by B D Grant
Slowly, he says, “Except…there were Seraphim at all of the locations.”
Susan grabs the folder again. There is no mention of Seraphim at the third hospital in any of the paperwork, but there normally isn’t anything besides the vague terminology that Susan has learned since she starting working for Seraphim.
Maybe Lane isn’t the person who faxed these papers to Doherty. She hasn’t even heard if Doherty has taken it upon himself to send Lane to the third hospital yet. If this third case is being handled by non-Seraphim, that would explain the lack of such information. Doherty’s cell phone goes off as Susan stops on the final page, which lists the four victims. None are identified as Seraphim or having Seraphim-like traits.
“I need to take this in private. You can keep that,” Doherty says, eyeing the folder as he pulls out his phone. “You’re going to need it.”
Susan uses the folder to salute him before turning to leave.
Susan tries to get a hold of the Texas hospital, or more specifically the person who had sent Doherty the crime scene photos. Ash pops up to collect her material covering Doherty’s interviews. He makes a show of it as he picks up the first file and throws it open. He purses his lips as he reads the first page, and after glancing over at Susan to check to see that she’s still watching him he goes back to reading. When his expression turns into an over exaggerated frown she’s had enough. She twirls her chair around, giving him her back as he begins asking what other files he needs to take. Finally, as she swivels, someone picks up on the other line. She covers her free ear with her hand to drown out Ash’s voice, leaving him to figure out what’s what with the stacks of folders and notes lying in neat piles across her desk.
She gets nowhere on the call. Local reporters have been heckling the hospital staff so much so that the supervisor who takes her call doesn’t even believe Susan’s a detective and refuses to say one word about the ‘incident’. When she’s finished with the call, she turns to find Ash long gone and her desk in shambles. Not a single folder is where she left it. He has even made an upside-down cross with her pens. She scans the office, but Ash is nowhere in sight. The colleague closest to her desk, who obviously witnessed him tampering with her things, is trying not to laugh.
The phone on her desk beeps, indicating in a nonintrusive manner that she has an incoming call. Susan looks up at her fellow female detective; she watches her without making eye contact. “If that’s him, you may not want to witness the exchange,” she warns.
“Oh, but I do,” the detective says, retrieving a fingernail filer out of her top drawer, eyeing Susan cheekily.
She answers the phone, determinedly chipper. “Hello!”
“It’s Lane,” replies the shaky voice.
She leans in closer to the receiver. “Lane? Are you okay?”
The detective’s fingernail filing slows as she listens to Susan’s conversation.
“Uh,” his rapid breathing has Susan straining to hear him, “sorta.”
Susan points her finger wildly at the female detective. When she looks up, Susan points her sharply in the direction of Doherty’s office. The detective jumps up and jogs to Doherty’s office. The detective’s hurried movement has some of the others in the office glancing over in Susan’s direction.
Susan’s knuckles are turning white around the phone, but her voice maintains a well-rehearsed calmness. “Tell me what’s going on, Lane.”
“I haven’t made it to the third hospital. A deer ran out in front of my rental and uh..,” he trails off, unable to come up with the words or not wanting to admit to them.
Susan lessens her grip on the receiver. “You hit a deer,” she says, relieved as all of the scenarios she was imagining were far worse than reality.
“Yes, I hit a deer. I was going…” he trails off again. “It’s totaled,” he confesses in a huff.
Another voice farther away from the phone says, “We don’t have all day, sir.”
Doherty briskly walks out of his office with the female detective at his heels. His eyes are glued on Susan. “What is it?”
Susan holds a demanding pointer finger up at him as she listens closely to the phone. Lane is pathetically trying to tell her what he needs from her trailing off in every sentence. She interrupts him to ask, “Is this local or Sheriff?” Susan writes down what’s he’s telling her with Doherty standing over her.
She straightens, feeling a heat that could be her own or Doherty’s. She places a hold over the receiver to murmur, “Lane has ran into a little trouble on his way to the third location. He hit a deer and totaled his rental—”
Doherty checks the detective returning to her desk nearest Susan’s with an annoyed leer. “Why was I pulled away for this?”
“Let me finish,” Susan hisses. “He is being held at the local police department. He failed the roadside sobriety tests they gave him, and until his blood test comes back they aren’t releasing him.” Doherty’s lips pinch together to the point that they are no longer visible. He wants to bellow; she can tell. She takes her hand away from the receiver, waving it between them to let him know that Lane will hear along with everyone in the office. “Lane has assured me he is not under the influence. He is merely shaken up, is all.” Susan can feel the hot air on her forehead as Doherty exhales.
Detective Lane is the youngest of their people. She knows that Doherty must like him to have hired him, but with the hard line of his mouth she wonders if he’s going to fire Lane over this.
“They’re giving him a hard time,” Doherty states.
“Sounds like it,” Susan says. On the other end of the line, Susan hears Lane defend himself loudly, followed by the harsh bark of a police officer.
“Get whoever is in charge over there on the phone. I’ll take the call in my office.”
“Yes sir.” Susan returns the phone to her mouth. “You got that?”
Lane sounds relieved. “Sure did.”
Susan sets about selecting from the remaining detectives Doherty has offered her for the investigation into the hospital attacks. Her boss’s muffled hollering serenades everyone working around the main office. Ash has reappeared with a fresh cup of coffee, looking smug. Doherty’s yelling gets louder, and Ash’s cocky smile disappears. He grabs a folder from his desk setting his cup down. He gives Doherty’s office a quick glance. Something hits the wall in Doherty’s office and Ash retreats out of the room leaving his coffee.
Susan hopes that he’s afraid to stick around for fear of incurring Doherty’s temper. Judging by Doherty’s intensity, the person on the other end must be resisting demands to release his detective. Based on Susan’s own experience, she’s sure they will be offering to pay for Lane’s new rental by the time all is said and done.
She writes down the names of everyone she can choose from. She intentionally excludes the three other female detectives from her list, not wanting to lose what little female camaraderie she has among them by pulling them away from their projects to start from scratch with her.
Bill, an older detective, is at the top of her list. He has an eye for detail and has been pouring over the information they’ve already received. Since all of the hospital attackers are dead, this will be a game of connect-the-dots, and finding their common denominator. It is a task right up Bill’s alley.
To be safe, though, Susan goes through the remaining paperwork on her desk, looking for the file which lists who’s working what for the raid case. It’s best to find out what the other detectives are working on so as to ruffle as few feathers as possible.
While going through the desk’s contents, she finds more folders from Doherty’s interviews in her bottom drawer. She knows she should deliver them, but even if Ash were at his desk, there aren’t enough people about to witness their exchange. She needs more people present to help her suppress the urge to give him a piece of her mind.
Susan reads over the top folder. It’s on William McBride.
Detective Doherty’s first page on Mr. McBride reads shor
t and sweet:
William McBride has given no indications of being involved with past or present Rogue-related activity. Mr. McBride continues to be forthcoming with information he believes to be vital to the investigation. He maintains Cassidy Sipe and Catherine Jameson’s innocence, which makes his perception of those close to him questionable.
There’s a hand-written side note at the bottom corner of the page that Susan isn’t sure that she wants to be typed up for the official report. It reads: Where a psychopath feels no empathy, Mr. McBride is the complete opposite, feeling for everyone. With this knowledge, it is my belief that it would be easier for anyone, no matter their closeness to him, to hide their true intentions.
Doherty finishes it with: In summary, for a man who, by all accounts has been suppressed and underrated since early childhood, he shows no malice. Unless evidence is brought forth, William McBride is no longer a suspect.
The second folder is on a student from the Rogue school, Jake Angelo. It’s mainly a recommendation for psychological treatment, and it requests that a psychologist be added to their detail. Susan doesn’t look at the rest. She sets the small stack of folders in the outgoing rack on top of her desk to throw at Ash later.
Chapter 4
Squeaky footsteps enter the room. I would open my eyes if it was possible, but simply hearing sounds around me is all that I can manage. I’m numb. Based on the footsteps roaming around me, though, I’m guessing that I must be lying down. Ahead of the footsteps is the distinct sound of rubber wheels rolling across a vinyl floor.
A voice that can’t be mistaken as belonging to anyone other than my father speaks. “Did her MRI show anything?”
A female voice answers him. “We should know soon,” she says. I hear more squeaky footsteps that come close to the left side of my head and then stop. “The doctor will be making rounds shortly.”
The wheels roll closer to me before stopping. The squeaky shoes briskly walk far enough away that after a moment, I no longer hear them. Very close to me, sheets ruffle, but I can’t feel whether the sheets are on me or not.
“I know you’re in there, Taylor,” Dad says gently. Sniffling accompanies further crinkling of the sheets. I try to move my fingers, toes, even try flaring my nostrils to give him a sign that I hear him.
I give up when he speaks again. “You saved me,” he voice thickens with emotion. “Only for me to lose you in the same day.”
The squeaks come back into my range of hearing. The footsteps stop past my head. Glass rattles with the cessation of the footsteps.
“How are you doing since that pneumonia diagnosis?” the female voice asks.
“I’m feeling the best I have in a long time. You don’t have to worry about me. What are you giving her?” Dad asks.
“Nothing new. We’re keeping her comfortable until she’s done with her nap.”
“I wish it was a nap,” he says under his breath.
“When the nurse’s assistant comes in, we will get her some fresh sheets.”
“Is that your way of telling me I need to roll out?” Dad asks, sounding like he is smiling as he says it.
The nurse chuckles, “If you don’t mind. I can push you out so you don’t have to fight that big chair around the corners.”
“Let me tell her bye first.”
“By all means,” the nurse says. I hear her step away to give us some privacy.
“My everything.” His voice is soft like it was when I fell off my bike during my first excursion without training wheels. It was summertime, and I had worked up the courage to allow my parents to remove the two extra wheels. My shorts allowed the concrete to take a hunk of flesh out of my knee, but Dad was right there to scoop me up. He carried me inside while half-singing how proud he was of me for being so brave.
Almost as if he is reliving the same memory, he says, “I love you my brave girl.”
The sheets ruffle again, but this time it’s followed by the sound of him rolling away.
I love you too, I say, but only I can hear it. A rush of air escapes my lips. Whatever the nurse has given me is taking affect fast. The sound of Dad’s wheels fades as if hands are slowly being lowered over my ears.
I’m in a dream suddenly. It feels like an eternity has passed since I have experienced a dream. All this time, I have been in a peaceful darkness. The distant, “wehh, weehh,” isn’t bothersome initially, but it grows louder. When I feel movement, I know it’s not my dream that I am experiencing.
I call out, “Dream Walker?” No response.
I go silent, searching for anything that can tell me what’s happening. The crying grows, causing a blossoming awareness for me and Dream Walker, who is in a deep sleep. Because of the crying, Dream Walker’s depth of sleep lightens noticeably.
She is on the verge of waking now. With her out of deep sleep, I can push into her mind with an ease that I have never been given previously.
As I cautiously explore and wait for Dream Walker to shut me down any second, being in her head gives me an aching feeling that isn’t my own. The sensation is attached to a strong craving for revenge. I pause, not wanting to take on anyone else’s troubles. I have plenty of my own issues, which I’m avoiding.
My connection to her does allow me to enjoy the physical sensations that go along with tossing in ones sleep, sensations which I currently cannot enjoy in my own body. It’s the next best thing to the real deal.
A memory appears in the sleeping mind. It’s of my dad and me. Dream Walker wouldn’t have a memory like this. And then I get it: this is my mom’s dream.
The realization shocks me, throwing me off kilter as her mind processes the dream. Such a loss is linked with this memory of me that it causes her to stir.
I’m out of time. In vain I yell, “Mom!” But she wakes instantly, breaking our connection. I’m left with no idea whether she has heard me or not. If she did, does she simply think it was just part of her dream?
One thing is clear: she believes that I’m dead.
Chapter 5
My hearing slowly returns as I drift out of the peaceful darkness that gently holds me. The floating sensation subsides. Karen is nearby, the woman that I ran with before the hospital explosion knocked me off of my feet.
“I have strong legs,” she says. She speaks just as insistently as she had when fighting with the nurses to stay in her hospital room. “See. I can walk. I don’t need a wheelchair.”
A woman answers, and I recognize her voice from her conversation with my father during his visit. “If you want to show me how strong you are, then you can use those strong legs to move from your wheelchair to this recliner, but no farther.”
There is movement on the left side of me where my dad had been earlier.
“How comfortable is it?” Karen asks as she grunts. I hear the sound of shuffling feet.
Someone pats a chair that sounds pretty close to my left side. Air hisses from the chair. The woman tells Karen, “I think this one is more comfortable than the one in your room.”
“Let me see.”
“Hold on,” the female voice warns. “ You didn’t lock the wheels first like I showed you.” She moves away with the same squeaky steps as before.
There is more shuffling, metal clanking against metal, and a small grunt before it sound like Karen is in the recliner. “I did it!” Karen exclaims.
The squeaky shoes have moved to the right side of my bed now. “Yes, you did. Once I’ve changed this saline bag and propped up her hip, we can go tell Doc how good you did. It’s up to him to give you permission to stop using a wheelchair, okay?”
“You know saline is just a fancy word for water,” Karen remarks, ignoring the question.
“That’s very good. Did one of the other nurses tell you that?”
Karen is silent.
“It’s purified water,” the nurse continues, “for those who can’t drink regular water like you and I can.”
“I don’t like drinking water,” Karen tells her. “Sweet
tea is way better.”
The nurse is so close to me now that I can smell her. Something grabs my right shoulder and lifts. I can actually feel the movement. After being numb for so long, this sudden firing of sensations across my neurons is painful. I try to cry out, but my vocal cords refuse to comply.
The nurse places a soft pillow under my right shoulder. My right hip is next, causing more pain to shoot through my side, exponentially worse. My eyelids partially pucker open, giving me a small, distorted glimpse of my room. I can’t tell if I had control over opening my eyelids or if the shift in position caused it. From this point of view, I’m looking down toward the floor on the left side of the bed where all I can make out is a shoe pointing in my direction. It looks to be suspended in air. I work to refocus on what I’m seeing. The cloud surrounding the shoe slowly readjusts, and the background materializes.
Karen has the recliner laid back with her feet propped up by the outstretched foot rest. One foot has a shoe on it; the other is wearing a dark, plastic boot with Velcro straps holding it tightly in place.
The croc on her good foot holds my gaze in all its ugly glory. It’s hard to put my finger on exactly where I’ve seen it before.
I fade out of the room momentarily, moving my consciousness inwards to search my mind for the croc’s previous sighting. I find the ugly shoes not far back in my memory. It was after I was knocked to the ground in the hospital hallway. It had been the person wearing those shoes who had dragged me toward Karen’s room. Again, I look at Karen’s lone shoe in front of me. That’s it, for sure.
Karen tried to help me after I tried getting her out of harm’s way. I did manage to push her into her room before the explosion, I think, but she came back for me. The back of the recliner, which I can barely make out, begins to lift as the footrest snaps shut. My view of the shoe and boot are replaced by Karen’s curious stare. Her eyes look like no more than slits as she meets my gaze and smiles.
Her facial features are flat, making her extra chromosome known to the world. Down syndrome is classified as a genetic disorder, but looking at her this close, I’d say she’s perfect. She lifts a hand up next to the side of her face. She gives me a tiny wave before giggling like a child. Her eyes are light and warm. At this moment, if I could make a sound, I would giggle right along with her.
