I was trying very hard to remember exactly what it was that I was doing here. For some unknown reason, I was at a complete loss. Truth was, I didn’t even know how I had come to be anywhere other than my own warm bed, and it was more than just a little disconcerting. Still, it certainly wasn’t the first time I’d experienced this phenomena recently, although the sickening feel of personal defilement was conspicuously absent this time. While somewhat of a consolation, that fact still did nothing to quell the oncoming panic, so I forced myself to remain calm and try to think it through.
Cognitive reasoning isn’t exactly an easy task when you feel like a refugee from the amnesia ward. My thoughts felt jumbled, but I was heartened that I actually had some of them for a change. Unfortunately, I don’t really think that they all belonged to me. Every now and then I would grapple with one of the memories as it tumbled through my numbed consciousness, inspecting it closely before it could get away. I was reasonably certain that such thoughts as “which pair of shoes I should wear with my new dress,” and “setting up an appointment to have my nails done before the party” belonged to someone else entirely. It was also a safe bet that said someone was female. What I was doing with her memories I couldn’t say, but they were fading from existence as quickly as they came in, and that wasn’t going to make it any easier to figure out.
There were, however, two things that kept circulating around my muddled grey matter with an uncharacteristically sharp clarity. One was a large glowing yellow rectangle. The other was a particularly nasty, and relatively familiar, burning sensation on the side of my neck coupled with a feeling of utter helplessness and disorientation. I couldn’t quite tell which of us should lay claim to this pair of thoughts. Until recently I’d thought of them purely as my own. Now in retrospect, I had to wonder. Of course, I suppose it was always possible that they were being shared by both of us.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat and continued to stare at the scene before me while pondering the greater meaning of luminescent geometric shapes and inexplicable pains. For the moment I resigned myself to the present situation in hopes some thought of lesser obscurity would finally provide an answer.
The tableau beyond the slightly fogged window strobed frantically with patches of red, blue, and white like an insane outdoor disco. Strings of holiday lights entwined through evergreen hedgerows were winking in and out of time with the brighter flashes in a futile attempt to find dominance over the darkness. I should have found the panorama saddening, but instead I felt little empathy for much of anything.
Flickering light bars mounted atop emergency vehicles were things to which I was growing far too accustomed. I reached this conclusion quickly with no resistance whatsoever from my rational self. It was undeniable. There was a time, when gathered in such an excessive number, the flashing beacons would have reminded me of severe tragedy. At this particular moment, however, they were simply an annoyance that my eyes were being forced to contend with.
Once upon a different time in my life a garish slash of yellow crime scene tape would have insinuated itself into my soul, bringing with it quick fear and deep sorrow. Now, an example of that thin plastic barrier was close by, slowly undulating on a cold winter breeze. In this instance it seemed simply a part of the everyday landscape. At least that is how it seemed to the me I had become.
Even the squawking radios and idling engines that tainted the night with their continuous disharmony seemed nothing more than a normal slice of reality. They neither belonged nor didn’t belong. They were very simply just there.
The bare truth was that nothing mattered to me now. Nothing but the yellow rectangle of light pouring through the open door of the townhouse apartment, a haunting incandescent spill that was being easily absorbed by a thirsty sponge of darkness.
Regrettably, it looked like I was going to have to answer some serious questions before I got anywhere near that doorway. At least that was the impression I was getting from the stern look molded onto Detective Benjamin Storm’s features.
I hadn’t seen my friend since meeting him for breakfast earlier in the month. It wasn’t surprising really, what with the holidays barreling in upon us-Chanukah had already arrived, securing first place in a yearly contest; with Yule, Christmas, and Kwanzaa lining up in the queue. Schedules were tight-being full of parties, relatives, and even in light of the season, work. I had hoped that the next time we saw one another, it would be at a gathering of family and friends where we could share a drink and forget about the everyday rigors of the world.
Of course, this was my bizarre life, and something like that wasn’t about to happen.
I guess I should have known I wouldn’t be blessed with such normalcy considering the circumstances, not to mention the fact that just over one year ago my very existence had veered off course to follow this far more tremulous path. On a sweltering August night, an ability that would soon become my life’s bane had exited thirty plus years of shadow to come fully into the light.
It was on that night that a perverted serial murderer had taken the life of one of my friends-a student I’d instructed in the ways of The Craft. Her final passage across the bridge into Summerland had cost me dearly.
I would never again be the same. In fact, I often wondered if what that really meant was that I would never again be sane.
It was during the investigation of her death-as well as the subsequent victims-when I discovered that a cigar is not necessarily always a cigar. I had learned that for me at least, a nightmare is quite possibly a harbinger of reality; that an intimate supernatural connection with the “other side” was my talent as a Witch-and at the same time, my torment.
Just as unfortunate was the fact that the random visions and nightmares didn’t always make much sense-like right now. And they were very often accompanied by a headache that would make a migraine seem like a welcome relief. Sometimes a sensation would even manifest as an unexplained pain localized in some other part of my body-once again, just like now.
The only saving grace was that this didn’t happen all the time. There were actually long stretches where I was able to experience “life as usual.” But, torment did happen frequently enough to keep me off balance and always wondering. I just never knew when or where to expect it.
Judging from the current circumstances, this was obviously one of the when’s, and wherever I was at the moment was, well, one of the where’s.
And once again, as I’d known for some time that I would end up, I was smack in the middle of something I’d rather have no part of. Especially given the fact that I was parked in the chilly back seat of a Saint Louis City police cruiser, wearing a pair of handcuffs and staring out the window at my best friend’s incredulous face.
As I said before, how I’d come to be here I wasn’t entirely certain. The last thing I remembered for a fact was climbing into bed next to my wife, Felicity. From there, to the best of my recollection, I had gone to sleep.
The next thing I even begin to remember after that is chasing after the glowing yellow rectangle. Upon adding up the imagery with the circumstances and carrying the remainder, I had concluded that the luminous shape was none other than the doorway to the apartment in the near distance. It didn’t help that said doorway was quite obviously the entrance to an active crime scene.
“Rowan? Jeezus…” Ben’s voice came to me, initially muted by the tempered glass of the windows, only to have the rest of the sentence leap in volume as he jerked open the car door. “What the fuck?!”
From what I could tell, the woman’s thoughts that had commandeered my synapses were pretty much gone, for now at least. At the moment, I was feeling relatively lucid, though there was still a definite fog hanging over me that kept threatening to obscure rational thought altogether. I hoped it would hold off long enough for me to figure out what was going on.
“Hey,” I answered sheepishly.
“Jeezus H. Christ, white man,” he continued. “What’s goin’ on? What’re ya’ doin’ here?”
“Honestly?”
“Hell yes, honestly, Rowan!” he barked. “This is a fuckin’ crime scene, not a shopping mall.”
“I don’t know.” There it was. The omnipresent and wholly unsatisfactory answer to a serious question that had become my pat answer. But as much as I wanted to give him something different, once again it was all I could conjure at the moment. I shrugged then continued, “I was actually hoping that you could tell me.”
“No way, Row.” He shook his head. “No way. You’re gonna hafta do better’n that.” With a thick frown pasted securely to his face, he huffed out a heavy sigh and stepped back, pulling the door open wider as he did so. “C’mon, get outta there.”
I rocked myself forward, and scooted across the stiff upholstery of the cold bench seat, then twisted toward the opening. Impatiently, my friend took hold of my upper arm with one large hand and guided me out onto the curb, telling me to watch my head at just about the same instant the back of it impacted with the doorframe. I’m pretty sure he timed it that way on purpose because it was more than plain that he wasn’t at all happy with me right now.
As amazing as it seems, even in the middle of the night, if you happen upon a crime scene, you will find at least a handful of onlookers seeking a morbid thrill. At the moment I was apparently the object of that thrill. If that wasn’t enough embarrassment for one sitting, we were being paid even more intense regard by a clutch of reporters and cameramen. Blue-white cones of artificial brightness instantly glared outward from their powerful lights, making the two of us the centerpiece of the harsh setting.
“Friggin’ assholes… Don’t turn around, Row…” Ben instructed me in a clipped voice, helping me forward with a rough hand as he stepped quickly in behind me.
We walked at an even pace, him guiding me with a hand planted firmly on my shoulder, weaving through cops and evidence technicians until we were positioned in the shadows behind a Crime Scene Unit van. Out of sight of the cameras and prying eyes of the reporters, we came to a halt and he told me to stand still.
I heard the clinking of metal, followed by a muted ratcheting noise, and my left hand was suddenly free. I rolled my shoulder and felt it give a slight pop as I brought it back to its natural position. A moment later, the metal was no longer chafing my other wrist, and I repeated the motion for my right shoulder as I turned around.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Yeah, thank me later after I kick your ass,” my friend told me. “Now what gives? What’re ya’ doin’ here?”
“I was serious, Ben,” I answered with a shake of my head. “I don’t know. I don’t even know how I got here.”
“Hell, that’s easy,” he told me while jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “Your goddamned truck is parked right over there in the middle of the fuckin’ street blockin’ traffic.”
“Who was murdered?” I unconsciously dismissed his statement and blurted out the question while looking past him at the glowing doorway.
“No… Me first, Row.” He shook his head vigorously. “Is there somethin’ about this I should know? Is this some kinda Twilight Zone shit here? You havin’ one of those visions or somethin’ like that?”
“It might be, Ben. I don’t know.” I shook my head again as I gravitated ever so slightly toward the scene.
“Whoa, Kemosabe.” He reached out and stopped my progress easily. “Just where do ya’ think you’re goin’?”
“I want to have a look at the scene, Ben,” I answered automatically.
“What for?”
I didn’t reply because I simply didn’t know the answer.
“Look, Row, this is a pretty routine investigation here, if you can call somethin’ like this routine. Truth is we don’t even know if it’s a murder or an accidental death just yet. There’re no weird symbols or any crap like that, so I don’t get what you’re doin’ here.”
He was making reference to the anomalous evidence that had prompted him to bring me into the two previous investigations. I could understand his point of view, but it was becoming apparent to me that visible evidence wasn’t always going to be what triggered my involvement.
“Now, let me ask ya’ somethin’,” my friend continued. “Did’ya know someone who lived in this apartment?”
The shroud of disorientation was descending on me again, rendering my fleeting clarity a thing of the past. My scalp was starting to tighten, and the back of my head held fast to a dull throb that was threatening to increase exponentially. I still had no real clue what I was doing here, but the growing pressure in my skull told me that there was definitely a reason. I was just too mesmerized by the doorway to recognize what it was.
“Look, Rowan, you’re actin’ pretty weird. How ‘bout I call Felicity and get ‘er down here to pick you up.”
“I’m fine,” I said, looking past him and focusing on the door. Something unseen, but very powerful, was compelling me to move toward that oblong patch of light.
“No, man, you ain’t fine,” he told me, emphasizing the word. “It’s two-friggin’-thirty in the mornin’, and you just showed up outta nowhere at a crime scene. Uninvited mind you. Then ya’ ducked under the barrier tape and started walkin’ across the yard like some kinda zombie, completely ignorin’ the officers who told you to stop. I got news for ya’… not every copper in Saint Louis knows who you are. You’re damn lucky ya’ didn’t get hurt. I mean, Jeezus… Hey… Hey… HEY Rowan! Are you even listenin’ ta’ me?”
“What?” I asked in a distracted timbre. I’d only barely heard him talking and hadn’t actually registered any of the words. The only thing that mattered right now was the doorway.
“Have you been drinkin’?”
“What?” I stammered absently.
“Pay fuckin’ attention! Have you been drinkin’?”
“No…” I shook my head as punctuation. “Of course I haven’t been drinking.”
At least I didn’t think I had. The truth was, I had no earthly idea.
“Okay… So… Ya’ don’t smell toast or somethin’ do ya’?” he asked in earnest.
“What?” I shook my head, this time in confusion, and stared at him briefly. “Toast?”
“I read somewhere that ya’ smell toast when you’re havin’ a stroke,” he offered.
His words came to me in a random sputter of sound as my cognizance shifted in and out of phase with the rest of reality.
“What?” I mumbled, not sure I had heard him correctly.
“That’s it,” Ben said, sounding as much concerned as annoyed this time. “I’m gettin’ you to a hospital. There’s definitely somethin’ not right with ya’.”
Inside my skull I heard a loud electric snap and felt a burning sting along the side of my neck. The nasty tingling sensation that had been at the back of my concerns had now burst into searing flame through my entire side. I tried to reach upward but found my body was ignoring any instructions issued to it by my brain. I felt myself shaking violently and beginning to stiffen as my mind short-circuited into oblivious disorientation. My chest tightened and began to sharply spasm with the same intense pain that accompanies a nocturnal leg cramp.
My sight was taken over by a darkened tunnel of fading vision, and in a flash the ground leapt upward to meet me. On impact, a sharp hammer blow of agony peened the side of my skull and spread rapidly outward into a migraine-like ache that settled in for the long haul.
As I lay crumpled onto the cold lawn, I could just barely make out the distant sound of my friend’s frantic voice yelling, “Somebody get a paramedic! Now!”
The last thought I remember clearly was that I had a pair of red patent leather pumps in my closet that would go perfectly with my new dress.
I’m not sure which assault on my senses was the most disconcerting-the smell or the sound. I suppose it could have been either one, or even a combination of both.
On the one hand, there was no mistaking the antiseptic funk of a hospital emergency room. An odor that was the filtered medicinal smell of alcohol, gauze, and used tongue depressors dancing in an olfactory ballet with the stench of sweat, fear, and blood. Of course, all of that was underscored by the “can’t quite put your finger on it” smell of death, just to drive the point home. As a whole, it carried with it an easily recognizable signature that told you exactly where you were without even opening your eyes or hearing a thing.
Then on the other hand, there was the terse exchange going on between my wife and my best friend. A pair of hedged voices, both straining not to outwardly display the overabundance of the anger they were quite obviously holding back. From the sound of it, they were bickering somewhere just beyond the door of the treatment room where I was presently lying flat on my back.
Whichever of the two was responsible, the job was done. I was jarred back from the semi-conscious ledge of introspection I’d been tiptoeing along since the doctor had finished poking, prodding, and interrogating me.
“I asked you not to get him involved any more, Ben,” Felicity was stating in a flat tone. “At least not for a while. He still hasn’t recovered from what he went through the last time, and you know it.”
“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to tell ya’, Felicity,” he appealed. “He just showed up outta the clear freakin’ blue. I didn’t get ‘im involved this time.”
Their tones were hushed and muted by the hinged obstruction, but if I listened closely I could still make out what they were saying.
My mind had continued to replay the memories of recent events ever since I had come to in the back of an ambulance. I had quickly pieced everything together, but I was still at a loss to explain why I had suddenly “awakened” from what I could only explain as a trance, while at a crime scene in progress to boot. Two things I knew for certain were that my midnight wanderings were no longer going to be a secret and that I was now starting down a road toward an explanation for why they were happening in the first place. I only hoped that I would survive the trip.
The earlier fog that had been ruthlessly shrouding my brain had apparently lifted, though a dull ache still persisted in the back of my head. I knew from past experience that this wasn’t a good sign at all.
It was obvious to me that I was somehow connected to this crime. Ben had already verified for me that the victim was in fact a woman and that her name was Paige Lawson. This information at least seemed to explain the rogue thoughts I’d experienced. However, I hadn’t recognized her name at all, so to my knowledge I didn’t know her, and therefore, I seriously doubted that she knew me.
I remembered feeling a sharp stinging sensation on the side of my neck just before I blacked out. An active tingle still occupied the swath of flesh behind and below my left ear, so I slowly reached up and gingerly probed the area with my fingertips. There were no obvious welts or abrasions that I could feel, but the burning sensation continued. No big surprise there.
“Well what was he doing there then?” I heard Felicity almost hiss.
“I don’t know,” Ben answered as forcefully as he could without raising his voice. “Hell, when I asked him, he didn’t even know.”
I had been trying to ignore them while I concentrated, but I was failing miserably at blocking out their banter. Also, I was getting the impression that they were going to escalate if something didn’t alter their current course. I concluded that I had best intervene.
“He’s right,” I spoke loudly, casting my words in the direction of the door. “It’s not his fault, so will you two please quit arguing about it.”
Silence instantly replaced the tempered squabble. After a moment Ben and Felicity came sheepishly through the door and positioned themselves next to the bed.
“Row…” my wife sighed as she brushed my disheveled hair back from my forehead, “shouldn’t you be resting, then?”
Felicity gave the outward appearance of a fragile china doll standing next to Ben. Petite, with a milky complexion, her own hair was a pile of flaming auburn resting atop her head in a loose Gibson girl. Whenever she let it down, it was a rush of spiral curls reaching almost to her waist. Her green eyes held more than a hint of concern as she gazed back at me. Her normally smooth face was wrinkled with mild anguish. A second generation Irish-American, her voice usually held only the barest hint of an accent but could blossom fully into a thick brogue-at times liberally peppered with Gaelic-if she were tired, stressed, angry, or had recently spent time with certain members of her family. Right now, it was obvious that at the very least the first two options were weighing in, maybe even the third.
“I’m trying to,” I answered, “but it’s a bit noisy.”
“Sorry, white man,” Ben offered apologetically. “Didn’t mean to keep ya’ up.”
“You weren’t, actually,” I replied. “The doctor told me I had to stay awake until the test results came back.”
“So ya’ wanna help me out and tell the red squaw here that I didn’t call ya’ in on this.”
“What were you doing there then?” Felicity queried without waiting for me to fulfill Ben’s request.
“Ben didn’t have anything to do with me being there.” I went ahead and made the statement for his benefit then addressed my wife’s question. “And, I haven’t quite figured that part out yet.”
The last half of my sentence was joined by the swooshing sound of the door to the treatment room swinging open. A tired looking brunette woman dressed in blue hospital scrubs and a lab coat followed the door inward. In her hand she carried an oversized brown envelope clearly marked with my name and a handful of other scrawlings that only made sense to someone in the medical profession or a two-year-old. I wasn’t sure which.
“How are you feeling, Mister Gant?”
“About the same, I guess,” I answered.
“Good.” She nodded as she crossed the room to the opposite wall. “No new pains or tremors?”
“No. Just a bit of a headache.”
After pulling a rectangular x-ray from the envelope, she deftly popped it into a pair of holding clips on a wall-mounted box and then switched on the backlight.
“How about your memory?” she queried as she stared at the black and white study of my skull. “Can you tell me what day this is?”
“Tuesday, December eighteenth,” I answered, exasperated that I was being put through this line of questioning for yet a third time. “My middle name is Linden, I’m thirty-nine years old, I’m married…”
“All I wanted was the date, Mister Gant,” she cut me off, sounding slightly distracted. “And by the way, it’s past midnight, so it is actually Wednesday the nineteenth.”
“Do I lose any points for that?”
“There doesn’t seem to be anything out of the ordinary on your x-rays,” she began, ignoring my jibe and giving the film a final once over. She then turned and crossed her arms over her chest as she leaned against the wall. “And your blood work is fine.”
“So why don’t you look pleased?” I asked.
“I’m a little concerned about the fact that you blacked out, as well as the description of your earlier dementia provided by Detective Storm. These could be indicators of a mild ischemic stroke. What I’d like to do is get a head CT and keep you under observation for a while.”
“I really don’t think that’s necessary,” I protested.
“Well, I do,” she returned flatly. “And while I certainly cannot keep you here against your will, I strongly suggest that you have this test.”
The door whooshed once again, and a nurse urgently poked her head through the opening. “Doctor Morrison, we need you in Trauma-two.”
“Why don’t you discuss it with your wife, Mister Gant,” the harried MD told me as she headed out after the nurse. “Someone will check back with you in a few minutes.”
As the door swung shut behind her, I knew better than to open my mouth. Felicity and Ben were looking at me with steeled expressions, and it was immediately plain that they were on her side. Effectively it had become three against one. I never even stood a chance.
It was just past 6:30 in the morning. Felicity had headed out in search of coffee, and I was all but imprisoned in a hospital room against my wishes. Ben had headed back to his crime scene as soon as he was convinced that I would stay put without drastic measures. He had even gone so far as to offer Felicity his handcuffs. Something told me she gave it serious consideration; even though when she declined the offer her comment included a pointed joke, saying that she just might be interested in borrowing them when I was feeling better. At least I think it was a joke. I didn’t always know where she was concerned.
I was hoping the doctor would get the results of her test back soon or at least see fit to release me so that I would be able to head home, but so far it wasn’t looking very promising. I had been trying to squeeze in a nap ever since she had okayed it, but all I’d really managed to do was doze in and out for the past 45 minutes.
My head was resting in the deep depression of a too soft pillow, and I was settled uncomfortably on the inclined bed. I was just taking another run at getting some sleep when I heard the doctor’s voice.
“How are you doing, Mister Gant?”
I opened my eyes and found her standing at the end of the bed. She appeared just as tired as she had a few hours ago.
“As well as can be expected I suppose.”
“Good,” she answered succinctly as she jotted something on a clipboard, then without looking up she added, “Interesting talent you have there. Is it legible or are you just doodling?”
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“The writing without looking.” She gestured to the adjustable table that was positioned over the bed in front of me. “You were even doing it with your eyes closed when I walked in.”
I tilted my head forward to gaze in the direction she indicated and watched in astonishment as my left hand, gripping a pencil, moved swiftly back and forth across a small notepad. Several pages had already been filled and flipped upward.
The fact that I was right-handed isn’t even what bothered me most. Or even the fact that I was writing both forwards and backwards. No…it was the realization that I’d had no idea what my left hand was doing until it had been pointed out to me that really got under my skin.
As I watched, my hand automatically flipped the newly filled page up and set the tip of the pencil against an empty sheet. I stared on as it continued of its own accord to scribe in smooth, clear, and wholly unfamiliar handwriting, repeating over and over the same line of text as it had on all the previous pages.
Dead I am. Dead I am. I do not like that dead I am.