James arched an eyebrow. “Not likely.”
“Why not?”
“Well, let’s examine the situation. The woman is in the town where the entity resided, where her twin sons were raised, and where her family’s business is.”
Sarah finished her burger and fries as she pondered James’ assertions. “Maybe that’s the reason why. She’s fearful of bringing shame to the family.”
“So, she needs you to help this woman, but doesn’t wish others to discover who’s behind these killings.”
“Particularly if it’s indeed one of her sons.”
“Why the delay tactics? What do you make of that?”
“To exasperate me.”
James laughed. “I seriously doubt she wants that. It’s probably the opposite.”
“Meaning what?”
“This entity is using an enormous amount of energy transferring information directly to you to the exclusion of any other entities or persons.”
“Including Conrad.”
James nodded. “That’s not an easy task. Spirits are pure energy, and for her to convey the story as it’s developing requires focused exertion.”
“You’re saying she stalls because she’s tired?”
James laughed. “No, spirits don’t exactly get tired, but they do get drained. I suspect that’s the reason for the delays in communicating with you. She needs to gather enough energy to enable the transference. Think about it, she’s present with you and with the woman she wishes you to help. That’s quite remarkable. Even for a spirit.”
“I never thought of that, but it makes sense.”
“I would imagine that she’s gathering and passing on information, in equal measure.”
“Plus, if she’s unwilling to accept that one of her sons could’ve killed her—”
“She’s well aware of who killed her. She’s accepted that. But she may be unable to accept that he’s a serial killer. It could be that she’s not sure. She’s waiting, and hoping that he’s not.”
“That makes perfect sense, James. If that’s the case, I feel sorry for the poor woman.”
“Well, we’ll find out soon enough who the perpetrator really is.”
“What do you mean?”
“With the clues you’ve given me, the investigative team will soon locate a family that answers the description you’ve given us.”
A loud scream deafened Sarah. She slapped her hands over her ears as tears of pain trickled down her cheeks.
James rushed to her side. “What can I do?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’m all right, James. Thanks. She’s angry. Her scream was so loud it battered my ears.”
“I didn’t hear this one. I brought this on. I’ve gone too far. I need to distance myself from her. C’mon, let’s get you back to your cabin.”
Revelation
Votive candles illuminated the tiny attic. Through the small window, the lights of the Eiffel Tower, barely visible above the rooftops of Paris, offered a dim counterpart to the flickering glow of the candles. The bed occupied almost the entire room. A small table to one side held an open bottle of wine and two half empty glasses.
He rested on top of her, his hands cradling her head, his mouth caressing her lips as he spoke.
“My love,
I’m happy when my skin
Is full of your bouquet.
I suffer when I know
That you are far away.
Each drop within mine eyes
Holds the flavor of your life,
So, when you’re gone,
My eyes grow sad,
For there’s nothing
I can see.”
“Gabriel,” she whispered, “your words…” Tears overflowed her eyes. “Your poems are—”
“For you and about you.” He kissed her tears away. “Don’t cry, my love.”
“I’m not crying out of sadness. The passion your words create within me needs an outlet. My tears are simply that. Something has to give.”
He sighed. “I’m glad you like them.”
“Like them!” She pushed him off her and straddled him, the candles illuminating her sensuous nude body. “You’re fishing for compliments. Well, you’re going to get them.” She took him inside her and began a slow and deliberate undulation of her hips.
He groaned with mounting pleasure.
Her breath quickened. “Is this compliment enough for you?”
“No,” he gasped, “I need more.”
She tightened her thighs and increased the pulsation.
“Oh.” He shut his eyes.
“Is that all you can say?”
“No.” He seized her hips, tugged her to him, tossed her on her back, and plunged in.
“Oh!” she squealed.
“Is that all you can say?”
She pulled him to her.
The boy hadn’t meant to watch. The door was ajar. He simply peeked in and saw.
“Mother…” he whispered.
“Dear God.” Sarah found herself behind the wheel of her car, driving through the night, surrounded by trees. “Who saw you? Daryl or Andrew?”
She looked all around, but in the darkness nothing looked familiar. “Where in God’s name am I?”
She leaned back and sucked in several deep breaths in an attempt to remain calm.
“Martha, what on earth am I doing on this road?” Her eyes flicked to the dashboard, then back through the windshield to follow the headlights that illuminated the roadside. “You got me out of bed at four in the morning to bring me here? You realize that no one has a clue where I am? Hell, I don’t even have a clue where I am. I complied with your wishes, now you have to help me. Talk!”
Silence.
“Please, Martha. I need to call Conrad and tell him where I am. He’s on his way to meet me this morning.” She paused. “You needn’t worry about him. He won’t divulge your secrets.”
Silence.
“Are we going to Rosewood?”
Silence.
She veered onto the shoulder of the road and slammed on the brakes. “If you don’t answer, I’ll turn around and go back.”
Karla needs you.
“I get that. But where am I going?”
Toward her.
Entangled
Karla stepped into the registrar and newspaper office and glanced around. File cabinets, papers, files, and hundreds of office knick-knacks crowded the small office. Beyond the front counter at the back of the office, parked at a beat-up desk, a very large and overweight man devoured a hamburger, while he hummed off-key, and sluggishly filed food-stained cards into a little box. His bulging hips and legs hung over his chair, the sagging skin on his arms flopped about with every move he made. His shoulder-length hair showed signs of long-time neglect, and his beard was littered with the bits of foods that had escaped his mouth.
“Good afternoon,” Karla said.
He glanced up. “Good … you, too,” he managed to mumble between bites.
“I’d like to read the news reports that were published around the time when Jennifer McKenzie died. Do you have something about that?”
He pointed his hamburger to one side of the office. “Big books, right there on the shelves. Look for one that’s labeled 1977.” He signaled to his left. “Table and chair over there.” He returned to his burger.
“Thank you.” Karla headed toward the row of shelves, dropping her purse on top of the cluttered table on the way. She scanned the large tomes, found the one she needed, and brought it to the table. She pushed some of the dust-covered files, folders, and binders aside, took a seat, opened the tome, and flipped through newspaper clippings one after another.
She stopped at one that read, April 15, 1977 – Jennifer Trenton McKenzie Dies. McKenzie Boys Left With Body for T
hree Days.
She took out a notebook and pen from her purse and read the news articles describing the accidental death and the events that followed. She resumed flipping the pages until she finished the tome, closed it, and placed it on top of the pile on the table.
She rose and approached the cluttered counter in front of the large man who now avidly devoured a cinnamon roll. “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me where to look for any articles written on the deaths of the women found in Rosewood?”
The man continued to eat, hum and file, ignoring Karla’s question.
Karla dug in her purse, pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, and stepped toward him. She held out the money in front of him. “Excuse me, but I’d like to find the articles on—”
“I got you.”
Karla stood by him, while he ate, hummed, and filed. “Do you—”
“I’m thinking. Leave the money here and go behind the counter.”
“Okay.” Karla did as he asked.
He continued to eat, hum, and file.
Karla leaned on the counter, resigned to wait.
He looked up at her and grinned sarcastically. “They were bought. Exactly sixty-eight days and four hours ago.”
“Bought? How could someone buy articles from this office?”
He took a big bite of his pastry and held up the fifty-dollar bill. “With money.”
“You’re expected to keep the original articles.”
“Not if someone needs them bad enough.”
“Would the newspaper office in Rosewood have them?”
“They don’t got one. This is it.”
“How can you be so flippant about selling them?”
“Hold it, lady. What’s it to you anyway? You a relative of one of them hookers or something?”
“No. I’m a reporter and I’m looking for—”
“Looks like you’ll have to go looking somewhere else.” Gradually, he rose to his feet until he towered over Karla. “Don’t care for reporters. Get your stuff and leave.”
“I’m not done yet.”
He came around the counter. “Yes, you are. Leave now—or shall I escort you out?”
“Wait a minute. You can’t—”
He moved closer. “I can, and I will.”
Karla backed into the table. The pile of books, folders, and binders tumbled to the floor. She gathered her belongings and turned to face him. “Who bought them?”
“Don’t care to remember.” He grabbed Karla’s arm, shoved her out the door, and shut it in her face.
“Enjoy cleaning up that mess!” she shouted. She spun away and charged across the street, mumbling.
As she regained her composure, her gait slowed. She took in a deep breath and noticed the displays that filled the windows of the various curiosity shops. She lingered for a while and became enthralled with the window of a quaint store that sold miniatures.
A hand gripped her shoulder. Startled, she turned. “Andrew?”
Daryl laughed. “I thought by now you could tell the difference.”
Karla forced a smile. “I didn’t expect to find you here.”
“You’re trembling. Anything wrong?”
“You startled me.”
“Sorry, I’ll make it up to you.” He grasped her arm gently and guided her toward a small wooden bench in front of the miniatures store. He eased her down, sat beside her, and took her hand in his. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“I’m fine. All this stuff about Andrew’s got me all shook up.”
“What stuff? What have these good people been telling you?”
Karla looked deep into Daryl’s eyes. He appeared calm and caring. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He grinned, his face aglow despite the shade. “I’m glad to be here, particularly if that makes you happy.”
“What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I come here all the time to check on the tree farms and the vineyards, to talk to the managers and suppliers, and all that good stuff. I was driving by when I saw you.” He slid closer to her. “Don’t give credit to all the stories these people dish out. This is a small town and folks here live on gossip.” He threw her a comforting grin and squeezed her hand.
Karla retrieved her hand and eased away from him. “It’s horrible what they say. And to top it all off, Andrew is here.”
Daryl tensed, and his cordial demeanor vanished. “Are you sure?”
“Yes, I caught a glimpse of him last night.”
“Where is he?”
“I couldn’t catch up with him. I went to your house, but it’s deserted.”
Daryl glowered at her. “You’ve been to the cabin?”
“You call that a cabin?”
Daryl’s face and body relaxed. “You’ve been to the house.”
“Isn’t that what I said?”
Daryl cast her one of his alluring smiles. “To me, the cabin is home.”
“What cabin? You mean Mary Ellen’s place?”
“No, of course not. That’s her home. I meant our cabin.”
She looked at him inquisitively. “Nobody’s told me anything about another cabin.”
“They’ll only tell you what they want you to hear. Especially since you told them you’re a reporter.”
Karla looked at him in dismay. “How did you reach that conclusion?”
An almost imperceptible hesitation preceded another winning smile. “What else could you tell them to get them to talk to you? C’mon, give me a little credit.”
He stood and pulled her up. “Let’s go. It’ll soon be dark and that means dinnertime. I’ll fix you the best steak you’ve ever had. Promise.”
He hooked her arm over his and headed down the street.
She retrieved her arm and stopped. “Where are we going?”
“To the cabin. Home.”
He grabbed her hand and pulled her to him but she stiffened and pushed him away. “What are you doing?”
“Relax. You’ve got nothing to fear. I’m here to protect you. Trust me, you’re going to love our place.”
After a moment’s hesitation, she yielded, and side-by-side they walked down the street.
He reached a silver Porsche, opened the passenger door, and helped Karla in. He folded himself into the driver’s seat, started the car, and sped away.
After a few silent minutes, he swerved off the main road and veered onto a narrow mountain road. Deftly, he raced around one curve after another with mere inches to spare.
“Are we trying to catch somebody?” Karla asked nervously.
“In a way, I suppose so. Don’t worry, I know this old road like the back of my hand. I’m really looking forward to showing you the old place.”
“It’ll be a lot more fun if we get there in one piece. I don’t particularly enjoy the feeling of impending doom.”
“You could always use the feeling for a future story.”
“Assuming there is a future story.” Karla placed her hands on the dashboard to steady herself.
The speed with which Daryl maneuvered the curves increased along with his smile. “Where’s your writer’s spirit of adventure?”
“It’s waiting for me at the end of the road.”
“Would Hemingway have passed up an opportunity to experience a new emotion? Would F. Scott Fitzgerald have let an unexpected reaction pass fleetingly by? Not a chance.”
“The latter would have fled and the former would—”
Abruptly, Daryl slowed down. “You’re right, he probably would have. I promise not to challenge the Hemingway inside Karla Jordan. Scout’s honor.”
“You couldn’t possibly have been a scout.”
“That obvious?”
“A real scout would never have the temerity to frighten a lady.”
“
And here I was convinced I’d rescued a damsel in distress.”
“Really?”
He laughed and drove on at a slower pace.
“Tell me about your parents,” Karla said.
He glanced at her for a moment then turned his attention back to the ever-darkening road. “I’m sure you’ve done your research and dug up the skinny about them.”
“Some things are not in the public record. For instance, where did the two of you go when your mother took you away from here?”
He turned to her. “Paris.”
“To stay with your uncle Gabriel?”
Abruptly, he pulled over and stopped the car. “The sun will be setting soon and the view from here is spectacular.” He jumped out of the car, dashed to the passenger side, and opened her door. “Let’s enjoy the scenery.” He proffered his hand and helped her out of the car.
“So, did you stay with your uncle?”
Daryl leaned against his car and sighed. “We did.”
Karla joined him. “You don’t like to talk about that. Why?”
He became visibly somber. “I hated being there. I missed my father. Besides, we had no business being with that man.”
“Why did your mother take the two of you away?”
“Because she wanted to, end of story. I don’t care to relive that trip, if you don’t mind. Let’s enjoy the view. Would you like to hear a poem?
“Sure.”
“Now
That I’m used to smiling again,
Don’t
Remind me of so long ago.
It isn’t as easy
As some people think
To forget all the things
That make us hate.
All we can do
Is pick up our lives
And pray
That it is not too late.
Now
If ever you meet me again,
Don’t
Ask me where I have been.
Summers are lucky
In so many ways
When the snow melts
And the scars disappear.
When
My nights turn to days
Jackal Page 19