This woman had caused me nothing but grief since the day I had met her. While I could rightfully be accused of having turned the other cheek more than once in my lifetime, where she was concerned I had long ago grown tired of her slapping me each time I did. I owed her nothing. I knew it, and so did she.
Judith Albright, however, was someone I had never met. But, like all of the other victims I had never met but helped anyway, I owed her nothing either. Still, between the two of them and my own conscience, I felt somehow compelled to pay whatever price was asked.
I hung my head and sighed before casting my glance toward Ben. “Hey, Tonto,” I said, trying to keep my voice even. “Do you have a Slim Jim in your van?”
He gave me a puzzled look as he said, “Yeah, wh…” Before he could manage to get the “why” fully out of his mouth, his eyes widened and he started forward as he barked, “Goddammit! Don’t do it, white man!”
Before the last word had finished passing his lips, I ducked into the driver’s seat of the sedan, slammed the door and hit the lock.
Felicity instantly screamed a severely pissed off “damn your eyes” that was still perfectly audible to me even through the tempered glass of the car.
I knew that neither Ben nor she could possibly be surprised that I had pulled this particular stunt. After all, we’d been doing this sort of thing long enough that they had to know I would do something they considered stupid but that I felt absolutely necessary. I had merely managed to catch them off guard. But regarding that particular coup, I still wasn’t quite sure if I should consider myself lucky or not.
My wife was at the door, yanking hard on the handle, and glaring at me with the same emotion she had just voiced, but her eyes were glistening with a healthy dose of fear as well. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to offer her any reassurances, verbal or otherwise. With as many state troopers as there were standing around the perimeter, I knew a Slim Jim or other tool for unlocking the door was likely to be produced at any moment, whether from Ben’s van or one of their trunks. The way I had it figured, I probably had somewhere around thirty seconds before I was wrestled out of this seat by someone. What they probably didn’t realize was the fact that I was actually counting on them to do just that in case this turned out to be a worse idea than I already thought it was.
Through the windshield I could see uniformed bodies moving in every direction as trunk lids began flying open. The tableau outside seemed almost like a surreal picture as my contact with the seat began to melt into an ethereal connection to things past. The murmuring voice inside my head stepped upward as if someone had just twisted the volume knob to full. I still couldn’t make out what was being said, but it was becoming clearer with each sound it uttered.
I wasn’t able to keep literal track of the seconds as they ticked by, but I knew my hesitation over my own doubts had already cost me part of the already short span of time. I now began to wonder if thirty seconds would be enough to accomplish what I needed to do.
I took another glance out the driver’s side window and saw Felicity. Though I could no longer hear her, or anything other than the preternatural noise inside my skull, I saw her lips moving in slow motion and could make out the words, “Damnú! Rowan, open the door!”
A few feet behind her I saw Ben snatching a Slim Jim from a state trooper and turning toward the car. My hoped for thirty seconds was about to become something closer to fifteen or twenty at the most.
I realized then I couldn’t wait for the connection to take its normal course. Unfortunately, the only way I knew to speed it up added yet another layer of peril to the unbridled risk I was already taking. Given that fact, I might well be glad to be pulled out of here in twenty seconds instead of thirty.
Ben was already nearing the car, sprinting in an extruded slow motion through my distorted view of the here and now. If I wasted any more time, this whole undertaking would be for naught.
I grasped the steering wheel with my left hand, slapped my right palm onto the passenger side seatback, and then leaned back against the headrest as I purposely stopped grounding and allowed all of my psychic defenses to fall by the wayside.
There was a bloom of color then a bright flash of blinding white. After that, my world was no longer my own. In that instant, I was no longer who I was, I was no longer where I was, and I was no longer what I was.
I simply wasn’t.
CHAPTER 29:
Anger…
Sadness…
Betrayal…
And back to anger yet again.
The emotions are shifting through me like a storm… Random, but always beginning with anger and ending with the same, as the semi-jumbled cycle repeats once again.
Memories flood around me, none of them familiar because none of them are my own. They don’t stop to acquaint themselves with the stranger grasping at them. Instead they flit past, as if in a hurry to escape something yet unseen.
I catch only the barest glimpse of what they might be but nowhere near enough to grasp what they truly are.
I see nothing but their flickering trails as they fade into the distant void to remain a private mystery.
I feel nothing but the circular list of painful emotions.
Then I feel nothing at all…
Thirst…
Want…
Need…
Thirst…
A new flight of feelings penetrates my soul. Something is different about them—something beyond the obvious.
They are darker…
More ordered…
More frightening.
I try to embrace them anyway, but they recede at my touch. They have as much fear of me as I have of them.
Falling…
Falling…
Falling…
I feel as though the brass ring has been ripped from my grasp. The answers I seek are now nothing more than Doppler-shifted pinpoints in the distance.
I am left only with questions.
And, frustration…
I try to scream, but no sound can penetrate the emptiness.
Falling…
Floating…
Falling…
Absolute darkness surrounds me.
There is no longer anything in the void.
No emotion.
No memories.
Nothing…
Only me, and I am nothing.
A chorus of screams echoes in my ears as light blooms in my eyes. They come to an abrupt end as once again silence falls swiftly like a sharp guillotine blade.
There is a complete end to all sound.
The light dulls to blue-black night. Muted colors bleed into a grainy landscape before me as my eyes try to adjust. Sound fades in once again, but all I hear is the beating of my own heart and the rhythmic rush of blood in my ears.
I am standing on an empty street. A lone streetlamp casts a dim sodium vapor glow around me, sending my own oblique shadow across the cracked asphalt to meld with the darkness.
I stare at the shadow where it falls across the curb. There is a storm drain to my right. The street is dry, but a narrow river is flowing along the gutter and into the gaping mouth of the sewer.
But it isn’t water.
It is red…
And thick…
It is blood.
I look up and away from the horrid sight. In front of me is a boarded up house. I try to focus on it. It is old, and the brick facing is streaked black where smoke and fire once billowed out. Fallen leaves choke the stands of browned weeds that cover the yard.
A short flight of concrete stairs leads up to the front door. They are in a state of extreme disrepair, pocked with holes where chunks have been broken off through years of abuse and neglect. The vinyl soffit is scorched, now hanging in drip-like slags where it eventually cooled, frozen in time. Warped and greying plywood covers the windows. Graffiti marks the boards with names and crude drawings, but the weather has faded them beyond recognition.
It appears that even the
vandals have abandoned this place.
I stare at the unlit porch light to the left of the door. It is really nothing more than a metal protrusion jutting from the outer wall. The glass globe is long missing, and a dead yellow bulb sags beneath as the detached socket in which it is set dangles from the frayed electrical wires. The motion draws my attention to the area below where reflective numbers step downward across the brick at a shallow angle.
2 – 3 – 0 – 2.
The last 2 in the sequence is canted to the right, apparently missing the top fastener that held it to the brick. The curve at its back rests against what remains of a frame for a now missing storm door.
Something soft brushes against my palm then gently clasps around my fingers. I don’t start with surprise, as I would expect. I simply accept it and look down to see what appears to be a woman’s hand holding mine. I bring my eyes up to a face that isn’t there. I find only darkness where it should be.
She feels familiar. I am certain I should know her, but without a face I can’t attach a name. I stare into the darkness where it should be but still find nothing.
I don’t feel fear, only curiosity. I sense secrecy. I feel that she is hiding from me. As if she does not want me to know her identity.
As I watch, she lifts her other arm, bringing a pale hand into the air before me, index finger stiffly extended as the others curl against her palm. As she stretches out, I follow her finger with my eyes, turning my head slowly to gaze upon where she is pointing. Sitting atop a metal post, directly in my line of sight, I find a rectangular sign that reads South Millston Street.
The faceless woman tugs on my hand, and I turn to see that she has already stepped onto the curb. She starts up the leaf-strewn walkway, and I follow her without question.
As we silently make our way up the crumbling stairs, time shifts, leaping forward, then back, then forward again. There is no warning, yet there is no surprise.
It simply is.
I am standing in an empty room. The walls bear soot marks from the fire. There is water damage to the sheetrock, causing it to warp and crumble, leaving holes that reveal the bare wooden studs beneath. Trash litters the floor, and a heavy coat of grime and dust seems to coat every surface. I know that I am in the house.
I glance around and see that the woman is now gone.
I understand that she has brought me here for a reason but has left it unspoken. I am beginning to feel like I am acting out a scene from a twisted parody of a Dickens novel. As if the ghost of murders past, present, and future has brought me to witness my own fate.
I wonder at the feeling.
Curiosity at my lucid state creeps in and tries to usurp the vision before me. The grainy tableau shifts and flickers.
A sharp odor assaults my nostrils—metallic, harsh, and unique as it overwhelms me. It is liver being cooked. I feel a thin wave of nausea tickle the back of my throat. I can tell by the stench that it isn’t being properly prepared.
The softness touches my hand again.
The faceless woman is pulling on me now. She seems impatient, as if dealing with a small child who won’t listen.
I realize that I am the reason for her irascible state.
I follow her as she tugs, leading me through the trash-scattered room and deeper into the house. We stop before a door. It is partially burned. A pattern of thin cracks spreads out along the edge of the charred wood in a scaly pattern, like those on a burnt out shard of blackened log from a fireplace.
I look at the woman and she merely points.
I turn back to the door then reach out and touch the surface. The fire-ravaged wood is stone-like to the touch. I grasp the handle and pull it toward me. The barrier opens, and I see a long flight of stairs descending into blackness.
I look to my guide, but once again she is no longer there, so I bring my gaze back to the stairs. As I stand there, for the first time since crossing the veil, I hear something besides the sound of my own heart.
Wafting up from the darkness comes an androgynous voice. “Just a little sting… Don’t worry it will all be over soon…very soon… I envy you. To be chosen like this. It’s such an honor… I wish it were me…”
I feel a slight pressure on my back.
I turn around and find the faceless woman standing there. Without a word she thrusts her palms outward against my chest, and I fall backward into the darkness.
A barrage of words assaulted my ears with an unmistakable Celtic accent wrapped firmly around them. “Damn your eyes, Rowan Linden Gant!”
Behind the crystal clear exclamation, a flood of other voices were chattering, yelling, and generally creating an unintelligible cacophony. Some sounded authoritative, while others came across as excited, and still others seemed almost conversational. In any event, they blended together to create a boisterous hum in the cold air that only served to add to my disorientation.
My head was pounding again, my too brief respite from the migraine now over with a vengeance. However, that wasn’t the only pain with which I was forced to contend. My shoulders were arched up into the sides of my neck, and it seemed that someone was manhandling me. I could feel knuckles digging into my chest as a pair of arms hugged beneath my own. It took me a second to realize I was still moving backwards, but instead of a sensation of falling as before, I could tell I was now being dragged.
“Is he bleedin’?” Ben Storm’s gruff voice penetrated the overbearing murmur.
“I can’t see,” Felicity said. “His shoulder is in the way…”
“Get that paramedic over here!” my friend shouted.
My wife’s soft hand slipped into the fold between my neck and shoulder then pulled away.
“No blood,” she announced. “Thank the Gods.”
We had stopped moving, but Ben was still holding me up in a bear hug from behind. Disorientation was now giving way to a thin thread of lucidity, and I seemed to be remembering where I was. Of course, knowing my location didn’t keep me from being completely out of synch with my surroundings. After such an intense trip through the veil between the worlds, my mind was still trying to sort out what was real here, what was real there, and the in between where it all overlapped. This was far from a new experience for me, but old hat or not, it was never an easy process.
It crossed my mind that it would probably be a good idea to let them know that I was okay, instead of letting them run amok as they seemed to be doing at the moment. I tried to say something but couldn’t seem to get the words out. It was then I realized that Ben was holding so tightly around my chest that breathing, in and of itself, was more than enough effort on its own. Talking was simply out of the question. However, before I could attempt to wave my hand or try to grab their attention some other way, a fresh voice entered the mix.
“We need to get his jacket off,” the paramedic ordered.
The pressure released on my chest as Ben let go and supported me with a single arm while the paramedic quickly stripped off my coat. I immediately wheezed in a deep breath then exhaled heavily. After drawing in another, I started to speak, but apparently I still wasn’t able to form actual words, and all that came out was a moan. By then, they were already lowering me onto the asphalt. A shadow immediately came over me as I felt a pair of hands groping around my neck and another pushing up my sleeve.
I sputtered as I tried to demand that they stop, but for my trouble I was treated to a flashlight in my face and a pair of gloved fingers in my mouth as my head was tilted back.
“Labored respirations, but there’s no obstruction,” the paramedic barked. “Get the oxygen.”
A soft hand pressed against my forehead as my wife brought her face in close to mine. “Rowan, can you hear me?”
“Ma’am,” the paramedic said, trying to push her away. “You need to step back so we can work.”
As he pushed her, I was already moving my arms to fend him off before he hurt her or could continued gagging me. I slapped his hand from Felicity then grabbed his wrist and
wrestled his other hand away from my mouth. I was still out of breath from the bear hug, but I managed to suck in a fresh lungful of air and finally form words that made some kind of sense as I groaned, “Better watch it. She’ll make your hair fall out.”
“Rowan?” Felicity was up in my face again.
“Yeah…”
Her concern made a quick metamorphosis into anger, “What the hell were you thinking?”
I gulped air again and said, “That you were going to be really pissed.”
“Aye,” she replied. “You’re right about that.”
“We still need to check you out, Mister Gant,” the paramedic told me.
I tried to shake my head as I objected, “I’m fine.”
“Best see if you can do something about his thick skull while you’re at it then,” my wife snipped as she pulled herself up to her feet and stalked off.
I was going to have to worry about patching things up with her later. Right now, I needed to talk to Ben.
“Get off me, dammit,” I exclaimed as I pushed the paramedic away and levered myself up into a sitting position. “Ben? Where’s Ben?”
My friend’s voice hit my ears. “I’m right here, Kemosabe. You really better let ‘em check you out.”
“There’s no time for that,” I said, as I started struggling to my feet.
With a quizzical look on his face, Ben reached out and gave me a hand up. “What’s up, you see another dead swan or somethin’ over in la-la land?”
“No,” I said as I focused on the grainy memory looping through my mind and rushed to get the words out in a frantic declaration. “I saw the killer’s address.”
CHAPTER 30:
“Is Judith all right?” Captain Albright demanded.
I had barely finished blurting out the revelation about the address to Ben when her words came at me from behind. I turned to find her staring at me with the same look of concern she had been wearing earlier, but there was no mistaking the thread of hopefulness in her voice.
Blood Moon: A Rowan Gant Investigation Page 25