Tiger's Eye (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Three)

by Barbra Annino

  “Hang on, buddy. Let me take off my cover-up first.” I kicked away my flip-flops and removed the purple terry cloth sundress, setting it on top of the bag.

  Then I forgot all about my parents, the tiger, the collie, even the clown, and just had a riotous time with my best pal.

  We played catch and tag for a couple of hours before it was time for a break. I tossed Thor some of his cookies, poured fresh water into his portable bowl, and grabbed a bottle for myself.

  The sun was high in the sky by that time so we sprawled out on the sand and relaxed for a bit, enjoying the quiet symphony of twittering birds, croaking frogs, and musical insects. Thor took an interest in an army of ants that were transporting supplies back to their troops, while I pulled out my Kindle and settled into a good murder mystery.

  I got through four chapters before Thor charged into the lake again after an unsuspecting dragonfly. The sweat was pouring off me and I decided to take a dip too. I walked out into the lake, enchanted by a crane that must have swooped in from the Mississippi. She stood on an outer bank, gobbling bugs and pecking at berries, her impossibly thin legs balanced on a log. I waded out farther into the lake, squishing my toes into the wet sand before I finally felt a mucky cold sludge where the sand dropped off and the basin was deeper. I did a few far-reaching breaststrokes when I heard a sharp squawk. I looked back to find the crane twisting her neck, cawing and calling when—to my complete astonishment—her delicate beak bulged, her legs swelled, and her body stretched and rippled until it finally morphed into the white tiger from the tree.

  She took a few steps toward the lake, her body gracefully navigating the thick brush, flattening cattails and phlox with her thick paws. Then a few more steps. Then a few more. Soon she was standing on top of the water, her reflection casting a mirror image across the glassy surface.

  I blinked, cartoon style.

  White tigers represent focus, courage, and strength. They are considered “sisters of the moon,” able to harness lunar magic and other feminine energies.

  Which was why I was shocked by her presence in the daylight.

  Well, that and the fact that they are not native to this area, or, to my knowledge, possess the ability to float on water.

  She lowered her mighty head, her eyes trained on me, and I nearly peed my suit. My arms started shaking as I tried to conjure up the lesson she was here to teach before she got any closer.

  Think, Stacy.

  Tigers were associated with water. Good swimmers. Devoted mothers. They had stamina, patience, and strength. Power. They were messengers of, of…what? Was it adventure? Yes, that, but…something else too.

  And then it hit me.

  Truth. Danger.

  Uh-oh.

  I twirled around, a complete 360-degree turn, the water lapping over my shoulders, my eyes darting every which way.

  The trees were still, save for a slight rustling from a summer breeze. No movement across the way either. The lake was calm. No boats. No swimmers. No hockey-masked men with chain saws.

  But I felt it in my gut. The nausea came in a rush, and a lesson that Birdie had been drilling into my head for years echoed in my mind. Always be on guard, always heed the warnings your body and the spirit guides are trying to tell you.

  Harmful intent.

  I took a deep breath to calm myself, then backstroked toward the beach, keeping my eyes open for anything out of the ordinary.

  Off the left bank, Thor was digging a hole in the sand, oblivious to the tiger and to my panic.

  Another deep breath.

  If Thor wasn’t concerned, that was a good sign. Very good, because it surely meant that if he didn’t sense danger, it wasn’t going to happen now. The tiger was just telling me that something ominous loomed and that I needed to prepare.

  I set my gaze on her, hoping to signal that I understood and to thank her for the warning.

  Her sea foam eyes darkened, her pink nose twitched. She cocked her head as if to say, “I tried to tell you.”

  And then I was plunged into the belly of the lake.

  Chapter 7

  Struggling to stay focused, remain calm, and hold your breath all at the same time when something or someone is clamped onto your foot and dragging you to a watery grave is not easy.

  I kicked and fought, thrashed in the water, but the force, or weight, or whatever had a grip on me was powerful.

  And two thoughts occurred to me.

  The first was: My father was murdered.

  The second was: Now it’s my turn.

  I couldn’t see anything below me, so I focused on the ray of light penetrating the surface and pushed my arms up and away, up and away, up and away. I kicked and kicked, trying to dislodge myself from the force that was binding me, but the more I bucked, the harder I fought, the farther I sank into the cold, murky depths of the lake I once loved.

  This was it. This was how I was going to die. I would never know what happened to my father. Never see my mother again. Never get married, have babies, or take a trip to Home Depot.

  I had failed both my past and future families.

  My strength was waning, my breath was running out, but I had just enough energy for one final battle.

  I doubled over, thumping at my own ankle, feeling only flesh, but still unable to see my attacker. I twisted in the water. Spiraling and spinning, reaching my arms far over my head to gain leverage and pull myself from this black hole.

  That’s when my second foot was captured.

  I was pulled down deep enough that my ears popped, my head exploded with pain, and I lost consciousness.

  Chapter 8

  “All his life he tried to be a good person. Many times, however, he failed. For after all, he was only human. He wasn’t a dog.”

  —Charles M. Schulz

  When I opened my eyes again, I wondered if I was dead.

  If I was dead, why was no one there to guide me into the Summerland? Where were my ancestors who had gone before me? Maegan? Dad?

  If I wasn’t dead, how the hell was I still able to breathe underwater?

  The answers came not in a bright white light full of love and acceptance and fluttering angel wings like you see in the movies.

  It came in the form of a sucker punch.

  There were hands on my waist, and the face in front of me looked concerned at first. I blinked, and the man who was holding onto me lifted a finger. No wait, two fingers.

  He flashed a peace sign.

  I was frozen in fear and because the water was numbingly cold, but I nodded anyway, because really, what choice was there?

  And I realized I could actually breathe just fine. I didn’t dwell on that because there were more pressing matters at hand. Like how do I get back to land? And who was this guy?

  He pointed down.

  That was when I saw the concrete block chained to his leg.

  Instinctively, I dove down to see if I could free him, but he grabbed my ankle, flipped me over, and shook his head.

  He held my gaze for a split second. He was wearing a red plaid shirt over a white tank top and jeans that probably didn’t look much better dry. His neck was like a Roman column and his eyes were filled with broken promises swimming in regret.

  In a flash, he transformed into a rotting corpse with hollow sockets and a gaping mouth. Every orifice had creepy-crawlies slithering in and out of it.

  I freaked the hell out.

  My arms took on a life of their own, flailing in directions I didn’t know they could move. My legs became ninja warriors, writhing at anything and everything they could hit.

  Must Get Away from the Lake Monster.

  I just knew his plan was to make me his soggy bride. Or maybe he was some sort of water zombie and I was his next meal.

  He slugged me again. Really hard.

  Holy nutfugget, that hurt!

  I whacked him right back in his doughy face, which had returned to its original shape of Normal-Looking Human.

  His head
bobbed, but he still held fast to me. I was grateful for the small fact that at least now he looked like a roofer after a long day rather than a Wes Craven creation.

  He made the peace sign again and I think he tried to roll his eyes, but I couldn’t be sure.

  He pointed down once more.

  I trailed his finger with my gaze. While I was somehow able to see shapes, movement, and hints of light, there was nothing I could pinpoint that seemed important. Some algae, water creatures, broken beer bottles, and an old boot.

  I shrugged.

  He got agitated then and started pointing down with both hands, frantically.

  When he let me go, all the air left my lungs.

  Quickly, he grabbed me again and I was able to breathe.

  I understood at that moment that he was doing it. He was responsible for my breath, my ability to see into these dark depths. He was keeping me alive.

  I felt a little better about our relationship after that and decided that whatever task the dead guy wanted me to fulfill, I better do it soon or I might never get out of here. Plus, I was getting really tired of being slapped.

  I concentrated one last time, carefully scanning the lake bed.

  Several feet away from the concrete block, something gleamed. Almost like moonlight, it had an iridescent quality.

  I pointed in that direction and he nodded enthusiastically. Then he grabbed my feet and pushed me forward.

  The glowing object would have been out of his reach, what with being anchored to the block and all, but using me as leverage, like you might a wooden spoon to reach something under the stove, worked like a charm.

  From the mushy floor of the lake, I pulled out a pearl-faced wristwatch.

  We floated up a few feet together and I offered it to him. He shook his head. Then pointed from himself to me.

  And in another split second, I was catapulted back up to the surface like a human cannonball.

  I sucked in all the fresh air I could, thankful to be back above the water. There was no telling how long I had been down there. Minutes? Hours?

  A quick scan of the perimeter revealed Thor still digging in the same spot as if I had never left. Which, technically, I guess I hadn’t.

  I dragged myself back to the beach and collapsed on my extra-large towel. It was still a bit damp and the sun was in the same spot in the sky.

  As if time had stood still.

  I took a minute to examine it. It looked to be mostly stainless steel besides the face, with more buttons than I would ever need in a timepiece. It was in good shape, minus a bit of sea scum that I wiped away with a towel. The second hand ticked by, so it seemed to be functioning just fine.

  There was one bottle of water left in my bag. I carefully stuffed the watch in the plastic baggie I used to protect my Kindle, put it in a side compartment, and zipped it shut. I grabbed the water and drank half, thinking about my “gift.”

  The first memory I had of communicating with the deceased was when I was five years old. I was in the garden trying to catch a butterfly with a fly swatter. It seemed like the most efficient method at the time, and since I hadn’t yet learned about death and dying, why not use brute force?

  Not the shiniest penny in the wishing well, you might say.

  Anyway, I was smacking at this lovely yellow-and-black beauty, hitting only air, when Mrs. Krenshaw, my preschool teacher, happened to be walking through the yard.

  She knelt down to my level and held out her arms as if she were dancing to music I couldn’t hear. She smiled at me, a warm, loving smile, and the gorgeous butterfly landed right on her nose. She gestured to me to try to do the same and I did, although the fluttering creature was keeping its distance from me by that time.

  We spent a few more minutes in the garden, me chattering away about school and the friends I was making, and Mrs. Krenshaw simply nodding and smiling. When my mother interrupted to explain that my teacher was ill and she wouldn’t be in class tomorrow, I started to protest. Until I looked back at Mrs. Krenshaw who smiled bravely, waved, and walked right through the gate.

  When I relayed the story, Birdie and the aunts were terribly excited that my gift was gaining power. My mother was torn, I think, although she didn’t dissuade the lessons they taught me at that time.

  Today, I’d learned a new lesson.

  So far, I had not been able to hear the spoken words of the departed. The messages from spirits came in the form of dreams, visions, or objects, but I wasn’t capable of conversing with them directly. At least not in the traditional sense. Perhaps through a scrying session, I might catch a glimpse of a conversation between a dead person and a living individual.

  At times, I hear Maegan’s voice—or what I perceive to be my great-grandmother’s voice—in my head, but only via words she had written in the Blessed Book.

  What just happened was different. It was desperate. This man—either a suicide or homicide victim—wanted someone to find that watch badly enough that, rather than move on to the Summerland, he waited in that dark abyss until someone came along.

  Until I came along.

  But why? What was so important about it?

  And what—if anything—did it have to do with me?

  I stood. I needed to do two things. The first was to call the police station and somehow report the body at the bottom of Eagle Lake without explaining how I knew it was there.

  The second was to make sure the deceased moved forward on his journey. As the Seeker of Justice, it was my job to ensure that the dead who came to me find their way to their next destination.

  A task I was not looking forward to after my encounter with this particular member of the nonliving.

  I shivered.

  Birdie always said the dead could never hurt you.

  But I learned today that they can touch you.

  If they can touch you, wouldn’t that mean they can hurt you?

  Chapter 9

  A new dispatcher answered the call. She sounded a lot younger and much more enthusiastic than the previous woman who had worked there. There was no need to clog up the nine-one-one system since the body wasn’t getting any deader, so I called the station direct.

  “Amethyst Police Department. This is Amy. What can I help you with?”

  “Hi, Amy, my name is Stacy Justice and—”

  “Did you say Stacy Justice?”

  “I did. Listen, I—”

  “Stacy Justice the reporter?”

  “Yes, that’s right. The reason I’m calling—”

  “Hang on.”

  I heard some papers shuffling around.

  “All right, I’m back. Go ahead…oh, damn.”

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  The woman sighed. “I had August in the pool.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re calling about a dead body, right?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Lucky guess. Damn, Gus won.”

  “Won what? What are you talking about?”

  “Well, they hired me in May after I graduated and there was this pool going on to see when you would find a dead body. I had August. Gus had June.”

  I was speechless. For like a nanosecond. “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Gee, I don’t know, is it?”

  This wasn’t going well.

  “Amy, please put someone on the phone who has a badge.”

  “Okeydoke.”

  A few seconds later, Leo asked, “You found another one? That has to be a record.”

  “I haven’t found a dead body in months, okay? Cut me some slack.”

  “Are you absolutely sure it’s a dead person? It’s not a mannequin or anything?”

  I sighed. “What month did you have?”

  “October.”

  “Wow, that long. I appreciate your faith.”

  “Where are you?”

  I told him where I was, that I was safe, and that Thor had trudged the body up but it sank back down. I also said I would wait so I could
point them in the right direction. The concrete block never came up.

  I could tell from his tone that he didn’t buy the story, but he didn’t press it either. When I hung up, my dog was standing in front of me, carrying something.

  I held out my hand and he deposited a cell phone into it. It was a cheaper model, a flip phone.

  A good deal of sand caked the cracks and crevices, and only a few teeth marks marred the edges.

  Could this have belonged to the man in the lake?

  If it did, it was evidence, and since I had no intention of handing over the watch until I figured out if the floater wanted me specifically to find it or just anyone, I figured that withholding any more evidence would be an even more serious crime.

  Rationalizing behavior that authorities may construe as poor judgment is another Geraghty trait. One I was getting better at every day I lived here.

  Not that I was proud of it.

  A few minutes later, Leo and Gus came through the tree line.

  “Why couldn’t we bring him, Chief? You know he doesn’t like to be away from you.”

  Leo muttered, “Not now, Gus.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “He’s such a cute little thing, Stacy.”

  “Gus,” Leo warned.

  “What, Stacy likes dogs.” Gus was talking and moving like a man with way too much caffeine in his system. “You know how all them dogs came running around the park yesterday? Well, most of them had owners who lived right in town, but this little Chihuahua had nobody, see—”

  I swung my head toward Leo. “You adopted that piranha? Are you kidding me?”

  “He’s a good dog.”

  “He tried to eat all four of my extremities,” I said.

  Leo laughed. “Yeah, he really doesn’t like you. But he’s great with everyone down at the station. I’m sure it was just a misunderstanding.”

  “Try explaining that to his next victim when he goes for the jugular.”