by ML Guida
“I told you I don’t know who he is. When he appears in my dreams, bad things happen.” She looked between them, but they didn’t believe her. Their auras were gray, full of deception.
Mason gave her a tight smile. “There’s no use in protecting him. You’d be better off telling us where your dealer is.”
Heather frowned. “What dealer?”
“You’re playing games,” Hewitt said. “Right now, you’re not being charged with anything, but this can all change if you do not tell us where to find him.”
“You’re not listening. I don’t know who he is. I thought he was part of my imagination.” She shuddered. “Until that night.”
“The night your sister died?” Hewitt asked.
“It was the first time I’d ever seen him alive.”
“Why don’t I believe you?” Mason asked.
“Fine. Don’t believe me. But it’s the truth.”
“Our source says that you do know who the man is,” Hewitt said.
Heather had enough. “Whoever told you this is lying. But you’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“You know, we can’t,” Hewitt said.
“Detectives, you can’t trust a drug addict, because they will say anything to get the next fix.”
A slow thin smile spread across Hewitt’s face. “You’d be surprised who the liar is, Ms. Bowen.”
She clamped her jaw shut. It had to be one of her staff. Stephanie? She couldn’t believe it was. Stephanie had always been loyal to her. She’d come to Rosemary’s funeral, and had participated in fundraisers to help Serenity House.
Mason slammed his fist onto her desk. “Come clean, lady. You lie worse than the addicts you’re supposed to be helping.”
“I resent you calling me a liar.”
Mason stood. “You make me sick, Bowen. You’re not helping these people, you’re making them more dependent on some new dangerous drug. Is this your game, so you and your partner can get richer?”
“No! How dare you accuse me of that! That’s so…so…so preposterous!”
She choked on the words and hot tears stung her eyes. She kept her hands plastered on the desk to keep from slapping Mason’s contemptible face. “If you knew—” She blinked away the hated tears. She wasn’t going to cry about Rosemary, not in front of these heartless bastards.
She cleared her throat. “I have never, and mean never, sold drugs in my life.”
Mason narrowed his eyes and his nostrils flared. “Someday you’re going to make a mistake and I’m going to be there.”
Hewitt shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ms. Bowen. I see we have wasted your time and ours.” He flashed a small smile. “Have a good day.”
He walked to the door and opened it. He gestured with his hand. “Mason?”
Mason saluted her with his two fingers. “We’ll be in touch.”
Heather wanted to break his fingers in half and stuff them down his smug throat, but she didn’t move. “Gentlemen.”
She put her elbows on the desk and rested her forehead in her palms and sighed.
Stephanie burst into the room. “They’re gone, but they didn’t look too happy. Are you all right?”
Heather lifted her head and snatched a tissue. She dabbed her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. Could you tell Brandon I need to reschedule our interview and would you please hold all my calls?”
“Of course. Do you want to talk?”
Heather wanted to talk with Stephanie. In the past, she had discussed with her problems with Serenity House or the dysfunctional relationship she had with Rosemary, but what if Stephanie was the one going to the police? “Not really. I need to get some work done.”
She forced herself to give Stephanie a reassuring smile instead of bursting into tears. Sometimes being strong was so damn hard.
“Okay, I’ll be out here if you need me.” Stephanie shut the door behind her.
Heather swiveled around to peer out the window. She didn’t see any cars in the parking lot or on the street she didn’t recognize, but she had no idea what kind of car Hewitt and Mason drove.
She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She needed to regroup to think about what to do next. The warm sun took away the chill on her skin. She took a deep breath, filling her diaphragm, then exhaled. The tension unwound in her bunched muscles.
Tingles whooshed over her and a heaviness set into her body. She couldn’t move, couldn’t open her eyes, couldn’t call out.
What was happening?
“Heather.”
A cold voice whispered her name in her ear. Icy breath blew onto her neck, sending goosebumps scurrying along her skin. Terror gripped her. It was the mysterious man. He was here in her office. He was standing next to her and she was wide awake.
He clasped her hand. “Come with me.”
Air rushed around her and she could barely breathe. Her stomach triple somersaulted. Lord, she was going to be sick, but then it stopped.
She stumbled, standing alone. Where was she?
A rollercoaster roared. People screamed and laughed. She inhaled the smell of cotton candy and buttered popcorn.
She knew where she was—Elitch’s, the amusement park.
A little girl held a red balloon in one hand and her mother’s in the other, but it was the man behind them who stopped her blood.
“Hello,” the mysterious man said. Yellow, red, blue, and black glowing beads were threaded through his thick braid. He grabbed her hand and the silver pentagram dangling from his neck glittered. He hadn’t worn that before. Underneath the pendant, the tattoo of the cobra slithered.
She trembled.
“I have something to show you.”
She shook her head and tried to speak, but her voice vanished as if he’d stolen it.
He chuckled and led her through the crowd. Her sandals stuck to the sticky pavement. A cool mist sprayed from the sprinklers. The water droplets spotted the little girl’s tee shirt with red polka dots and splashed onto the mother’s arm. Nobody noticed.
Heather screamed, but her throat closed up and she released a gasp.
Men and women sat outside a pub sipping beer and eating bratwurst, nachos, and hamburgers. She stared at them, pleading with them to help. No one even glanced at her. No one noticed the mother and daughter splattered with blood. No one noticed the mysterious man with red eyes and moving cobra tattoo.
Scythe. Where are you? Help me.
The mysterious man squeezed her hand so tight she thought he’d break her fingers.
“Stop that!”
She winced. What had she been doing? But for once, fear flashed in his eyes. Was he scared of Scythe?
He pulled her close to his chest. “Do it again, and I’ll make sure your sister’s soul is tortured.”
He could do this? What was he?
He dragged her into a store decorated like a shack. Sunglasses, hard candy, and Looney Tunes memorabilia filled the shelves.
He grabbed her shoulders and forced her to look toward the cash register. “Now, watch.”
Sam Dawson, her client, worked the register. He wore his blue baseball cap backward like a skater. The word Elitch’s was embroidered above his right pocket and his name tag hung crooked off his left pocket. He rang up the cash register, then handed a young red headed girl change.
The girl looked at her hand and smiled. “Thanks, mister.”
He slammed the drawer shut. “You’re welcome. Come again.”
His voice was garbled, and he didn’t even look at the cute girl.
A young woman wore the same blue uniform as Sam, but hers was neat and pressed, while his was wrinkled. Her name tag read manager. She had her brown hair swirled up into a bun and had on fresh makeup. She stopped straightening clothes on a round table. “Sam, you can take your break, but this time, be back on time.”
Sam pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his left pocket. “I swear I will be.”
The woman walked past him to the cash register and grumbled, “Uh-uh. Where have I hea
rd that before.”
Air swooshed around Heather, and her vision blurred. She flashed into an alley. She stumbled and the dark man squeezed her hand, then yanked her to her feet. She tried to free her hand from his grasp, but it was useless. All she could do was watch the dreaded scene unfold.
Sam sat on a wooden barrel smoking a cigarette. His brows were furrowed and anger simmered in his eyes. He always looked this way in group when he was thinking of his father. His father had used him as a punching bag. Sam could take the beatings, but the things his father said to him had broken his spirit.
Cigarette in his mouth, Sam bent over and pulled up his pant leg. Nestled inside his sock was a vial of pills. Heather frowned. Where had Sam gotten those? Dr. Stanton hadn’t prescribed meds for him.
“He didn’t give him the pills,” the dark hair man said.
His icy voice turned her blood cold. She opened her mouth to yell at Sam not to take the pills, but nothing came out of her mouth, not even a gasp of air.
Scythe, where are you?
The dark man grabbed her hair and lifted her off the ground. Pain blinded her eyes.
“Call for him again, and I’ll throw you into the brick wall. Nod, if you understand.”
Her body trembling, Heather managed to obey.
His fingernails scratched her skull as he jerked her in front of him. She wanted to close her eyes, but couldn’t. Chills iced through her body and she trembled.
Sam tossed the cigarette onto the ground and smashed the glowing ember with his boot. He turned the cap on the vial and popped it open with his thumb. He dumped some glowing red pills into his palm.
She’d never seen anything like that. Heather’s heart patted harder and harder as if she ran in a marathon.
Sam, no!
She screamed the words in her head, but Sam couldn’t hear her.
He picked up bottled water, then swallowed the pills. The bottle dropped onto the pavement and water spilled around his boots. His green eyes darkened. Flames flickered in his pupils. He stood and swayed. He put his hand on the wall to steady himself, then he shuddered.
He lifted his head. The lost man she’d been working with was gone. Instead a look of pure evil had washed over his face. The same look she’d seen in her dreams. There was no doubt he was going to commit murder, then kill himself. Once again, she was powerless.
Sam walked to the garbage can and riffled through it. He pulled out a beer bottle, then smashed it against the wall. Glass shattered and fell to the ground like rain.
The door swung open. The manager walked out. “Sam, what are you doing?” She glared. “Look at this mess.” She put her hands on her hips. “You need to clean it up, now.”
He laughed, then moved toward her with the broken beer bottle in his hand.
“What are you doing? Stay away from me.” Her voice turned shrill, and she edged backward. She turned to grab the handle on the screen door, but wasn’t fast enough.
Sam lunged. He snagged her hair, spun her around, and jammed the bottle into her neck.
Her scream died in her throat. She gargled and blood spurted into the air, splattering Sam’s scowling face and the brick wall. The woman clutched Sam’s shirt, then her hands went slack and her eyes closed.
Sam released her and she tumbled to the pavement. His hands were covered with blood.
A glaze swished over his eyes and the sweet boy she knew returned.
He shook his head. “Where am I? Oh, my God—Cheryl.”
A flicker of emotions flashed through his eyes—horror, shame, guilt.
Heather wanted to shout it wasn’t his fault, but her frozen lips wouldn’t move.
Sam bent to pick up a piece of glass, his hand shook. Tears streamed down his face. “I’m sorry, Cheryl. Please forgive me.” He slashed his throat, his knees buckled, and he crumbled to the ground.
Heather opened her mouth, this time, she released an agonizing scream.
He clutched her arm tight. “My name’s Blade. Tell Scythe, he’ll never find me, and he’ll never stop me. Show him this.” He slashed his fingers on her right arm. “It’s too late.”
Pain gripped her and she gasped, clutching her arm to her stomach.
“Pretty soon they’ll all be dead,” he whispered. “And it’s all your fault.”
He released her and wind swirled around her.
Someone shook her. “Heather, Heather, wake up.”
Heather opened her eyes to be back in her office. Fear still squeezed her insides and her beating heart sent blood thumping through her; her temples pounded.
Stephanie held her shaking hand. “Are you okay? You were screaming. Oh, my God, what did you do to your arm?”
Three nasty bloody scratches were on her arm. “He. . .he. . .he scratched me.”
Stephanie’s eyes widened. “Who?”
“Blade,” Heather blurted. “He’s the dark man of my dreams.”
“Were you dreaming about someone?” Dread echoed in Stephanie’s voice.
Fuzziness swirled around in Heather’s brain. Scythe knew Blade. How could this be possible? Who exactly was Scythe Angel? He was more than a drug and alcohol counselor.
She tilted her chin and met Stephanie’s frightful gaze. “Yes.” Heather grabbed the phone to call Sam’s cellular phone. She had all of her client’s numbers memorized.
Stephanie put her hand on her throat. “It wasn’t me, was it?”
“No. Come on answer.”
Please, let Sam be alive. Please, he’s just a kid.
“I’ll get you some bandages for your arm.” Stephanie rushed out the door as if the devil himself was after her.
“Hey, this is Sam. Obviously, I’m not here. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Sam, this is Heather. Call me back immediately. It’s important.”
She hung up. Sam usually always called back. She redialed and got the same message. She slammed down the receiver. “Damn it!”
Sam had only been at Serenity House for a short time, but he’d done amazing work in individual and group therapy. During the last group session, he’d opened up about his abusive dad. He’d lifted his tee shirt to reveal crisscross scars on his back. Meth had never helped him erase the memory.
She dialed Sam’s cellular phone again and again, but kept getting the same damn message. Crap, this was Rosemary all over again.
Heather’s arm throbbed. Where was Stephanie?
She left her office to get bandages out of the medicine cabinet in the clinic. Stephanie wasn’t at her desk. This was strange. Someone was supposed to be at the front desk.
The clinic was empty since the staff was working with patients in group therapy. She had keys to unlock the cabinet. She dabbed disinfectant on the scratches and hissed. Damn, it burned. She gritted her teeth and did the best she could to bandage her stinging arm.
The phone rang. Heather picked it up. “Serenity House.”
“Heather? Where’s Stephanie?”
“Hi, Paul,” she said. “I don’t know where Stephanie is. What’s up?”
“I’m going to be late coming in for my shift. There’s something going on at Elitch’s. Traffic is all backed up on Speer.”
“Oh, no. Sam,” she whispered.
“Sam?” Paul asked. “What’s wrong with Sam?”
“Nothing. I’ll let Dee know.” She hung up and numbly contacted Dee, the supervisor on duty tonight to let her know about Paul. She couldn’t bring herself to let her staff know Sam was dead.
Stephanie rushed around the corner. “Heather, what are you doing at the front desk? You’re so pale.”
“Paul’s going to be late,” Heather said. Her voice was dull.
She forced her shaking legs to move as she made it back to her office, ignoring Stephanie’s mumbling about where she’d been. Heather didn’t care. If she couldn’t reach Sam by phone, she’d drive down there.
She snatched her purse and keys out of her desk drawer and hurried to leave.
“Where are you going?” Stephanie asked.
Heather didn’t answer. She swung open the door and froze. A fortyish looking brown skinned man, wearing a tweed suit, stood next to a younger blond woman. Her makeup was thick and it made her face look hard as if it had been carved out of wood.
“Ms. Bowen?” she asked. “We’re Detectives Andre Garcia and Cynthia Radison from the Denver Police Department. We need to talk to you.”
“I was just stepping out.”
Radison held up her badge, then gestured back through the door. “Actually, you’re going to step back in. Now.”
A cloudy green aura radiated around Radison. Great, the woman was full of resentment. This wasn’t going to go well.
Heather barely glanced at the gold and silver badge. Something was wrong. She was too late. She knew they were here about poor Sam.
“Fine,” she said. “We can talk in my office.”
Stephanie sat at her desk pretending to be typing on her computer. Had she called the police? The police had arrived here way too fast for this to be a coincidence. Was Stephanie the traitor?
Heather closed the door to her office to keep Stephanie from over hearing. If she was the Judas, she’d didn’t need to see her squirm. “What can I do for you, Detectives?”
“We have some bad news about Sam Dawson,” Andre said.
His Spanish accent rolled off his words.
“Oh?” Her knees knocking, Heather sat behind her desk to keep from collapsing. “What happened?”
“I’m afraid, Ms. Bowen, Sam Dawson is dead.”
“Oh, no.” Heather released a pent up sob, but took a deep breath to get it together. Sadness blanketed her heavy heart. She didn’t want to break down in front of the detectives. There would be time to grieve later.
Andre’s voice was soft. His pink aura beamed of tenderness and love, but Cynthia’s blue eyes were hard as if she thought Heather had something to do with Sam’s death. Had she been talking with Huey and Duey?
“Do you want to know how he died?” Cynthia asked. “Or do you already know based on your so-called dreams?”
Heather winced. The woman had just convicted and crucified her.
Andre glared. “Radison.” Shock hinted in his voice.
Cynthia shrugged as if purposely trying to offend Heather.