The Christopher Killer

by Alane Ferguson

  A look of amusement played at the corners of Jewel’s lips. “Yes, Adam. Rachel’s standing right behind you, actually.”

  The cameramen followed Adam as he whipped around in his seat. Apparently seeing nothing, Adam turned back to Jewel. Then, with one more quick glance over his shoulder, he asked, “You’re sure she’s standing there?”

  “Oh, yes, I see her. She’s a very beautiful girl,” Dr. Jewel said. “I see long, brown hair and a pretty smile. But I think her hair was actually red before she colored it. On the other side, her hair changes from red to brown, like flashes of light.”

  Once again, Cameryn was startled. How would he know about Rachel’s hair? That was more than a lucky guess—Rachel had dyed her hair for years. Did Jewel somehow gain access to the coroner files?

  “She’s holding up a watch with no hands,” Jewel said now. “The clock tells me she wasn’t ready to die. Now she’s extending a white rose, which means she’s accepted it and is in her bliss.” His eyes fluttered again. “Rachel’s holding up her hand for me and I can see she’s wearing jewelry…” Now Jewel squinted. “It’s a bracelet, I think. And earrings. Hoops, I believe. Are those blue beads on them?” he asked the air. Then, shaking his head, he corrected himself. “I’m sorry. They are green.”

  Cameryn felt her whole body react. How could he have known about the earrings?

  “Rachel’s trying to let you know she’s really here, so allow the validation. She’s made her way here, and she’s telling me she’s anxious to talk. So let’s get back to the color blue. What does blue mean? And the letter M? This can go to either one of you, please? I’m listening.”

  Lyric stared blankly, and Adam shrugged his shoulders.

  “All right, we’ll set it aside, but I want you to remember what I said. When you look back I know you’ll discover a connection to that color. Again, Rachel wants to validate that it’s her coming through. Now, besides blue and the M there’s the number eight. What does the number eight mean to you?” Jewel seemed to be warming up—his words were coming more rapid-fire now. “It could be a date, or an address, or her locker number—”

  “Her locker number was thirty-eight!” Lyric said.

  “No, that’s not it.” Jewel shook his head hard, but his hair stayed in place. Stephanie had eased into the chair next to him, and she, too, was concentrating on the space behind Adam.

  “I’m getting the same number you are,” Stephanie told Jewel. “It’s something specific to the number eight. Adam, does the number eight make sense to you?”

  “No.”

  “Me neither,” Lyric said.

  “Actually, I’m getting even more. I think it’s an eight and then another eight. Eighty-eight. Does that mean anything to either one of you?”

  “No. I’m sorry,” Lyric replied. “Are you getting anything, Adam?”

  “Nothing. But I don’t care about blue or the number eight—can you ask her who killed her?” Adam blurted out. “Can she tell us his name?”

  Stephanie, who had taken a chair next to Jewel, looked concerned. “What is it, Doctor?”

  Jewel pressed his fingertips into his forehead. “It’s hard for those who have passed to talk about their deaths, especially when their passing was violent. I can feel her distress. She’s trying to show me something. It’s a male or female figure, close to the same age as Rachel because she’s pointing to her right side, which means someone in her space continuum, in other words, someone like her, in and around her age range. I believe she wants to tell us her killer was someone close to her age.”

  “Someone close to her age?” Lyric repeated.

  “Why is Rachel shaking her head and pointing to her neck, please? I’m listening.” As suddenly as the sun dipped behind a cloud, the man’s face darkened. “Was she strangled, please? Rachel’s indicating to me that there was a pressure. Yes, a terrible pressure right…here.” He pointed to his own Adam’s apple. “She’s telling me she had the air pressed out of her. And pain. She’s saying she wasn’t ready. She’s telling me she couldn’t breathe…. Does this make sense to either one of you? Please”—Jewel almost choked on words—“I’m listening.”

  And then, before anyone could answer, Paul Pacheco’s voice boomed from the front of the Grand. “Hey, Dr. Jewel’s giving a private reading—they’re taping in there. No one interrupts a taping,” followed by a response Cameryn couldn’t make out, and then, “Come on, can’t this wait until the doc’s done?”

  “Sorry,” came the reply, louder this time. “This is police business.” Cameryn immediately recognized the voice of Sheriff Jacobs.

  “Oh, no,” Daphne moaned, “you can’t stop a reading right in the middle—Rachel might leave!”

  Twisting in her seat, Cameryn tried to take in what was happening. Justin and Sheriff Jacobs appeared at the back of the room, followed by Paul, his thick neck bulging with frustration as he hurried behind them.

  Paul looked worried. “I’m sorry, Dr. Jewel,” he cried, lifting his hands in the air. “I tried but I couldn’t stop them.”

  “Keep those cameras rolling,” Jewel ordered quietly. Then he said, “It’s not a problem, Paul. Go back to your post.” Next he addressed Sheriff Jacobs. “I’m here to help you in any way I can. What is it you want?”

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we need to speak with Adam,” Jacobs answered. He planted his feet squarely on the wooden floor and stood unmoving. Justin did the same. Cameryn tried to catch Justin’s eye so she could better read what was going on, but he didn’t look at her. He kept his eyes fixed on Adam.

  Jewel said, “Perhaps you don’t realize we’re in the middle of a reading.”

  “I can see that,” Jacob’s answered. “But this can’t wait.”

  Dr. Jewel stiffened. “That’s a pity. Rachel’s here, right now, you see. You can talk with her if you like. I work with the police all the time and my ability to speak with the dead has cracked many a case. Perhaps you have a few questions you’d like to ask Rachel yourself.”

  “Not today,” Sheriff Jacobs told him. He walked to the stage area, stopping directly in front of Adam, who looked up at him with scared eyes. “Son,” Jacobs said, “you need to come with me.”

  The cameras rolled on. Each cameraman had a lens trained on Jewel, on his face. Adam reached over to grip Lyric’s hand, and it seemed to Cameryn as if the whole room held its breath.

  In a broken voice, Adam asked, “Is this because of the pictures?”

  Jacobs looked surprised. “I’m not here because of any pictures, although I’d be mighty interested to hear about them now.”

  Confused, Adam said, “Then…why?”

  “I’m here because there was a witness who saw you leave the Grand with Rachel. That witness also states he saw you helping her into your truck. That means you were the last one to see that girl alive.”

  “That’s not true!” Lyric exploded. “Adam, tell him it’s not true!”

  But when Cameryn looked into Adam’s face, she knew it was true. And just as quickly, Lyric did, too. She jerked her hand from his as though it were on fire.

  “It’s—it’s not what it sounds like,” Adam stammered. “I was afraid to tell you. Lyric, I swear I didn’t do this.”

  “That’s enough, son. We’ll do the rest of the talking in my office.” Sheriff Jacobs pulled Adam to his feet and began to read him his Miranda rights. Adam stood, frozen, his fists clenched so tight the skin on his knuckles blanched white. When Jacobs had finished, he placed his hand on Adam’s shoulder. “It’s just for questioning,” he told him. “Don’t make it harder than it needs to be.”

  “You believe me, don’t you, Lyric?” Adam asked hoarsely. “You know I couldn’t hurt Rachel. I wouldn’t hurt anyone! Ask her. Make Dr. Jewel ask Rachel herself. She’ll tell you!” He had turned to face Lyric, but she refused to return his gaze. It was then that Adam seemed to collapse in on himself. Without another word he slumped between the sheriff and Justin as they escorted him out of the Gran
d. The room became suddenly still. Dr. Jewel lowered his head, holding it between his fingertips.

  “What is it, Doctor?” Stephanie finally asked, her voice hushed. “What’s wrong?”

  Jewel shook his head slowly from side to side. “He’s right. It’s not the boy. I’m telling you, he’s not the one.”

  “Are you sure?” Stephanie gasped.

  “Yes. Rachel’s holding up a Christopher medal and placing it on her heart, then holding the letter A.” To the camera he said, “But she’s saying no. She’s saying no to Adam.”

  Stephanie murmured, “I don’t understand.”

  Suddenly Jewel covered his eyes; no muscles moved except those in his mouth. “Rachel is telling me the killer is still out there.”

  “Still out there?”

  “Yes. He’s here, in Silverton. And Rachel says…” Jewel’s voice quavered. Even from a distance Cameryn could see him tremble. “She says…the real Christopher Killer is ready to strike again.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “YOU SHOULD NEVER HAVE GONE to the Grand,” Mammaw scolded. “If you were wanting to talk to poor Rachel then you should’ve gone to church, lit a candle, and sent up a couple prayers. And I’ll tell you something else,” she said, leveling a spatula at Cameryn. “If Dr. Jewel puts that interview on television it could ruin Adam’s life. The public will forever find the boy guilty, trial or no.”

  “Dr. Jewel says he’s going to air it the day after tomorrow,” Cameryn answered. With her head down, her hair fell forward, and she felt like hiding inside it. She’d been home from the Grand less than an hour. As she peeked at her grandmother from the slender part in her hair, she said, “That’s the day of Rachel’s funeral.”

  “The man’s trying to make money off of others’ misery,” her grandmother told her. Her own hair had been pulled back into a knot at the nape of her neck. A few loose strands had escaped, curling up like springs. Scooping a blob of chocolate frosting, Mammaw plopped a mound onto the top of the cake. “Well, it’s all nonsense and no educated person’ll believe any of it.” Her grandmother pursed her lips. “The very idea that Dr. Jewel is channeling poor Rachel’s spirit!” She made a tsking sound between her teeth as she scraped at the ceramic bowl.

  “I don’t think he’s actually channeling. I think he sees dead people and talks to them. Mammaw, he knew things he shouldn’t have known.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Besides, he said Adam didn’t do it.” But her grandmother didn’t seem to hear.

  “Necromancy is what it is. Bringing up the dead when they should be left to the Almighty.” Mammaw spun the circular cake around to a bare spot. With a sure aim she threw frosting with so much force Cameryn was afraid it would leave a divot. “First Rachel is murdered, then your mother’s returned to haunt us and now that boy’s arrested. It’s like our town’s under a curse. I’m glad your father’s coming home to help handle it all—he said his business is finally done and no matter what he’ll be here tonight. It’s all been too much for me.”

  Cameryn nodded. Pulling back a scarf of hair, she looked out the window. Outside, in whiskey barrels, a few hardy orange and yellow chrysanthemums still clung to life. She knew they would be dead soon, since winter came hard this high in the mountains, and no plant—save the aspen, spruce, and pine—could survive the cold and snow. It made her sad to think of those last few blossoms dying. But then again, she told herself, everything died.

  Thursday the town would gather for the funeral, which meant Rachel’s body would be sent from Hood Mortuary in Durango to the First Congregational Church of Silverton, where the service would be held.

  She didn’t want to go to the funeral. Cameryn had been too close to Rachel’s body and she couldn’t get the images of the autopsy out of her head. Maybe she’d hike alone in the mountains instead, or just stay home and light a candle. But even as she thought it, she knew she would be at funeral, because she needed to support Rachel’s parents. It was the last thing she could do for her friend.

  That, and find her killer.

  “I’m not saying I believe in Jewel, Mammaw,” Cameryn said carefully, “but like I told you, he knew things. Do you think there’s any way Rachel could have spoken through him?”

  “Why don’t you ask Father Mike?”

  Because she didn’t want to deal with the endless lectures, she answered silently. And where did her science and its demand for reproducible fact fit in to all this? It was all too confusing….

  “What are you thinking of, girl? You’re staring out that window like there’s an answer there,” Mammaw said.

  “I don’t know. The thing is, I’ve studied about how psychics do it, and there’s lots of ways they trick you. Like the Russian Doll.”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s, like, where the psychic says, ‘I want to talk about your daughter,’ and the person says, ‘I don’t have a daughter,’ so the psychic goes, ‘Well, this is someone close to you, that you feel motherly toward, someone like a daughter,’ and then the person buys into it. I was ready for the tricks, but Jewel didn’t do them. I can’t understand how he knew so much.”

  “Smoke and mirrors is what it is.”

  “What about the Catholic Church? Don’t you think in a way we use smoke and mirrors, too? At least incense and gold.”

  The steel was back in her grandmother. Through tight lips she said, “That’s different. The Church doesn’t charge the poor and grieving for spiritual help. Dr. Jewel is a shark preying on the lost, and now he’s got you and God knows who else believing his lies. Here, eat this.” Her grandmother set down a piece of cake in front of Cameryn. The thick frosting swirled in a pattern that looked like petals, and a fork had been tucked to the side with a napkin folded neatly underneath. “It’s my old recipe,” she told Cameryn. “Every Mahoney woman knows how to bake this cake. Would you like to try your hand at it?”

  “Some other time. You might have to adopt.”

  Her mammaw sighed heavily while Cameryn took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “There is one thing you could help me with. Tell me about Saint Christopher.”

  Her grandmother cut herself a slice and sat next to her at the table. “What about him?”

  “Justin asked me who Saint Christopher was and I couldn’t remember. In all four deaths a Saint Christopher medal was left behind, so I figure that’s got to mean something. Justin said Saint Christopher was a demoted saint. Is he?”

  “Demoted?” Mammaw shook her head and said, “No, Saint Christopher’s still a saint in good standing. In my day his mass used to be celebrated on July twenty-fifth. But there were too many saints and not enough days to celebrate them, so thanks to the Second Vatican Council the poor man got moved off the regular liturgical calendar.”

  “What’s he a saint of again?”

  “Travelers.”

  “That’s interesting, since all of the bodies were found in different states. The killer must get around.”

  Squinting at the window, Mammaw said, “Look, someone’s coming up the drive.” She pushed her glasses farther up her nose. “Wonder who it is? I don’t recognize the car….”

  When Cameryn looked out her heart skipped sideways. “It’s Justin,” she answered.

  “Deputy Crowley! Were you expecting him?”

  “No.”

  Mammaw shook her head, her face grim. “Then I don’t think you should speak with him, not until you and your father have a chance to discuss that letter.” She rose to her feet. “I’ll go see what he wants.”

  “It’s okay,” Cameryn said quickly. “I want to talk to him.”

  “You’ll talk to him here, in the kitchen.”

  “No, outside. I’ll be fine, Mammaw. I’m sure he’s here about the case.”

  Her grandmother looked skeptical.

  “I won’t discuss the letter. I want to know what’s going on with Adam—that’s all. You need to let me do this.”

  “I’m not thinking of interfering, I’m try
ing to protect you.”

  “I don’t need protecting, Mammaw.”

  “Your father won’t like that Justin’s here and you’re not listening to me. It’s that streak from your moth—” The word suddenly died in her throat. Her grandmother clapped her lips together and went to the sink, picking up the frosting bowl before setting it down in the exact same place. She turned on the faucet. “All right then,” she said, her back still turned. “Do whatever it is you’re needing to do.”

  Cameryn understood this: It was her grandmother’s way of trying not to fight. There had been a subtle shift somewhere, a change in the balance. When had it happened? Whatever its cause, Cameryn felt a surge of gratitude. Hurrying over to the sink, she entwined her arms around her mammaw and quickly kissed her cheek.

  “What’s that for?” Mammaw asked without turning her head.

  “For understanding that I’m growing up. For letting me make my own decisions.”

  Mammaw lifted a sudsy finger and pressed it gently on the tip of Cameryn’s nose. “Growing up, but not grown,” she said. “There’s a difference. Remember that.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  Justin had stepped away from his car, and Cameryn could see him from where she stood. He looked as though he fit in Colorado, with his battered red Subaru and faded jeans. She watched him as he made his way toward the house, took in his easy movements that were almost graceful. His feet crunched the gravel as he approached. She was about to open the door when Mammaw blurted, “Your mind is strong but you need to watch your spirit. Guard your heart, girl. Think first.”

  Confused, Cameryn replied, “If you think I’m attracted to Justin you’re wrong.”

  “I didn’t get this old without knowing certain things. Just guard your heart.” Her grandmother turned back to the sink.

  The knocking came and Cameryn opened the door. Justin was wearing his same uniform of shirt and jeans, but this time he had on an official bomber jacket with a star embroidered on the outside pocket. A pair of aviator sunglasses shrouded his eyes, and in his hand he clutched a large manila envelope. “Hey,” he said.