Dying For Redemption

by C. A. Freeburn

The next picture was from Christmas, mom and dad on either side of their son and Dean Harding taking up residence in the background. Another flip of the frame, and a cruise ship photo snapped in front of my eyes. Interestingly, once again son was between dad and mom. In every picture, the son separated the mom and dad. His parents never stood side-by-side, shared a hug, or a light touch.

  "Something is hidden in that family," I said.

  "Why do you think that?"

  I pointed out the consistent family placement.

  "Good observation." Denver mimicked cracking his knuckles. "I say it looks like the missus doesn't actually trust the mister. Maybe, she has some evidence or an inkling that he was involved in Callous's death. And what is up with uncle popping up in every picture, hovering in the background like he's the family ghost."

  "That's a good question." I rotated through the pictures again. "Maybe his mom suspected that her husband had something to do with the coed disappearing and Callous's death. I wouldn't want to be around a man capable of killing another."

  A heated energy flowed from Denver. I looked over at him. His mouth twisted almost as if in pain. He removed his gaze from me and centered it on the wall.

  "If that's the case," Denver spoke more to the wall than me, "why did she stay married to him?"

  "For her child."

  "So, a woman would stay with a suspected murderer just to keep her family together. Sounds stupid to me." Denver floated over to a filing cabinet.

  "Kind of like your theory that a man would keep information about financing a murder in his office?" I used my mind to tug open the bottom desk drawer.

  "No. But I do think he'd keep the finance records of the school here." Denver examined the files. "Or something like this."

  I looked up from a drawer filled with ties, aspirin, and pulp detective novels. Denver held a stapled stack of pages.

  "What are those?"

  He waved them in the air, the paper crackling as the pile whipped back and forth. "A copy of your report on Callous."

  "He is the dean." I flew over to Denver.

  "This thing has been thumbed through, read, and doodled on."

  "Give me that!" I snatched the papers out of his hand. I rifled through the report. Denver was right. The paper had been read numerous times. I trembled, and the papers trickled from my hand. "He killed me. Because of my report."

  Denver wrapped a steadying arm around me. "If he did it before, he would do it again. Nothing makes a person more willing to break the rules than knowing they got away with it before."

  "What in the hell!" The question boomed from the hallway. We both turned to see a shocked and angry Dean Harding standing in the doorway. The sound of thundering feet accompanied his next cry.

  Denver motioned for me to squat behind a chair as he melded into the file cabinet, tucking his head down. I decided to go along with his plan and hide within the chair.

  Dean Harding waved his arms around wildly, showcasing the books on the floor and his opened desk drawers. He jabbed a finger at his secretary. "Who the hell was in here? Who did you let in here?"

  Security guards pushed past him and entered the room, their hands at their hips, ready to whip out a can and mace the ransacker.

  "I… I… I didn't," she stammered, tears slipping down her cheeks. "Nobody's been in here. Nobody's been down this hallway."

  "Dean, you have any guess why someone would do this?" One of the security guards knelt down and stared at the open bottom drawer.

  "No. Why would I?"

  The guards looked at each other and shrugged. "It's your office that got trashed. If you ain't got a clue, then we can't round anyone up."

  "Yeah, your secretary said she didn't see anyone," the shorter guard said.

  "Unless you think she did it," another guard hinted.

  She gasped and tears flowed down her face.

  The dean's face showed his shock, and he draped his arm around his crying secretary. "Heavens, no."

  "Then—"

  "Incident in the auditorium," the walkie-talkies on the guards' belts squawked. "Student with a gun."

  CHAPTER THIRY-NINE

  Abby

  Since Denver and I had the ability to travel by thought, we beat the dean and the security guards to the auditorium. A searing pain tore through my soul, one more painful than my own death, and I doubled over. Denver embraced me, trying to help keep me from breaking. A wild-eyed Rich pointed a large gun at Professor Harding's head.

  "What is he thinking?" I cried.

  "That's his only way to eliminate his pain." Denver shook his head sadly. "It's not going to work."

  Rich stood, feet splayed apart, two feet away from Professor Harding. His hands shook, one finger on the trigger, and the look in Rich's eyes spoke of his willingness—his need—to shoot the professor.

  Harding had his hands raised high in the air, while his eyes scanned the other students in the auditorium, begging them with a look to stay in their seats and not to try and be heroes. His face reflected compassion and pity for Rich, an understanding and forgiveness for the brash and deadly actions of the grieving young man.

  I had always liked Professor Harding and found him fair. Now, my soul filled with an overwhelming lightness of admiration for this man who was concerned about the young man holding a gun on him. I knew I wouldn't be as forgiving.

  Calmness radiated from the professor. "Rich, why don't you put the gun down?"

  The classroom door was flung open and banged against the wall. Students gasped and slouched down in their seats. The sounds of sobs and the rustling of bodies filled the room as male students moved to half cover and protect the girls near them.

  "Not a bright move." Denver released me and whisked down into the fray.

  I followed, desperate to do something—anything—to stop Rich from shooting.

  Panic-filled gazes eyed the security guards and the dean. Students pleaded for them to get them out alive. Whispered prayers joined the other noises in the tension-filled atmosphere.

  "It's all right," Harding said, his tone conveying to the guards not to use force.

  "Put the gun down, kid." A security guard advanced toward Rich, one hand fingering the mace attached to his belt.

  Rich looked around in alarm, confusion clouding his eyes. Watching him, I knew he had only just realized the full effect of his actions. The great confrontation leading to a confession he had planned was falling apart.

  "Don't come any closer." Rich stepped closer to Harding, the barrel of the gun aimed at Harding's chest. His hands shook, and I prayed that Rich's nervousness didn't make the final, deadly decision for him.

  "You don't want to do this." The security guard remained rooted to his spot.

  "Peter!" the dean shouted in horror.

  "I'm fine, Uncle." Professor Harding bestowed a small comforting smile onto the man that I loved. "Rich, let's talk about this."

  "No! There's nothing to talk about."

  "I think there is. After all, you're holding a gun on me."

  "You killed her!" The gun Rich held no longer shook, and the look in his eyes showed a new resolve, a determination to kill my killer—the right, noble, and correct choice.

  Fear tumbled inside and around me. Wisps of white mingled into the air around my form. I turned my head and looked at Denver. He stood close to me, his mouth in a hard frown, and shook his head in disagreement at what Rich had planned. Denver had been there, in the same situation, believing he intended to stop a murderer only to end up shooting someone and becoming one himself.

  Sweat broke out on Harding's forehead. I believed for the first time since the hostage situation had begun the professor was scared.

  "What can we do?" I whispered, not wanting to alert Rich to my presence yet and speed up a chain of events that ended with Rich pulling the trigger.

  "Revenge is never sweet," Denver muttered. "It only feels good for a brief moment, a moment so small you can't even hold onto it in your head to relieve some
of your pain."

  Had Denver's prior warnings been given not just for my best interest, but also for those who loved me? Maybe he hadn't meant to come across as a spooky, scary, hateful man.

  "I think you're the only one who can talk him out of this." Denver placed a hand on the small of my back and nudged me forward. "Only the murdered can convince their avenger not to exact revenge."

  "But I thought you said that it wasn't good to interfere." I was terrified. What if I failed? I was already dead, but Rich was still alive. I didn't want to lead him to my same fate.

  "The worst case is already in motion, Abigail." Again, Denver prodded me to move. "You have two choices, Abby. Stop it, or watch it."

  I nodded as tears filled my eyes. Could I stop it? Was it too late? I heard a voice in my head say that until the trigger was pulled, it wasn't too late and was worth a try. Yes. I had to try.

  Centering my emotions on remaining calm, I allowed my body to take on the wispy form of a ghost. I made my way to Rich, concentrating my mind and will on him, hoping that he'd sense me, feel me near him, trying to offer comfort and peace.

  "Rich."

  I heard a scream, but continued toward Rich. Someone else had seen me and wasn't too keen on being one of the lucky few susceptible to ghosts. But I couldn't give them much thought. I had to save Rich.

  "Rich," I called again. I took a deep breath and passed through Rich. Maybe my presence in him would bring peace for a brief moment, let him know that he didn't need to do this for me, that killing wasn't what I wanted.

  Rich shuddered. He kept his jaw clenched and ignored me. He needed to remain focused on the man he intended to kill for me.

  I stood in front of Rich, a barrier image between the gun and Professor Harding. He couldn't pretend I wasn't there. Rich had never been good at ignoring me. Sooner or later, my persistence always wore him down.

  "Rich, put it down."

  His eyes filled with tears as he gazed on my form. "I can't. He can't get away with this. I won't let him."

  "He won't," I assured him. "If you're right, the courts will see that he pays."

  "The police won't do anything. I already told them." Rich jabbed the gun toward Harding, which made it come closer to me.

  Rich's eyes opened wide in shock. "I'm sorry, Abby. I'm sorry, baby. I wouldn't hurt you."

  I heard the whispers as Rich's state of mind became the topic of the conversation. The students now had a reasonable explanation as to why a fellow student would try and kill the professor—he'd lost his mind.

  I reached out, my fingertips moving over the shape of Rich's jaw line. "Don't kill him."

  Rich's body jerked up almost as if something painful had been done to him when I said the word kill. Didn't Rich realize that was what he would be doing if he pulled the trigger?

  "I'm not. I'm just going to make him pay for what he…" Rich choked out the next word, "did."

  "He didn't kill me."

  "Yes, he did!"

  The security guards looked at each other and shrugged, neither knowing who the deranged student spoke to. They turned to eye the dean, who watched the scene unfold with a look of horror on his face.

  "You don't know that to be the truth," I persisted. "If you're wrong, the consequences you'll face are horrible. You'll go to prison. You'll go to Hell."

  "But–"

  "Revenge or justice isn't for any one person to deal out. You believe that." I placed my hand under the one that gripped the weapon. "If you don't, why did you spend all that time preparing to become a lawyer?"

  Rich removed his finger from the trigger."You're right."

  Over his shoulder, I saw Denver give me a thumbs-up.

  "Just put the gun down." I lowered my form, hoping for Rich to follow my lead. "It'll be okay."

  He shook his head. "I can't, Abby. I can't let him get away with killing you!"

  "Rich, I did not kill her."

  "Don't lie!"

  "I didn't have anything to do with that," Professor Harding said, hands still raised.

  "Yes, you did. Abby was killed because of the report she was working on. You were the only one who read that paper." Rich tightened his finger on the trigger and centered the aim on the professor's forehead. "You were the only one who could have been threatened by what her research was going to show."

  Muffled sobs filled the room. Harding looked pained at Rich's declaration of the motive for my murder.

  "Rich, what happened to Abigail was tragic, but I'm sure her paper wasn't the cause for it."

  "Then, why is it missing? Why was it taken? Why?"

  Denver caught my eye and made a motion to wrap this up quick. But how? What more could I do? Was there a way I could physically take the gun from Rich without harming anyone?

  "I… I don't know," Harding stammered.

  "That is enough, young man. Drop that gun!" Dean Harding demanded.

  Denver rolled his eyes. I agreed. That wasn't going to put a stop to the showdown.

  "You know, kid, this isn't going to help Abby none." Uncle Callous's gravelly voice came from behind Harding and me.

  "You don't know that."

  "Don't I?"

  Rich lowered the gun a few centimeters, digesting the information in the simple statement.

  "Killing this guy isn't going to bring you to Abby. Or Abby to you," Callous said. "It doesn't work that way."

  "Rich, killing me isn't going to bring her back to you," Harding said.

  "See, even the living know that," Callous said.

  "I can't do this. I'm tired of knowing her murderer is running around free, and Abby is buried underground." Rich placed the gun to his temple.

  "No!" I screamed.

  "No!" Harding screamed.

  "Thank God," the dean muttered.

  "Damn!" Denver whisked to Rich's side, ghostly hand reaching for the gun.

  "You won't be with her," Uncle Callous said. "Ever."

  Rich's eyes took in Callous, daring him to say more, begging him to say more.

  "Killing is killing, whether it's yourself or someone else. It's never a good choice. It won't put you where Abby will be forever, maybe for a few moments of time, but not for eternity. It'll start you down a path you don't want to be on."

  "You're lying," Rich said.

  "No, he's not." Denver allowed Rich to see him.

  Rich's eyes widened.

  "Trust me. I got experience on that end."

  "They're right, Rich," I said.

  "Don't say that, Abby."

  "You want her to lie?" Callous asked. "Or do you want the truth? The truth is the only thing that can keep you from making the biggest mistake of your life."

  "You can't bring me back, Rich, I'm gone." I choked on the words. Peace settled into my soul as I voiced the truth of my new existence. Limbo was my present and my future. The living world was my past. No matter how many times I came back to Earth and tried to participate in the living world, I would never live again. I had to make that clear to Rich.

  "Put down the weapon, Rich." Detective Trip slowly walked toward Rich and the professor, apparently intending to place himself between the two men.

  While we had been trying to disarm Rich, police officers had methodically and skillfully surrounded the classroom… and probably the building.

  Rich's panicked gaze scanned the room and took in all the officers with their guns trained on him.

  "What can we do?" I asked.

  Uncle Callous appeared beside me and took hold of my hand. "Remain calm."

  Harding planted himself in front of Rich. "Please don't hurt him!"

  "What the hell are you doing?" Dean Harding yelled.

  "You need to step away, Professor," Trip said.

  "He's under a lot of stress." With arms outstretched, the professor attempted to protect his student from the police. "His girlfriend was murdered a few days ago. In his mind, the evidence he knows points at me. Why wouldn't that upset him? Here I am teaching every day. Every day, h
e sees that I'm alive, and Abby is dead. Wouldn't that anger you?"

  "It wouldn't make me try to kill someone," Dean Harding said.

  A snort from Denver offered his opinion on the dean's claim. I did everything I could to stop myself from glaring at the man, thereby causing Rich to turn his wrath on another suspect.

  "I know his situation. Don't I, Rich? I told you that I'm close to closing this case. That I'm close to making an arrest." The detective spoke the words strong and clear.

  My interest piqued. Had they found the actual killer or the financer?

  "You did."

  "Don't you believe me?" The detective held out his hand. "Why do you think I'm here? Coincidence? Do you believe that I just happened to be in the area, that I heard this on the radio and knew it was you? Or was I on the campus to finish up my investigation? Which makes more sense?"

  "You'll give the detective the gun." Harding turned to face Rich. "Right? You don't want that. Abby wouldn't want that."

  "Come on, Rich. Put it down, and then I can get back to investigating Abby's case," Trip said.

  Rich nodded and allowed Detective Trip to take the gun from his unresisting fingers. The police prepared to rush.

  Harding held up his hand to stop them. He draped an arm around Rich and pulled him down to a sitting position on the floor. "I think you should call an ambulance."

  "He needs to be in a squad car, not an ambulance," a police officer argued.

  "That's your opinion, and I disagree with it." Harding looked directly into the eyes of the officer. "During this event, he has been talking to Abby. His dead girlfriend."

  "Get an ambulance," Trip said.

  The officer took a small step back, nodded in agreement, and radioed for the paramedics.

  "Be grateful for the beauty of the insanity defense," Callous said. He wrapped a comforting arm across my back and placed a hand on Denver's shoulder. I closed my eyes and allowed Callous to take me back home. Back to Limbo.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  "Dead, buried, and gone."

  The end was so close, it was hard to see.

  I had to get Abby out of the living plane and back into Limbo before Rich took that final step into insanity or committed suicide.