by Dale Mayer
The other man laughed. “Isn’t that the truth? Anyway, have a good day.” And, with that, the couple walked on past, and Simon headed back toward his side of the bridge.
Another police station division was on the other side of West Vancouver, which wasn’t related to the Vancouver police. Obviously they worked together, but he wondered if maybe the suicides on the other end of the bridge went to them. He texted Kate and asked that.
She texted back right away. I’ve pulled thirteen suicides in the entire Lower Mainland on jumpers alone.
“Ouch,” he murmured to himself, as he stared at that number, thirteen. Jesus! Surely that wasn’t all about the same thing. No way that could be. Surely not. But the thought was just horrifying and mind-boggling. Were that many people unhappy? Another text came in.
That’s multiple bridges, not just this area.
Reading that detail brought a sigh of relief. Still way too high.
It is. It’s been much higher this year.
And why?
Still working on that.
Her responses were pointed, but she was talking to him.
He smiled at that and pocketed his phone. As he walked back, he thought he saw a young woman standing along the edge opposite him. His footsteps slowed. He didn’t know if it was the same one he’d seen before because he was too far away. As he slowly walked toward her, she looked at him nervously and then took several steps toward shore. He just stopped in place and looked over, but there was no way to cross traffic to get to the other side.
He just smiled at her from a distance. “Hey,” he said, “I’m not a threat.” She frowned at that. He immediately knew that was hardly the best wording. He shrugged. “I’m just walking up to the hill there.”
She nodded and said, “Sorry, I—it’s an instinctive reaction.”
“I get it,” he said, as he approached slowly. “I just talked to a young couple over there. They’re here for the first time in Vancouver, and she’s a journalist, looking at doing an article on the suicides off the bridge.”
She winced. “To even think like that,” she said, shaking her head.
“Depressing, isn’t it?”
“It is,” she muttered and looked over at the water.
“Have you ever thought about it?”
“What? No,” she said, but her words came too fast, … were too instant. And her voice was raised and nervous.
He smiled gently. “That’s good,” he said, desperate to memorize her features, hoping to get a picture of her face somehow. He brought out his phone and took a picture of the bridge around them. “Do you mind?”
She frowned and looked at him nervously. “Okay, that’s fine,” he said, and he took several all around for the view and of the bridge around them. When she relaxed a little bit, he turned, and, with stealth, took several photos of her face. Enough that maybe, if he were lucky, she could be identified.
He walked around her and said, “I really hope you don’t ever consider it.”
“No, of course not,” she said. “That would be foolish.”
“I don’t know about foolish,” he muttered, “but there is help if you need it.” Her next words broke his heart, and he wasn’t sure what to do.
“Sometimes there is no help available.”
At that, he stopped, but when he turned back to look at her, she was already walking away. “Hey, look,” he yelled. “If you need help, I can help.”
She just lifted a hand and waved and kept on going.
He wasn’t sure if she was trying to get away from him or just trying to get away from her life. Either way it wasn’t long before she picked up the pace and started to run. He was hesitant, not sure if he should go after her, since that would just make her run faster and would terrify her even more. As for himself, he sent the photos to Kate.
“This woman on the bridge,” he said in a voicemail, “she’s not wearing the same sneakers, but she looked like suicide was on her mind.”
As he walked back up the hill, Kate called him. “I can’t chase down everybody who’s walking on a bridge,” she said quietly.
“I know. I know that,” he said. “Just something was so weird about her. Something needy.”
“Did you try to talk to her?”
“I did, but she got nervous. She wouldn’t let me take her photo, and then she got even more nervous and just took off.”
“Well, if you think about it, why wouldn’t she? You’re a stranger. You’re on a bridge, and you’re talking suicide.”
“I know,” he said in frustration. “It’s a shit deal all the way around.”
“She didn’t look the way you thought she would, or she wasn’t wearing the clothes that you thought?”
“Not the person that I knew,” he said quietly. “I just—” And he stopped, not sure what to say.
“Well, I’ll see what I can do with her picture,” she said, “but that’s all I can promise.”
“Thank you,” he said. As he hung up and pocketed his phone, he turned to look back. The young woman had stopped at the far end of the bridge, but she turned to look at him. He lifted a hand, and she turned and walked away. And, of course, that’s all it was, replaying Kate’s words in his mind. He was a male; they were on a bridge. It was dark, overcast. It was windy, and, although it was still early in the morning, an ominous feeling was here, almost like she wanted to come back in his direction, and he was stopping her because he was standing there.
He probably was stopping her, so he turned and headed back up and called for a ride. He didn’t know what the hell today would bring. He didn’t know if he’d helped her or hurt her, but, on second thought, he pulled out a business card, lifted it up so she saw it, even though she was walking slowly toward him. Finding a rock to hold it with, he placed the card on the ground and then turned and walked away.
Maybe she’d call.
Maybe she wouldn’t.
Chapter 16
Kate’s Wednesday Evening
Walking into her apartment after yet another judo session, Kate wearily dropped her bag on the floor and closed the door behind her. Almost immediately a horrible premonition washed over her.
She stopped, pulled her weapon from her bag, and silently moved through her apartment. And yet found nothing. Frowning, she checked everything that she could and then stepped back into the same spot, where she’d felt whatever it was that was so wrong. It was the first time she’d ever felt anything like that, and she didn’t know what it was or where it was coming from. As she stood here, the same horrible feeling met her again. She pulled out her phone, but she saw no new text; there was nothing. She immediately sent Simon a message. Are you okay?
When she got no answer, she was hardly surprised. There were often minutes to hours between their texts. And, of course, she couldn’t expect him to jump on the phone immediately. But, as she walked into the kitchen to get a glass of water, the feeling grew worse and worse and worse.
Finally she quickly changed into jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed her purse, threw on a light jacket, and snatched her keys. And she stepped outside, she felt such a sense of urgency that just wouldn’t quit. She raced to her vehicle and drove straight over to Simon’s apartment. No point in questioning her motivation or the destination.
As she got in his apartment building, she walked toward the doorman. As soon as she reached him, she asked, “Have you seen Simon today?”
He nodded. “Yes, he went up not too long ago.”
She nodded and said, “Call and tell him I’m here, will you?”
When he hesitated, she pulled out her badge and gave him a hard look. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
He swallowed, stepped back over to the counter, and she raced for the elevator.
“Is there a problem?” he asked, as if suddenly realizing the speed of her actions.
“Yes,” she snapped. “Now do what I say.”
With that, she bolted into the elevator and started punching buttons. It was damn
frustrating when she had to wait for it to get anywhere. But finally she was cleared for the top floor, and, as she walked into his living room, she called out, “Simon, you here?”
But there was only silence. She raced through the living room to his bedroom. And there she found him fully dressed, collapsed at the end of his bed. He looked at her, and she saw recognition in his pain-filled eyes.
She dropped down beside him. “Jesus, what’s wrong?” she asked.
He opened his mouth to speak and then clenched his eyes shut.
“I’ll get an ambulance for you,” she cried out. She bolted to her feet but couldn’t move as his hand had locked on her wrist, and he stared at her. “No.” His tone was firm, hard even.
She sank back down beside him, her arms around him, trying to ease him back up fully on the bed, so that he could crash there.
“What’s the matter?” she cried out. She tested his forehead for a fever and checked his body over but found no visible injuries. “If you’re hurt, why not the hospital?”
And with the last of his breath, he whispered, “Psychic.”
She felt part of her revolting at the idea. And it was all she could do to not step back and to reject everything he was saying—or at least everything she thought he was saying. Keeping her counsel to herself, she shifted him gently on the bed and quickly took off his shoes, eased up his belt and shirt, and pulled a blanket over him.
As she sat on the bedside beside him, she whispered, “How long has this been going on?”
“Not long,” he whispered back.
“Can you pull out of it?” This was her only acknowledgment that something—definitely beyond the scope of what most people would say was normal—was happening here.
“Trying,” he whispered back. And then his body went stiff and rigid.
She stared in shock, as he trembled in reaction to something. She cried out, “Simon! What’s going on? Break free.” And she tried to shake him out of it. When that didn’t work, she winced and hauled back with her right hand and smacked him as hard as she could, followed by an almost audible pop in the air and then a groan from Simon. When she checked him over, he lay here, his body slowly calming, and his breath slowly balancing out.
When he opened his eyes and looked at her, she whispered, “Sorry,” with a question in her tone.
His lips quirked. “No,” he said. “This time is about the only time I’ve ever been grateful for getting smacked.”
She shook her hand, feeling the weight of her slap. “Can’t say that it was an easy thing to do either. Are you back?”
His gaze narrowed with interest. “Interesting phraseology.”
“Look. I don’t know any of this stuff,” she said in frustration, “and whatever I just saw? I’m not sure I want to either.”
“Hey, neither do I,” he groaned. “I’m blaming Grandmother for this.”
“Is that fair?” she asked, tilting her head sideways. “I don’t think she’s around to defend herself.”
“Not only is she not around,” he said, “she warned me ahead of time, and I didn’t listen.”
“Ah, so you’re the one who’s to blame.”
He winced. “If you want to put it that way, then yeah.”
“Is there any other way?”
“She told me”—he paused—“and I’m saying it clearly,” he said, as if the effort to speak were still hard for him, “that, if I ever started down this road, there was no going back.”
“So why the hell would you start down this road?” she asked, staring at him, puzzled.
He blinked; as far as he was concerned, she already knew the answers.
She narrowed her gaze, thought about the little she knew, and then she nodded. “The children.”
He nodded slowly. “I couldn’t let the children keep getting hurt,” he said quietly.
She sat back with a sigh, staring down at the man who had more principles than she’d expected and more honor than she could have hoped for. “I’m glad you did.”
His lips twitched again. “Maybe,” he said, “but not when I’m caught in something like this.”
“You’re out now though, right?” she asked in alarm.
He nodded. “I am out now.”
“Well, thank God for that,” she muttered. She got up and said, “How about I put on coffee?”
“Yeah, how about it.”
And, with that, she bolted safely to freedom.
In the kitchen, she made coffee, her mind going over the scene, and she’d never seen anything like it. It was a bit hard for her to even stomach any of this. And yet, at the same time, was it his fault? Did he have anything to do with any of this, or was he as much of a victim to the circumstances as she was? She’d always considered herself honest and yet a pragmatist. So what was that feeling that sent her racing to his side?
Did that mean she was a psychic, like he was? Did that mean that she was connected or whatever else one might want to use for strange terminology? Was it her intuition? She would consider that she had a strong intuitive sense. Most cops believed in that much. Did that mean she was supernatural psychic weird? No, it didn’t because she was used to it because that was something that she considered normal in her professional world.
While the coffee hissed behind her, she walked over and stared out the window, still not quite ready to go back in there and to deal with whatever answers and questions would arise. Could he stop it from happening again? What did he need to do to make this go away, and could she have any relationship with somebody who had these episodes? Was there a medical reason? A medical solution?
Could he learn to control it, or would he always be at the whim and the mercy of this?
Questions she’d never thought to even have to ask, yet those questions sat right between them. Part of her wanted to turn and to walk right out of that apartment and never come back. Another part of her was fascinated, intrigued, and terrified. Conflicted, she had no idea how to handle this.
*
A trip to the bathroom, a cold washcloth to his face, a hard glare into the mirror, telling himself to buck up and to deal with this, and Simon turned and headed out of the bathroom. He wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t come back into the bedroom. When he saw her standing in front of the big living room window, he had to admit to being somewhat surprised that she was still here. “I thought you’d left,” he said, his voice unintentionally harsh.
She slowly turned, looked at him, and said, “A part of me wishes I had.”
He tried to hold back the wince, but, the one thing about Kate was, she was direct, and he really appreciated that. There was a lot to be said for finding out the truth. “Why didn’t you?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t have an answer for you. I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t understand, and I don’t like anything I don’t understand. It’s a scary thought to think that you can connect to people, other people around the world, that you might have information that’s not even possible for anybody to know. It’s not logical. It’s not reasonable. It’s nothing that I’ve ever prided myself on in terms of truth and facts. I said it borders on fiction and so much more of the garbage in life that I’ve heard from other people—particularly my stepfather—that I just don’t even know what to say, and yet the truth is irrefutable when I see you in the middle of something like this.”
“And yet what am I in the middle of?” he asked. “I don’t know how it looks because I’m on the inside.”
“It’s scary as hell,” she snapped. “You’re like completely catatonic. I was this close”—and she held up her fingers pinched together—“to calling an ambulance. Only because you were capable of objecting did I stop. And even then, I had to question my better judgment. What the hell is going on?”
“I’m not sure,” he said, “but I think”—he took a long slow deep breath—“you have to reserve judgment on this.” At that, her eyebrows shot up. He nodded. “I get it. I’ve asked you to suspend belief on
a lot of things, and it’s really pushing your buttons.”
“You think?” she said sarcastically. “Tell me what happened, please.”
“I think,” he said, “that I’m connected to a woman. The same woman,” he said, “and I don’t understand why her, but I presume there’s a reason for it. I think she is looking to commit suicide, and I think she’s really torn about it. And I keep getting sent back to the bridge, where she stands, looking down at the water, contemplating her options.”
“And why are you connected to her, or why is she connected to you? Why would whatever, whoever is doing this, care about her, and what the hell are you supposed to do about it? You don’t even know who she is.” She spun and looked at him, her lips tight. “Or did you get an ID?”
“No,” he said, “I sent you the photographs.”
Her mouth opened. “Seriously, is that the woman?”
He stopped, frowned, and said, “I don’t know.”
“Okay, hang on a minute. What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“A part of me says yes, but I haven’t confirmed it,” he said immediately. “And yet I think it’s her.”
“Think?” She stared at him in astonishment. “I can hardly track down this woman on just this. Imagine a public plea for help to identify her and then to find out that it’s not her and, even worse, to have ruined her life by intimating that she might be suicidal.”
“I know. I can only give you what I feel, what I see, when I’m looking out of her eyes,” he said. “I get it, and it’s crazy, and it’s stupid, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it.” She sagged down into the couch and dropped her face into her hands. He walked over, sat down beside her, and said, “On the other hand, I’m really happy that you came.”
“And what the hell does that say about me?” she said, turning to look at him, her face still resting in her hands. “What the hell does it say that I walked into my apartment after my judo session and knew something was wrong. I knew something was wrong. I didn’t know what. I first did a search of my place, thinking I might have had an intruder because I had that weird sense of something supremely wrong. Instinct said that I needed to defend myself first and foremost, and then I realized that it wasn’t me. It was you.”