Slices of Night - a novella in 3 parts Page 10

  The walls here speak. Disconcerting at times, but at others, it’s a comfort. The ceilings dance in the candlelight, and the floors shimmer and ripple with my every step. I escape out of doors, and when I do, all I find is fog, and mist, and lumbering sheep. Cows with gentle, inquisitive eyes. The dogs have a sense of humor. But you can tell they’d turn on you in a second. I’ve known people like that. The deer are patient, and sad, resigned to their captive lives. The crows are aggressive. The seagulls act foolish, and there’s something so wrong about seeing a soaring gull against the mountainous backdrop. The chickens are huge and fretful, the grouse are in a hurry. The mist settles like a cold shawl across the mountain’s shoulders, and the road I walk grows close, like it’s planning to share a secret.

  Above all, there is no one. And everyone. I feel them all around me. All the missing and the gone. I can’t see them, except for late at night, when I’m supposed to be asleep. Then they push in on me from all sides, stealing my breath. The room grows cold and the warnings begin.

  It strikes me that I’m surrounded by doctors, yet no one can help. I have to find the strength from within to heal. Isn’t that what they always say, Physician, heal thyself? I shall amend it: Lieutenant, command thyself.

  Sam, please, forgive me. It’s all my fault. I know that now.

  In moments of true peace: outside by the statue of Athena, looking over the gardens, watching the animals on the grounds, I feel your sorrow. I finally understand what you’ve lost. I’ve lost it, too. I don’t think there’s any coming back. I don’t think there’s any room for me in our world anymore.

  There’s something wrong with this place. Memphis’s ancestors are haunting me. They don’t like me here.

  I did the best I could. I messed everything up, and I don’t know if I can fix it.

  Hug the twins. Their Fairy Godmother loves them. And I love you. I’m all done.

  Taylor

  Taylor slammed the laptop shut. Nauseous again. Pain built behind her eyes. A demon’s hammering. Her only recourse was to lie down, lids screwed shut, praying for the hurt to pass. Percocet. Another. The pills they provided had stopped working. Nightfall signaled her brain to collapse in on itself, to allow the doubt and pain to rule. Weakness. Mornings brought safety, and courage.

  Her mind was made of hinges, pieces that held imaginings she didn’t want to acknowledge. If she did, the demons overtook her thoughts.

  Defying the headache, she stumbled to the window, stared out at the mountains. Darkness enveloped their gentle curves. Bitter snow reflected the outline of the massive Douglas firs. Completely desolate. Private. Perfect for her to hide away, in the wilds of Scotland, pretending to the world that she was fine, just visiting for a time, on holiday, as the Brits around her liked to say.

  She’d run away from the people who knew the truth about her situation—Dr. Sam Loughley, her best friend, and Dr. John Baldwin, her fiancé. She’d even managed to push away Memphis Highsmythe, a friend who wanted more from her than she was willing to give.

  She brushed her hair off her shoulders and leaned against the window. The cool glass felt good on her temple. The small, puckered scar, another battle wound, nearly healed. Even the pinkish discoloration was beginning to fade. She no longer bore the blatant stigma of the killer known as the Pretender, at least on the outside. He’d stolen something from within her though. Something precious she didn’t know how to retrieve.

  Now she was only half a woman, half herself. A crazy little girl shut up in a castle, too tired to play princess anymore.

  Movement over the mountains. The storm was changing. Gray clouds billowed down into the valley, nestled up against the loch, and opened. Stinging ice beat a merciless tattoo on the ground.

  Her heart beat in time with the sleet, the pounding as insistent as a knock on the door—over and over and over—and the grip of the pain became too much to bear. The migraine overwhelmed her. The heavy Victorian- era furniture in her room was coruscating, beginning its nightly danse macabre.

  Defeated, she pulled the curtains, went to the bathroom. Dumped two of the thick white Percocets in her palm and swallowed them with water from the tap. Hoped that they’d help.

  Back to the bedroom. She saw her laptop was open. She’d been online? She shouldn’t have had so much to drink. She was feeling sick again. The drink, the drugs, the pain, it was all jumbling together.

  The truth.

  Shadows heavy as blankets swathed her body, nipped at her bare feet. She made her way to the bed by rote, lay down on the ornate spread, and gave in to the pain, the fear, the gut-wrenching terror that filled her night after night after night. The only things she could see were the dancing lights that shimmered off her brain, and the pearly outline of the ghost who’d come to tuck her in. She closed her eyes against the intrusion. Per- haps it would leave her alone tonight.

  No. It was here. She felt its chilly caress slide against her cheek, its slim finger moving across her forehead, stopping at last to trace the bullet’s entry wound. The scar burned cold. She would not move, would not call out in fear. The thing loved her terror, and this, this moment of abomination, when the ghosts of the past and present mingled in the very air she breathed, this was the one moment when her voice came back full and true. She’d made the mistake of screaming the first time it touched her, and would not give it that joy again.

  The chilled path moved lower now, to the long-healed slash across her neck. She wouldn’t be so lucky the next time. The touch was a warning. A sign.

  And then it was gone. She let the throbbing wash over her and wept silent tears.

  WATCH ME DIE by Erica Spindler

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tuesday, August 9, 2011

  9:40 am

  At any given moment, the demons could descend upon Mira Gallier. Sometimes, she marshaled the strength to fight them off, denying their dark, tormenting visions. Their taunts and merciless accusations.

  Other times, they overpowered her and left her scrambling for a way tosilence them. To obliterate the pain.

  Last night they had come. And she had found a way to escape. Mira lay on her side on the bed, gazing blankly at the small rose window shehad created in secret, a wedding gift for her husband-to-be. In the tradition of the magnificent gothic windows, she had chosen brilliant jewel colors; her design had been complex and intricate, combining painted images within the blocks of color.

  For her, the window had been a symbol of her and Jeff’s perfect love and new, beautiful life together.

  She had never imagined how quickly, how brutally, that life would be ended.

  It hurt to look at it now and Mira rolled onto her back. Her head felt heavy; the inside of her mouth as if stuffed with cotton.

  Eleven months, three weeks and four days, shot to hell by one small, blue, oval tablet.

  What would Jeff think of her now? Even as she wondered, she knew. He would be deeply disappointed.

  But he couldn’t be more disappointed in her than she was in herself.

  On the nightstand, her cell phone chirped. She grabbed it, answered.

  “Second level of hell. The tormented speaking.”

  Mira? It’s Deni.”

  Her studio assistant and friend. Sounding puzzled.

  “Who’d you expect?” she asked. “My husband?”

  “That’s not funny.”

  It wasn’t, she acknowledged. It was angry. And sad. Jeff was dead, and she had fallen off the wagon. Neither of which had a damn thing to do with Deni.

  “I’m sorry, I had a really bad night.”

  “You want to talk about it?”

  The roar of water. A wall of it. As black and cold as death , brutal and unforgiving. Jeff ’s cry resounded in her head. Calling out for her to help him.

  But she hadn’t been there. She didn’t know what that last moment had been like. She didn’t even know if he’d had time to cry out, to feel fear, or if he had known it was the end.

  And she never would.<
br />
  He was dead because of her.

  “No. But thanks.” The last came out automatically, what she was supposed to say, even though gratitude was far from what she was feeling.

  “You used, didn’t you?”

  No condemnation in Deni’s voice. Just pity. Still, excuses flew to Mira’slips, so familiar she could utter them in her sleep. They made her sick. She was done with them.

  “Yes.”

  For a long moment Deni was silent. When she finally spoke, she said, “I take it I should reschedule your interview?”

  “Interview?”

  “With Libby Gardner. From Channel 12, the local PBS affiliate. About the Magdalene window. She’s here.”

  Mira remembered then. The interview appointment. Her work on the Magdalene restoration being included in a sixth anniversary of Katrina series the station was planning. “Shit. I forgot. Sorry.”

  “What should I tell her?”

  “How about the truth? That your boss is a pill head and basket case.”

  “Stop it, Mira. That’s not true.”

  “No?”

  “You suffered a terrible loss. You turned to--”

  “The whole city suffered that same freaking loss. Life goes on, sweetheart.”

  She spoke the words harshly, their brutality self-directed. “The strong thrive and the weak turn to Xanax.”

  “That’s such bullshit.” Deni sounded hurt. “I’ll see if she can reschedule--”

  “No. Get started with her. Explain how the window ended up in our care, describe the process, show her around. By the time you’ve done that, I’ll be there.”

  “Mira--”

  She cut her assistant off. “I’ll be in shortly. We can talk then.”

  Mira ended the call and hurried to the kitchen. She fixed herself a cup of strong coffee then headed toward the bathroom. When she caught sight of her reflection in the vanity mirror, she froze. She looked like crap. Worse even. The circles under her hazel eyes were so dark, her pale skin looked ghostly incomparison. She was too thin--her copper red hair like the flame atop a matchstick.

  She wore one of her husband’s old tees as a nightshirt: Geaux Saints the front proclaimed. Mira trailed her fingers over the faded print. Jeff hadn’t lived long enough to see his beloved NFL team win the Super Bowl.

  It’s your fault he’s dead, Mira," the voice in her head whispered. "You convinced him to stay. Remember what you said? “It’ll be an adventure, Jeff. A story we can share with our children and grandchildren.”

  The air conditioner kicked on. Cold air from the vent above her head raised goosebumps on her arms and the back of her neck. No, she told herself. That was bullshit. Isn’t that what her shrink, Dr. Jasper, had told her? Jeff had been a fifty percent partner in the decision. If he had felt strongly they should leave, he would have said so.

  His family blamed her. Her and Jeff’s friends had been subtle in their accusations-- she read condemnation in their eyes.

  She stared helplessly at her reflection. The problem was, she blamed herself.No matter what her shrink said or what the facts were.

  She moved her gaze over the destruction of her bathroom--drawers emptied, make-up bags and carry-ons rifled through.

  As if thieves had broken in and turned her home upside down in search of valuables.

  But she had done this. She was the thief. And the eleven months, three weeks and four days she had robbed herself of couldn’t be replaced.

  Her cell phone went off. She saw it was Deni--no doubt calling to say the reporter had taken a hike. “Pissed off another one, didn’t I?” she answered.

  “Something really bad’s happened, Mira.”

  She pressed the device tighter to her ear. “What?”

  “It’s Father Girod, he’s . . . dead. He was murdered.”

  An image of the kindly old priest filled her head. He had approached her after Katrina about his church’s stained glass windows, decimated by the storm. In the process of restoring the twelve panels, she and the father had become friends.

  Grief choked her. “Oh, my God. Who could have . . . When did--”

  “There’s more, Mira.” Deni’s voice shook. “Whoever did it also vandalized the windows.”

  HOTWIRE by Alex Kava

  Chapter 2

  Thursday, October 7th

  Five miles west of the Nebraska National Forest

  Halsey, Nebraska

  “There’s no blood?” Special Agent Maggie O’Dell tried not to sound out of breath.

  She was annoyed that she was having trouble keeping up. She was in good shape, a runner, and yet the rolling sand dunes with waves of tall grass made walking feel like treading water. It didn’t help matters that her escort was a good ten inches taller than her, his long legs accustomed to the terrain of the Nebraska Sandhills.

  As if reading her mind, State Patrol Investigator Donald Fergussen slowed his pace for her to catch up with him. She thought he was being polite when he stopped, but then Maggie saw the barbed wire fence that blocked their path. He’d been a gentleman the entire trip, annoying Maggie because she had spent the last ten years in the FBI quietly convincing her male counterparts to treat her no differently than they’d treat another man.

  “It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen,” he finally answered when Maggie had almost forgotten she’d asked a question. He’d been like that the entire drive from Scottsbluff, giving each question deliberate consideration then answering with genuine thought. “But yeah, no blood at the scene. None at all. It’s always that way.”

  End of explanation. That had also been his pattern. Not just a man of few words, but one who seemed to measure and use words like a commodity.

  He waved his hand at the fence.

  “Be careful. It could be hot,” he told her, pointing out a thin, almost invisible wire that ran from post to post, about six inches above the top strand of four separate barbed wires.

  “Hot?”

  “Ranchers sometimes add electric fencing.”

  “I thought this was federal property?”

  “The National Forest’s been leasing to ranchers since the 1950’s. It’s actually a good deal for both. Ranchers have fresh pastures and the extra income helps reforest. Plus grazing the land prevents grass fires.” He said all this without conviction, simply as a matter of fact, sounding like a public service announcement. All the while he examined the wire, his eyes following it from post to post as he walked alongside it for several steps. He kept one hand out, palm facing her, warning her to wait as he checked.

  “We lost 5,000 acres in ’94. Lightning,” he told her, his eyes following the wire. “Amazing how quickly fire can sweep through the grass out here. Luckily it burned only 200 acres of pine. That might not mean much somewhere else, but this is the largest hand-planted forest in the world. 20,000 of the 90,000 acres are covered in pine, all in defiance to nature.”

  Maggie found herself glancing back over her shoulder. Almost a mile away she could see the distinct line where sandhill dunes, covered by patches of tall grass, abruptly ended and the lush green pine forest began. After driving for hours and seeing few trees it only now occurred to her how odd it was that there even existed a national forest.

  He found something on one of the posts and squatted down until he was eye-level.

  “Most forest services say fire can be good for the land because it rejuvenates the forest,” he continued without looking at her, “but here, anything destroyed would need to be replanted. That’s why the forest even has its own nursery.”

  For a man of few words he now seemed to be expending them, but maybe he thought it was important. Maggie didn’t mind. He had a gentle, soothing manner and a rich, deep voice that could narrate War and Peace and keep you hanging on his every word.

  At first introductions, he had insisted she call him Donny and she almost laughed. In her mind the name implied a boy. His bulk and weathered face implied just the opposite. His smile did have a boyish quality acco
mpanied by dimples, but the crinkles at his eyes and the gray-peppered hair telegraphed a more seasoned investigator. But then all he had to do was take off his hat – like he did now so the tip of his Stetson didn’t touch the wire – and the cowlick sticking straight up at the beginning of a perfectly combed part, brought back the boyish image.

  “Ranchers hate fire.” Donny paused to take a closer look at the wood post immediately in front of him. He tilted his head and craned his neck, careful not to touch the fence or the post. “The ranchers shake their heads at rejuvenation. The way they look at it, why destroy and waste all that valuable feedstock.”

  Finally he straightened back up, put his hat back on and announced, “We’re okay. It’s not hot.” But then he tapped the wire with his fingertips like you check a hot burner to make sure it’s been turned off.

  Satisfied, his huge hands grasped between the barbs, one on each strand of the middle two, separating a space for her.

  “Go ahead,” she told him.

  She had to wait for him to shift from a gentleman to a fellow law enforcement officer. It took a few minutes for his blank stare of protest to disappear. Then he finally nodded and readjusted his grip to the top two strands instead of the bottom two so he could accommodate his longer legs.

  Maggie watched closely how he zigzagged his bulk between the wires without catching a single barb. Then she mimicked his moves and followed through, holding her breath and wincing when she felt a razor-sharp barb snag her hair.

  On the other side of the fence they continued walking through the knee-high prairie grass. The sun had started to slip below the horizon turning the sky a gorgeous purple-pink that seeped into the twilight’s deep blue. Out here in the open field, Maggie wanted to stop and watch the kaleidoscope affect. She caught herself tucking away details to share later with Benjamin Platt, only she’d relate them in cinematic terms. Think of John Wayne in Red River, she would tell him when she described the landscape. It was somewhat of a game they played with each other. Both of them were classic movie buffs. In less than a year what started as a doctor/patient relationship had turned into a friendship. Except recently Maggie found herself thinking about Ben more and more.