything.

  “Peyton? Are you there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.” Her heart was racing.

  “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” This can’t be true, I just know it isn’t. “What are they saying on the news?”

  “He took Rakel to a hotel and strangled her. Then he cut her up.”

  “Oh my God.” Peyton’s knees weakened, and she steadied herself against the wall.

  “They’re saying Zach killed her because he got hurt at the party, and blamed her for it. Pretty sick.”

  He got hurt? “What happened at the party? I don’t remember—”

  “It was after we left. Greg Robinson went after Zach because he’d been bothering Rakel at work. Zach kicked his ass, and then Clark Stebbins hit Zach over the head with a baseball bat. Clark’s lucky the guy lived, or he’d be the one in jail right now. But Rakel would still be alive.”

  “Oh my God.”

  “I never liked Rakel, but nobody deserves to get killed like that. It was awful, Peyton. He cut her up pretty bad. That’s what the news said, anyway.”

  *

  While Peyton was on the phone with Dezi, construction workers gathered in the Twin Creek Christian Church cemetery, just a few blocks away from the Harmons’ house. A cold, misting rain descended from an ashen sky.

  A backhoe operator slowly dug a trench in front of a marble headstone. Thick black diesel smoke puffed from the exhaust as the clawed bucket labored to remove the six feet of soil covering the grave.

  A loud scraping noise announced they’d hit pay dirt.

  “Okay, that’s it!” a worker shouted. He tur
ned to a man standing beside him. “There’s the vault lid. Give us about twenty minutes, and we’ll have it out.”

  Standing at the edge of the freshly dug trench was a CSI tech. This wasn’t the first time he’d exhumed a body. A corpse still had stories to tell, evidence that even death couldn’t erase. Honestly, he hoped the casket would be empty, because if the body was there, it would be a whole different ball game for his colleagues in Omaha.

  *

  Peyton felt lost after talking to Dezi. The boy she was so drawn to—so mesmerized by—was now charged with a brutal murder, locked away in an Omaha jail cell.

  She needed to clear her head, think this through.

  Grabbing a light jacket, she headed outside. A misting rain was falling, and gray clouds hung low in the sky. As she neared the sidewalk, Peyton felt an urge to go to a place where she’d spent very little time over the course of her life; she’d attended with her parents when she was little, but they’d stopped going when things started to fall apart. She would go to church. And pray.

  Justine and Rick attended a nondenominational church right down the street from their house. Peyton hoped she’d find some answers there.

  *

  The crane operator lifted the heavy vault lid and set it on the grass about ten feet away from the open grave. Inside the large cement vault was Mitch Bannock’s casket. Two workers jumped into the trench and attached steel cables to the casket, readying it to be lifted out of the ground and into the light of day for the first time in nearly two decades.

  In a few short minutes they’d know what the casket contained.

  *

  As Peyton neared the church, she noticed a great deal of activity in the adjacent cemetery. There were police vehicles, a hearse, a crane, and people standing around a freshly dug hole.

  “My God,” she said, “they’re taking a body out of the ground?” She couldn’t help but stand and watch.

  *

  The casket rose into view, gently swinging from side to side in its harness. Workers steadied it with gloved hands.

  The crane operator carefully lowered the casket to a cart sitting behind the hearse.

  Locking clamps were removed.

  They opened the casket’s lid.

  *

  Peyton watched as a casket was raised from the grave. It was dark wood, with brass handles, now green from exposure to whatever elements had seeped into the vault.

  She watched as it was lowered onto some sort of support sitting behind the hearse, a group of people gathered around it. It was suddenly very still. Very quiet.

  Through a small gap between two of the people, she watched as they opened the lid.

  “Oh, Mitch,” Peyton said.

  Flashes.

  She saw a handsome young man, sitting at a table in a library. He looked up at her and smiled. She felt love. A sense of finding a soul mate.

  I know he’s the one.

  She saw this same young man, down on one knee, asking her to marry him. She felt indescribable happiness as he slipped the ring on her finger.

  Yes, I’ll marry you.

  She saw him dressed in an Army uniform, boarding an airplane, turning and waving at her. She felt sadness, worry, and apprehension.

  Please come back to me.

  She saw a TV screen playing a news story about a war in the Middle East, talking about the casualties. She felt fear.

  Please, God, don’t let it be Mitch.

  She saw a house—the same house she was living in now, only different—he was carrying her through the front door. She felt incredible joy, a beginning of things.

  This is where we’ll make our life together.

  She saw his smiling face, and then tears running down his cheeks, as she told him she was pregnant. She felt things were as they should be; they were blessed with a child.

  Our first.

  She saw a child, a newborn baby boy, being lifted and set on her belly. She touched his tiny arm, heard his very first cry. She felt relieved, and so full of joy.

  He’s healthy. We have a son.

  A first birthday party.

  Seasons changing, sitting on the porch.

  Teaching a son how to ride a bike.

  Sitting at the dinner table.

  Smiles, and hugs.

  Bath time.

  First day of school.

  A promotion at work.

  Dinner out together, for the first time in a few years.

  Cub Scouts.

  A Disneyland vacation. Mickey Mouse.

  Another baby on the way!

  A present, learning how to catch a ball with a new glove.

  A T-ball game.

  A first hit.

  Ice cream.

  A check from her mother.

  A bank.

  Fear.

  Helplessness.

  A man in a ski mask. Gunshots.

  Pain.

  Heartache.

  Loss.

  Anger.

  Hatred.

  Death.

  Longing.

  Searching.

  Peyton gasped as the visions tumbled through her mind, as if she were watching a movie at ten times normal speed.

  And then, just as suddenly as it had started, it was over.

  Peyton gripped the cemetery fence, trying to keep her balance. Her legs were weak. Her mind, spinning.

  She watched as the casket was slid into a waiting hearse. Inside, a voice not entirely her own whispered a silent, aching farewell.

  The sky opened up, and cold sheets of rain began to fall.

  *

  As the hearse pulled out of the cemetery, the CSI investigator turned to his partner and said, “Go ahead and give OPD a call. Tell them we have a body.”

  31

  Justine was in the kitchen when she heard Peyton come through the front door.

  “Aunt Justine!”

  “I’m in here, Peyton,” she replied, frowning at the frantic tone of her niece’s voice. And when Justine saw her, a million different possibilities flashed through her head, none of them good. Peyton was soaking wet, her hair hanging in strands in front of bright, fearful eyes. She was out of breath, and visibly shaking. “Good Lord, honey, what’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

  “No, I—I was just at the church. There were men in the cemetery, digging up a grave, and I—”

  Peyton swayed on her feet, and Justine quickly took her by the arm and led her to the living room couch. Peyton was cold to the touch. Too cold to be just from the rain outside. “You’re chilled to the bone. Here,” she said, grabbing a blanket from the arm of the couch and wrapping it around Peyton’s shoulders. “I’ll get you a cup of something hot.” She went into the kitchen and grabbed a Keurig tea pod and a mug. At the cemetery? In the middle of a storm? When Justine stepped back into the living room, Peyton was sitting under the blanket, her knees to her chest, and her eyes . . . she’d never seen Peyton like this before. She was staring at the far wall but seeing nothing. Justine sat down on the couch next to Peyton and handed her the mug. Peyton didn’t take it. “Peyton?” She just kept staring, her eyes vacant. “Peyton?”

  “I stopped to watch,” Peyton said, her voice thin, as if on the verge of crying. “They opened it—” She stopped. “I saw something, Aunt Justine. Or I felt something. I don’t know what it was. What’s wrong with me?”

  “Here,” Justine said, holding the mug out again. This time, Peyton responded and took it. Her hand was shaking.

  Justine had been watching Peyton closely ever since she’d arrived. She’d cried once, the day Peyton had told her about the little boy in the kitchen, but not once had she shed a tear over her parents, or shown any grief whatsoever. It didn’t surprise Justine, because she’d seen it before. Many of the kids they’d fostered had come from broken homes. With some, it was obvious—behavioral problems, violent outbursts, even inappropriate sexual promiscuity—but others seemed to keep all their emotions inside, trapped behind a self-protective wall. Sometimes t
he wall would crack slowly, but at times it could crumble all at once, like the Hoover Dam falling apart, and the rush of feelings and anger would come screaming out in one big destructive wave. Innocuous things could trigger it—a song, a show on TV, a glance from a stranger on the street—something that caused the little Dutch boy in their heads to yank his finger out of the hole and let the water flow. She didn’t know why Peyton had decided to go to the cemetery, but maybe her niece had finally found her trigger, and everything that had happened in Omaha was about to rush down the valley.

  Peyton would talk, and Justine would listen. Together, they would heal.

  It was odd, though, that they would be exhuming someone, especially in a small town like Twin Creek. Nothing like that ever happened here. “What did you see, honey?” Justine asked.

  Peyton took a sip of the tea, and turned to her aunt. The light in her eyes had returned, but she still looked upset. And confused.

  “I saw a lot of things—in my head,” Peyton said. “It was almost like a movie. I saw a whole life flash before my eyes, but it wasn’t mine.”

  First the dreams, then seeing a boy in the kitchen who had disappeared into thin air, and now this. If Justine hadn’t heard two voices that morning—Peyton’s, and what sounded like a child—then she might feel differently about what Peyton was saying. She’d be calling her friend Norma Flint to set up a counseling session.

  told me he knew me

  But Justine had heard the voice. She tried to explain it away, convince herself that she was imagining things, but couldn’t. She even considered a multiple personality disorder, where Peyton would be talking with two distinct voices, but no. None of the other signs were there. She had definitely heard a child in the

  find him and help my dad

  kitchen with Peyton. Justine fought to control the shiver tickling her shoulders, threatening to slither down her back.

  “Is there something wrong with me?” Peyton asked. A tear slid down her cheek.

  Justine smiled and took Peyton’s hand. “No, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you, honey. You’re just in the middle of something right now that—” She paused, correcting herself. “No, we’re in the middle of something right now that neither of us understands. Yet. It’s going to be okay.”