“Mom,” I said, embarrassed by her rudeness, but Bridget didn’t blink an eye.
“Of course you must, Ryan,” she said smoothly.
“That would be a pleasure, Bridget, thank you.”
Someone tugged at my jacket. A little girl wearing smart clothes and a black eye mask with sharp pointed ears looked up at me and lisped, “Batman has no limits.”
I crouched down on my haunches. “That’s true.”
“Anyone can be a hero!”
“Also true. Are you a hero under that mask?”
“I’m not who I am underneath. It’s what I do that’s who I am.”
I gasped as a few million neurons fired inside my brain, making connections.
Of course! The dark faces in the attack — they’d been wearing masks. Or, more likely, balaclavas. That was why Colby hadn’t been able to see them. And why would his attackers have covered their faces? The only reason could be so that he wouldn’t be able to identify them afterward. Afterward. Which meant they’d intended to beat him up, but to leave him alive.
“Sydney, there you are!” A flustered mother scooped up the little girl. “I hope you haven’t been bothering the lady. And I told you not to put that mask on here.”
I was still gaping at the kid, thinking about faces and masks, and no doubt I looked a little disturbed, because the mother gave me a nervous look and hustled her little heroine away.
Still on my haunches, I allowed the flashbacks to roll like a movie through my mind, recalling the exact words, remembering Colby’s message: more than one. I’d just assumed he was referring to the fact that more than one attacker had assaulted him, but what if he’d meant there’d been more than one attack? What if the thugs had left him bruised and bleeding, but alive, and someone else had come along afterward and finished the job? I strained my brain to remember whether there had been anything in the vision of Colby drowning that gelled with this possibility.
“Garnet? Garnet?” My mother tapped on my shoulder.
“Are you alright?” Bridget asked as I stood up. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not quite,” I said. Not this time. “I just realized something.”
Ryan cocked his head at me. “Something important?”
“Yes. Can we talk privately?” But even as I said the words, his phone rang, and he stepped away to take the call.
Roger frowned at me. “Are you still digging around into Colby’s death?”
“What’s this?” Philip asked sharply.
“She’s checking no stone was unturned in the investigation. And she’s getting supernatural help,” my mother said proudly.
Roger snickered, my father sighed, and Bridget opened her mouth — no doubt to ask what the hell my mother was talking about — but, thankfully, Ryan returned at that moment, saying, “I’ve got to go, I’m afraid. Domestic dispute.” To me, he added, “I’m not sure how long it’ll take to sort out — these things can take twenty minutes, or the whole night. I’ll call you when I’m done, if it’s not too late.”
“Okay.”
Before anyone could resume the conversation about my mystically assisted investigation, I bid the Beaumonts and my parents goodbye. Outside, darkness had fallen. The deserted parking lot was illuminated by a single light which flickered briefly as I walked under it. A prickle tightened the skin at the base of my skull. Someone was watching me, I could feel it, but when I spun around, I saw no one.
“I’m not up for the heebie-jeebies, Colby,” I muttered under my breath. “If you’re going to send me stuff, make sure it’s real.”
I climbed into my car, turned the ignition, and again glanced around as I backed out of the parking space. A man and woman were hurrying across to the other side of the lot.
“Make it real and useful,” I clarified as I drove out onto Main Street. “For instance, lotto numbers would be great. You can send those anytime.”
The center of town was a cheerful display of jewel-colored lights and brightly lit windows tempting last-minute Christmas shoppers, but I’d already done my gift-shopping back in Boston. A white-bearded, red-suited Santa Claus sat outside Dillon’s, ringing a bell and ho-hoing as passersby dropped donations into his kettle. Where would Lyle be spending the night — back under the bandstand as he had on a similar cold night a decade ago? At the bottom of the hill, the Tuppenny Tavern beckoned, promising a strong drink and the possibility of meeting up with Ryan a little later. On impulse, I pulled in and grabbed a seat at the busy bar.
“What’ll it be?” the barman asked.
“An extra-hot Irish coffee” — a very cold beer — “No! An Irish coffee, please.”
I guess he was used to weirdos, because he served my drink without comment. It was crowded and noisy in the Tavern, but my headache, I noticed, had vanished. I called Ryan and left a message on his voicemail telling him where I was, in case he was able to meet up.
I spent the next hour or two alternating coffees and beers, and working on my phone — slogging my way through the mountain of emails that had accumulated in my inbox. I’d half-expected a note from Perry, asking how I was doing and wondering whether I was any further in committing to psychology as my field of study. But there was nothing. Good thing, because I had no answer for him, even though I was beginning to suspect that not-a-yes was a no.
Several journal articles I’d requested from the main library for my thesis were awaiting my attention, but I had zero interest in reading them. Instead, I found myself diving into the deep end of the web, researching the onset of extrasensory perception after near-death experiences.
Not surprisingly, I found that scientists denied any such thing as ESP existed, while those ranged on the other end of the reality continuum insisted it was a common outcome of NDEs. I learned that clairvoyance was the ability to see things not accessible to normal vision, while clairaudience referred to hearing the inaudible, and clairsentience to feeling emotions and sensations that were not your own. I figured that if what I was experiencing was real, I must be clair-all-the-things — except claircognizant, because I knew nothing for sure, not even why the stool on my left stayed empty all evening, even though every other seat in the place was taken.
I surreptitiously sniffed my armpit and cupped a hand to smell my breath but detected nothing offensive. Perhaps I had a resting bitch face? I checked in the mirror behind the bar, arranged my features into a friendly expression and smiled benignly at anyone who approached the bar counter, but the seat remained vacant. When a young man stood with his back to the stool while his companion perched on an adjacent stool, I tapped him on the shoulder and said, “You’re welcome to take the seat — I’m not holding it for anyone.”
He glanced at the barstool, looked confused for a moment, and then grinned. “Thanks. I thought it was taken.”
Perhaps it had been.
My fingertips rubbed the edges of my nails, unconsciously searching for a rough edge. I picked at the uneven corner of one and then tore off a thin strip with my teeth. The edge was rough on the other side now; I nibbled it, striving for even. It never was.
I checked my phone again, but there was still nothing from Ryan. I relinquished my own seat to whoever wanted it and left the Tavern on feet that were just the slightest bit unsteady.
I drove down Pond Road, aware of the pond’s dark presence beyond the yellow glow of the street lights. The only other car in sight was the one driving too close behind me, dazzling me with its harsh, blue-white headlights. I slowed down, waving the driver ahead of me, but the car inched closer. I flipped my rearview mirror to reduce the blinding dazzle and accelerated, because the car was right on my tail now. In these conditions, it was crazy-dangerous to drive like this. I leaned on the horn, gestured again. But the car didn’t back off.
Fearing that it would smash into the back of me if I slowed down enough to take a right at the traffic circle, I plowed forward, bumping straight over the raised center, hearing it grate the undercarriage of my car
. The car behind me followed suit. This was no mere drunk or careless driver. I was being chased. I raced along the road curving around the pond, sped past the turnoff to the golf estate, strained to outrace my tail. As we reached the dark wooded section of the park at the far end of the pond, the car behind accelerated hard. I felt more than heard the massive impact.
My car veered across the road. Another impact sent me jolting across the snow-covered grass toward the pond. I braked hard, yanked on the wheel, slammed into a tree. The airbag exploded into my face. Snow, pine needles and cones rained down on my car. Then all was silent.
I checked my side and rearview mirrors. Behind me, I could just make out a low, dark car parked on the side of Pond Road, and a tall figure in a long coat silhouetted against the light of the street, walking in my direction.
A spike of panic stung my fingers and jolted my heart into top gear. I needed to get out. My car was a good hundred yards into the dark park and wouldn’t be visible to any passing traffic. The figure stalked closer with every passing second. If I stayed, I’d be a sitting duck.
Fighting the deflating airbag, I pushed open the door and ran.
44
NOW
Saturday December 23, 2017
Gasping, heart hammering, flushed with cold sweat, I thrashed through the deep snow. Away from the figure following me. Toward the pond.
The ground fell away beneath me, tumbling me into a hollow filled with a deep drift of pillowy snow. Flailing, I spat out a mouthful of ice, scrambled to my feet, risked a glance behind me. The figure was closing in.
Run! Hide!
The words, as likely my own as Colby’s, filled my mind and fueled my headlong flight into the bank of tall reeds at the pond’s edge. I splashed into the slushy water. The frigid impact snatched my breath and robbed my will to go further, but I forced myself forward, deeper into the reeds, cursing the noise I made. My running shoes were already soaked, and my jeans were absorbing the frigid water. Where the reeds began thinning out, at the edge of where the pond’s frozen surface began, I crouched down and waited. Tried to control my panting. Strained to hear above the bang of blood in my ears.
The loud squelch of following footsteps rent the stillness of the night. What to do? I was trapped between the man and the pond, and both of them were potentially lethal.
There was no help for it. Knowing full well I was risking a repetition of my last time on the pond, I stepped onto the icy surface. My first footstep pushed right through the mushy ice at the edge, sending me knee-deep into the bitter water. The splashing footsteps behind me were closer now.
Move!
I leaned over as far as I could and slid my body onto the ice. Then I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees and began crawling forward. The ice seized me, trying to freeze onto my wet knees and hands. I tugged my hands free, yanked my cardigan sleeves over them for some protection and crawled forward over the creaking ice, wrenching my knees free on every movement until the denim froze and I could slide more easily, ice on ice.
After about twenty yards, I thumped a fist on the frozen surface. It felt solid, and I heard no cracks. I clambered to my feet and made my way across the ice toward the center of the pond. Then I spun around. The figure was a shadow of deepest black against the darkness of the reeds. It stood watching me, then tested the ice with a foot. Fell through, as I had. Tried again. Fell through again.
Suck it! You’re much heavier than I am, you bastard.
The ache spreading from my wet feet and legs was brutal enough to make me weep, but I had no time or energy for tears. Breath rasping painfully, I sat down on my denimed rear, lifted my feet off the ice, and folded them tight against my chest. I jammed my hands into my armpits. Shivers pulsed through me in fierce waves as I sat in the darkness, watching the figure watching me.
I wished with every fiber of my slowly freezing body that I’d taken a minute to grab my phone before I’d left the car. Then it occurred to me that he didn’t know I hadn’t.
“I’ve called 911!” I screamed across the ice. “They’re coming for you.”
For a few long moments, the figure didn’t move — no doubt debating whether I was bluffing, whether to chance waiting until I died from exposure. Then it turned, pushed back out of the reeds, and strode up the incline to the road. The lights of the dark car were visible for only a second before it disappeared into the night.
Shuddering violently now, I stepped and fell and slid across the ice toward the reeds — toward my car, the space blanket in Dad’s emergency box, and the phone in my handbag.
I slept in late the next morning and then stayed in bed for a long time, drinking the coffee Dad brought me, reviewing the events of the night before. The EMTs who’d arrived first on the scene of my “accident” the previous night had insisted on hauling my ass back to the hospital in Randolph to be checked out, but after examining me head to toe, the ER doctor had pronounced me “shaken and stirred, but good to go”. Wearing my still wet and muddy shoes, I’d caught a cab back to Pitchford.
I wished I could spend all day in my bed with the electric blanket turned up high, but the night before, I’d promised the two cops at the scene — neither of whom had been Ryan Jackson — that I’d go in to the station and file a report.
Ryan called when I was on my second cup of coffee, his voice a blend of concern and exasperation.
“Am I to understand you wound up in the pond again?”
I sniffed. “Not in, on. There’s a difference.”
“Why did you run onto the pond after you crashed your car? Was it just blind panic?” Without waiting for a reply, he continued, “I’m sorry I couldn’t come out and assist last night, Garnet. That domestic violence call out kept me tied up for hours, trying to persuade the wife to lay charges.”
“Right.”
“Should I come over to your folks’ house this morning to take the statement?”
“You’ll have to — I don’t have a working car, and neither do my parents. Eleven-thirtyish work for you?”
“I’ll be there. And you’re sure you feel okay?”
“Yeah.”
Truthfully, I felt wary. My attacker the night before could have been anyone. I thought it had most likely been a man, but it could have been a tall woman; the long, dark coat had disguised the figure’s shape.
Had the attempt on my life been triggered by my general investigation into Colby’s death, or by something specific I’d said or done? Someone might have seen me talking to Lyle, or discovered I’d chatted to Doc Armstrong before he died. But maybe someone at the funeral had witnessed my moment of epiphany, heard me gasp and say — like the total fool I was — that I’d realized something important and wanted to talk to Ryan about it privately. They could’ve followed me from the church, waited for me outside the Tavern, and then seized their opportunity on the dark, deserted road.
I thought about who’d been in the group of people in the church hall when I’d put two and two together — my parents, Bridget, Roger and Philip Beaumont, and Ryan Jackson. I discounted Bridget immediately — too short, too frail, no motive — and also crossed my parents off the list. Roger and Philip, however, were likely suspects — either of them would be likely to have a long coat and the sort of newer-model car that had those absurdly bright headlights. But if Ryan was right about the land deal being aboveboard, then what motive could they have had?
Ryan. Had he really still been out on the earlier case when my call had come in, or had he been getting far away from Plover Pond, possibly hiding his damaged car? He could easily have hidden evidence in the original investigation, or dragged his heels this time around, in the hope of protecting his investment. Or his involvement. He appeared to be such a good guy that my mistrust seemed utterly ridiculous, but still, I couldn’t exclude him.
Could it have been anyone else?
Michelle Armstrong hadn’t been in our group when I’d had my realization, but she was thick as thieves with Roger Beaumont, and he
might have told her what I’d said. She was tall enough to look like a man from a distance, and she’d worn pants to the funeral. Or she could have had an accomplice. I couldn’t rule out Blunt, either. He’d been well enough to attend the funeral, and maybe in a moment of clarity, he’d perceived some danger in my investigation, borrowed or stolen a car, and taken his shot.
I suspected all of them, yet I couldn’t truly believe it of any of them. Couldn’t — or didn’t want to?
Irritated, I finished my coffee before it cooled and switched to mulling over what I'd finally figured out the day before. Colby had been attacked, and then he’d been drowned by someone else.
Who might have wanted to beat him up, but not kill him? Who hated him, wanted to warn him off something — or someone — and would have been coward enough to take along a crony? Which J might have drawn Colby to the pond with the lure of wanting to talk, or — the thought appeared so clearly that I ought to have heard a penny drop — which person might have used a “J” to get Colby to respond?
At once, I knew who I needed to speak to.
45
NOW
Sunday December 24, 2017
According to directory services, the address I wanted was a mere six blocks from my parents’ house. That was surprising. I would have thought a move to grander accommodations would have happened before now. I walked there, ignoring the protests of my stiff muscles, relishing the brisk air.
The house was a two-story clapboard with a shingle roof, set well back from its neighbors at the end of a cul-de-sac. I climbed the steps to the porch, stepped around the small bike, pink tricycle and plastic two-wheeled scooter stacked against a swing bench, and rang the bell. No one answered. The unmistakable noise of television cartoons blared from inside the house, along with the screams of kids fighting. I rang again then thumped a fist against the door.
Finally, it opened a crack. Though it was a dull, overcast morning, Judy Dillon wore sunglasses large enough to cover half her face, and she seemed both surprised and put out to find me on her doorstep.
The First Time I Died Page 28