At Second Sight: Sentinels

by Meg Allison

  “Ah, don’t start with me, baby girl. A man can’t survive without some red meat now and then. Don’t worry, I’ll have rabbit chow for dinner later.”

  She raised a brow. “Diet getting to you, huh?”

  “Something like that.” He pushed the lemon wedge into his glass and took a swig. “Now, back to this Quinn guy. How much did you actually talk to him?”

  “I didn’t. We communicated entirely through email. Why, Adam? What’s this about? Did the man kill someone?”

  His mouth twisted. “I’m not sure.”

  She froze. “Are you serious?”

  “Quinn is a friend of Liam’s so I’ve been trying to give him the benefit of the doubt. But he’s come forward with some very unsettling information regarding a string of recent homicides.”

  Her eyes went wide at the mention of their brother. Liam was the third of six children—a forensic artist by profession who owned and operated a small art gallery in one of the less respectable parts of downtown Savannah. The place was a proverbial money pit, but Liam loved every nuance of the business from dealing with unpredictable artists to handling the bills and hosting auctions.

  He and Adam were as different as any two brothers could be. While the familial resemblance was strong, Adam’s inherit nature was dark and brooding. Liam, on the other hand, was more the happy-go-lucky Irishman with his reddish blond hair and twinkling blue eyes. She couldn’t for a moment imagine Liam being friends with a potential killer.

  “Okay, you have my full attention,” she said. “Start from the beginning.”

  “A little over a month ago, Quinn told Liam that he saw an article in the paper about a case I’m working on. He went to Liam first because he knows we’re brothers and thought if Liam intervened on his behalf I might be more impartial to what he had to show me.”

  “So, he had information about the murder?”

  “Yes and no,” he glanced around as if afraid of being heard. “Quinn produced three drawings that depict each of the crime scenes down to the last detail. He claims he drew the pictures before the murders happened.”

  Samantha wasn’t sure if it was the sweet tea, the sudden influx of caffeine or the story, but her head felt as it were spinning. She shook it and tried to focus.

  “Wait, each? How many murders are you talking about here?”

  “Three to date.”

  Finally, the fog cleared and the full meaning of Adam’s words sank in. A chill washed over her. “Wait, that means…are you telling me you’re working a serial killer case?”

  “Not so loud,” he cautioned with a glance around the restaurant. “Yes, unfortunately, it looks that way. But we’re trying to keep this low key as long as possible. I want to get as many leads as I can before every loon in Savannah starts confessing or accusing their neighbor or ex-boyfriend.”

  “Oh, Adam. That’s awful. Are you sure he’s telling the truth about when he drew the pictures?”

  “Hell, I don’t know much of anything at this point. At first I thought he was just another nut-job artist trying to get his name in the paper.”

  “But something changed your mind.”

  “Yeah, this…” He pulled a piece of thick white paper from a manila folder resting on the table beside him and slid it across the table. “He didn’t go to Liam right away, not until he supposedly drew three murder scenes in all, with very similar characteristics. The first and second drawings matched my crime scenes, and now this one.”

  She looked down at the paper and gasped. It was black ink and very vivid—a young woman lying in a stairwell, sightless eyes staring. The image seemed to jump out of the sketch. She could all but feel the combination of rage, anger and confusion that had seeped into the piece of paper. With a shudder, she dropped the picture back onto the table.

  “What is this?” she asked.

  “Quinn’s third drawing—and the third murder scene right down to the most minute detail.”

  Samantha touched the edge of the paper and a wave of darkness slipped over her skin. It was as if she had stepped into a thick, dank fog bank. The previous chill she’d felt now penetrated to her very bones as she stared at the picture. Anger…there was so much anger in those heavy black lines.

  Adam continued, clueless as to her empathic struggle. “We got the call about victim number three early today from a tenant in the building where she lived. She found the young woman’s body around three this morning when she tripped over her after entering the foyer.”

  She pulled her hand away from the paper and rubbed her forehead. It was then she noticed her fingers shook. While she was used to getting reads or feelings from objects, the intensity of the emotions embedded in the drawing was startling.

  “Okay…I’m a little slow today. How does this—” she pointed to the drawing, careful not to touch it again, “How does it fit in? I mean, he still could have faked all of this somehow.”

  “Sam, this third picture has to be the real deal, there’s no way around that,” he insisted. “I’ve had all three drawings in my possession for almost a month. This woman was killed late last night. There’s no way he could have faked it. He drew the murder scene—my murder scene—before it happened, there’s no doubt in my mind.”

  She looked back at the drawing. A tremor of fear snaked over her skin.

  “It’s a perfect likeness,” Adam continued. “Right down to the position of the body on the stairs…her clothing…even the earrings she was wearing. Each of the drawings is the same in detail. It’s as if he stood there and drew the crime scenes before anyone else got there.”

  “Okay, I agree this is creepy as hell, but I’m not sure why you’re telling me this? What does it have to do with me?”

  “Come on, Sam, think about it.” He looked over her shoulder. “Either this guy is a psychopath who wants to get caught or he’s one of yours.”

  She sighed. “A Sentinel? No, no he’s not. I know each Sentinel in the state by name, if not by sight. I told you, I don’t know Nathan Quinn except from that one piece of correspondence. Liam is probably the one to talk to. Maybe this Quinn guy is the killer or knows the killer somehow. He could have drawn the scene first and then re-created it for you, right?”

  Adam shook his head. “I’ve considered it all, believe me. But my men have been watching Quinn since these came into my possession. Plus, he has solid alibis for the first two murders with eyewitnesses and receipts––the whole shebang. Neither my partner nor I have been able to find one iota of evidence against him. Besides, Liam swears the man is as down-to-earth sane as they come and I trust Liam’s judgment even more than my own.”

  “How do they know each other?”

  “They met through his art gallery over two years ago.”

  “So, he trusts him completely?”

  Adam shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d say that, but it’s never the guy you suspect in cases like these, at least, not at first glance. There’s just no reason to suspect him of murder except the drawings.

  “Listen, Sam, so Quinn isn’t a Sentinel, per se, but maybe he’s chosen. Could he be one y’all haven’t discovered yet? One that no one knows? You knew nothing about Ian Spain’s gift until recently and you’d known him for years. There must be more out there like him, right?”

  “Well, yes, anything is possible. I didn’t know about Camille Bryant’s gift until she submitted her book to me.” The more she thought about it, the more excited she became. How many gifted offspring were out in the world, unaware of their heritage and their divine promise?

  “Drawing pictures of future events could be a gift of the chosen,” she conceded. “It’s not one I’ve seen firsthand, but there are so many out there it’s impossible to know all the forms in which the gifts might manifest.”

  She spoke of the chosen–the descendants of the sons of ancient gods–as if it were nothing but family history. While it was something she and Adam had grown up with, she knew the stories of their progenitors which included several empaths,
healers, and those thought of as prophets or witches would raise some eyebrows. If anyone cared enough to eavesdrop they’d likely be dubbed insane.

  “This is where I need your help,” he told her. “You’re the only one I can trust who might be able to tell me if Quinn is the real deal or if he’s playing me somehow.”

  “I can always ask the other Sentinels if they’ve had contact with him.”

  “That’ll help, but I need something concrete soon, as in today. This situation is going to hit the fan fast now that we have a third victim. Until now I’ve been able to keep the stories quietly on the back page. I had to tap dance around the media after the second girl was found. When they find out about number three, we’ll have front-page headlines and a circus that will make Barnum and Bailey look like an amateur sideshow.”

  “Well, what else do you want me to do?”

  “Meet him, talk to him,” he said. “Use that voodoo of yours to get in his head and let me know what makes him tick. I need to know if he’s telling me the truth or if he might be involved in these murders. Have you ever heard of anyone drawing pictures of the future?”

  “Yes,” she said. “What you’re talking about is termed automatic drawing, although it isn’t always used to predict the future and it’s not that common.”

  “How does it work?”

  “An individual usually goes into a trance-like state and then allows their hand free reign. They draw whatever comes to mind or let an unseen force move them without any conscious effort at all. It’s quite fascinating to watch, but a little creepy, too.”

  “What’s the point?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re always telling me these gifts have a purpose of some kind. How would something like that be useful in everyday life?”

  “I don’t suppose it would be, most of the time. But obviously, it is happening for a reason.”

  Adam shook his head and seemed lost in thought. She wondered if he was thinking of his own gift.

  “There’s also a similar form of the gift termed automatic writing,” she added. “In that case, the person writes messages. I knew of one writer several years ago who swore he wrote all his novels that way. I was never sure I believed him, but I couldn’t disprove it, either. I do know he strongly believed in what he claimed but wouldn’t allow me or anyone else to investigate his gift.”

  Samantha stared down at the drawing. A dark feeling settled over her. As she watched, the thick lines of ink seemed to shimmer and undulate across the page. It was as if the drawing was a living, breathing thing. She could almost feel the woman’s last moments…her terror…her pain…shock.

  “Red, what is it?” He frowned at her across the table. “You okay?”

  “Yeah…” she folded the drawing and pushed it away.

  “What happened to that client?” Adam asked as he tucked the paper back into the folder. “The one who wrote like that?”

  “Oh,” she blinked back a sudden sting of tears. He had been a nice man, odd, but decent. “Something spooked him and he stopped writing. I heard he went a little crazy one day and jumped off a bridge somewhere.”

  “Great.”

  “Look, I don’t know how much I can help, but I’ll do what I can. However, if this guy is a true sociopath, like I assume serial killers are, then I won’t be able to tell much. A person must feel guilt or remorse for me to detect it. The best I can hope for in that case is to sense some kind of perverse elation or triumph from the subject—anything an ordinary person wouldn’t feel in such a circumstance.”

  He studied her for a moment, his green eyes intent and piercing. Adam might deny his own gift, but Samantha knew it was there—just below the surface, fighting to burst free. But for the last few years he had been the logical one. The one with both feet firmly planted in the reality he could see and touch. It would take a miracle for him to face the other side of reality again.

  “Good, thank you,” he said finally. “Could you come down to the precinct later? Quinn’s coming by my office to look at some mug shots.”

  She sat up straight. “He’s seen the killer?”

  “No, but I’m hoping seeing the man’s face might mix things up a bit. I really don’t have any other ideas at the moment. Either he’s seeing the future or he’s damn good at lying and faking alibis.”

  “I think I’m free but let me check my schedule.” She pulled her day planner out of her purse and began flipping pages.

  “When are you going to invest in the future and get a smart phone?”

  “When they stop making things out of paper. Besides, I do use my cell phone for, you know, making phone calls. I just don’t like all those little buttons and obnoxious alarms.” Her tech-savvy brothers loved to harass her about her disregard for keeping up with the newest gadgets. “Okay, it looks like I can’t be there until about six. Will that work or is it too late?”

  “It should be fine. He’s not coming until after five when he gets off work. I’ll keep him busy until you get there. We have enough mug shots on file to occupy half the population of Savannah for the afternoon. One more thing, can you swing by the crime scene with me when we’re done here?”

  “I can spare a few minutes, but don’t expect miracles.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  * * ‡ * *

  Samantha’s stomach twisted as she followed her brother up the broken cement steps and under the bright yellow crime scene tape. When a uniformed officer posted at the perimeter had tried to stop her, Adam flashed his badge and told the man she was with him. He stepped aside quickly and didn’t dare look their way again. It was nice to have a brother in charge sometimes, even if this was the last place she wanted to be on a sunny autumn afternoon.

  The old apartment building looked as if it had seen better days. Years of wear and abuse had faded the brick façade to a dull looking gray. Samantha wondered how much of the color was actual brick and how much was pollution soaked into the porous material.

  Instinctively, she laid a hand on her stomach as it seemed to do another flip inside her. It was either a result of having almost swallowed her meal whole, food poisoning, or nerves. She’d been dealing with her empathic nature for decades, but sometimes it was as if she was learning a new skill all over again. Something squeezed hard in her gut as she walked through the dark arched threshold into the small foyer where a woman had just lost her life only hours before.

  Samantha stopped in her tracks, Adam slightly ahead of her in the dim, hellish space as a full force of emotions slammed into her with all the subtlety of a hurricane. She reached out with one hand to steady herself against the door’s solid oak casement. Tears filled her eyes, and for what was likely a mere second she couldn’t breathe.

  “Sam?” Adam was immediately at her side, his deep baritone quiet as he looked down at her with concern.

  She nodded and forced a smile. “I’m okay…give me a sec.”

  He waited, silent and steady at her side as he had been for most of her life. The warmth of his hand on her arm soon helped chase the barrage of lingering emotions away long enough for her to rebuild her mental barriers one by one. It was a process she had been perfecting since she was sixteen and had found herself flooded with every neurotic hormonal thought and feeling within a fifty-yard radius. High school had, indeed, been hell on earth until she’d learned to control her empathic nature.

  As the last mental barrier solidified in her subconscious, Samantha allowed her body to relax. He must have felt the tension drain from her, because he drew his hand away and watched. Waiting. He had always been and still was her rock.

  “Okay, sorry,” she said and smiled. “I wasn’t ready, I guess.”

  “No, that’s fine, Red. I’m just sorry I had to ask this of you.” He watched her a moment longer, that familiar big-brother scowl a testament to his true depth of concern. “You don’t have to–”

  She shushed him gently and took a step forward. “Don’t be silly. I’m fine. L
et me see if I can help.

  The small space seemed to collapse on top of them as she stepped into the middle of the matted, worn carpet. There was so much left behind; so many emotions and memories. The walls themselves had absorbed every ounce of energy passing through over the last fifty or sixty years. Some of the stronger emotions were more overwhelming to one of Samantha’s gifts, but she was sure almost anyone could feel the worst of it. In a poor area of town such as this, the emotions tended to run toward intense anger and despair.

  She swallowed back a lump in her throat and tried to focus on the newer energy in the room. New energy was not only stronger, but tended to feel more alive, for lack of a better term. With them she could sometimes even see the events that transpired in her mind’s eye. How accurate these visions were, was anyone’s guess. Samantha knew only how to use her gift, not necessarily how it worked.

  She closed her eyes then, forcing the shadowed images into focus. But they were merely that: shadows. Nothing took solid shape or form, not enough to recognize the players involved.

  “She’s scared…” she heard herself saying out loud, “There’s…there’s someone here. They shouldn’t be. They don’t belong.” The darkness thickened and she felt a kind of pressure on her chest. “God, she can’t breathe…there’s something wrong with the air. She can’t–”

  Adam’s hand on her shoulder, shaking her, brought her from the trance like state. Samantha blinked in confusion and grabbed his arm to keep the room from spinning out from beneath her feet. He waited, still and silent until she got her bearings.

  “I’m sorry,” she told him softly. “That’s not much, is it?”

  “It’s something,” he said. “Now I’m sure she was actually killed here and not just staged. We’ve had a few doubts about that since there isn’t any blood to speak of and no signs of struggle. Come on, you need some air.”

  She stepped out of the doorway ahead of him and ducked beneath the yellow tape. Then she stood, eyes closed, as she filled her lungs with sweet fresh air and allowed the sun to shine on her face. It was the balm she needed and the darkness of the residual emotions left her.