by Vic Kerry
“Guys, what’s all the noise about?” she asked. “You need to hold it down, classes are still being conducted.”
“Hortense from the Goth Sox is dead,” one of them said and pointed to a photocopied poster for one of the band’s shows. Someone had written “cancelled” across it in what looked like blood.
Cybil tore the poster off the bulletin board despite the jeers of the other students. A wave of heat seemed to wash over her. Everything started to feel distant. The voices of the students took on a tinny quality as if her head were in a bucket.
She laid the poster on the cart and walked toward Ashe’s office. He had given her the key to the door so she could bring him some items that he needed. She opened the door and went inside. The room was dark. She walked to one of his guest chairs and collapsed into it, not bothering to turn the lights on. The world seemed a little off kilter. The room began to slowly turn over. The feeling of vertigo overwhelmed her. Her stomach tossed like the waves on the bay during a storm. At the same time, her chest tightened, and her heart beat so hard it felt like it might explode. Her lungs couldn’t get enough air. Everything piled up on her. She knew that she’d pass out or die.
Images zipped through her mind. Hortense at the bar leaving to meet the mystery man. The gory death of the singer from her dream imposed upon that. All the while she sang “Pink-Striped Hair” over and over. As the blood from Hortense’s dream murder splattered out, the contents of Cybel’s stomach would stay down no longer. Cybil jumped up and made it to the trash can before vomiting.
Not much came out except bile. She’d been too tired to eat lunch and hadn’t fooled with breakfast either. Another wave of nausea came over her, and she puked again. She lifted her head and wiped her mouth on her sleeve when the door opened and the light flickered on. Rogers stood in the doorway.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I’m having a bit of a thing with my nerves.” The urge to vomit hit her again, and she spewed into the trash can.
Rogers brushed what little hair hung in her face away. His touch was soft and almost caring. She sat up and wiped her mouth again. Everything seemed to come back under control.
“What’s the matter?” Rogers asked.
“Have you ever had a dream come true?” she asked.
“You mean like having a law named after me?”
All the panic left her as she considered what a narcissist Rogers was. “No, like an actual dream like you have when you sleep.”
“You mean a psychic dream?”
“I guess if that’s what you psychologists call them.”
“I’ve never had one, but I’ve done research about them. There is evidence that some people are capable of dreaming of future events. Why? Have you had one?”
“That girl we were looking for at the bar yesterday evening was murdered. I dreamed about it last night.”
“A psychic nightmare,” Rogers said. “Those are very rare. Let me help you up.”
She gave him her hand. He pivoted and pulled her up, but too much, sending her off balance. She began to fall over, and he caught her under the arms. His hands just happened to be in position near her breasts. As he helped to steady her, his thumbs brushed over her nipples. He acted nonchalant about it, but Cybil felt he had done it on purpose.
“I don’t appreciate that,” she said.
“What, helping you up?”
“No, copping a feel. What would Ashe say if he knew?”
“Knew what, that you almost fell and I caught you?”
Cybil shoved him into the door. “And made sure to put your thumbs on my nipples. Were you trying to see if I had on a bra?”
“What do you think Ash will do? You’re a rebounder. He’s screwing you because he’s emotionally confused right now. If you want meaningless sex, just let me know. I’ll bang the hell out of you with no strings attached.”
Cybil glowered at him. He meant what he said. At the same time his words infuriated her, she thought that maybe she was just a rebound for Ashe. She shoved the professor back into the door.
“I hope that gangster you were talking with yesterday kills you,” she said and started out the door.
Rogers caught her by the arm. The pressure from his grasp felt like pliers squeezing down. “What do you mean?”
She tried to jerk her arm away from him, but couldn’t. He tugged her to him and pressed her close. His stare pierced, and his breath felt hot.
“I heard you talking about the emotion engrams and giving them to some shady people. Are they sponsoring your research?”
“Be careful.” He squeezed her arm harder. “You might be getting into something that you don’t want to. Those men are dangerous and will do anything to keep their business lucrative and secretive.” He dropped his other hand down and squeezed her crotch. “Anything.”
Cybil broke free from Rogers once he’d had his say. She felt dirty, and his look was no longer lustful but hateful. Everything inside her wanted to scream out. She needed relief from the dream and the murder, from the feelings of betrayal from Ashe, who hadn’t done anything except what Rogers had implied, and of course from the violation he had committed. The college would do nothing to him. They almost encouraged professors to fool around with students.
“I’ll tell Ashe about this,” she said.
“That’s fine. He knows how I am.”
Cybil spat on Rogers and ran down the hall to the stairwell. She needed to get out and get back to Ashe’s before she went crazy and did something even rasher.
Chapter Twenty
Ashe sat on the uncomfortable wooden bench in the lobby of the Mobile city jail. Just a few days ago, he was sitting in the interrogation room after being arrested for grave robbing. Now Smalls, a friend he had made quickly, sat behind bars booked on murder charges. The whole place made him uneasy. The idea that the police thought that Smalls had killed Hortense didn’t help. The fact that she had died just like his and Cybil’s dreams may have bothered him the most. He hadn’t heard from Cybil today, and only left her a note about where he was going. She had his car, so he’d braved traveling across town on her Vespa.
He decided to try and call her. Her phone played a song as he waited for her to answer. He didn’t recognize it.
“Hello,” a deep voice said.
“I’m trying to get a hold of Cybil Fairchild,” Ashe said.
“Well you got me,” the voice said.
“I’m sorry. I must have dialed the wrong number.”
“No, you got the right number, but you got me instead of Cybil.”
The voice seemed sinister. It rumbled through the cell connection like a strange thunder. Ashe’s stomach clenched down.
“So where is she?”
“I’ve got no idea. She left school in such a hurry that she forgot her phone in your office, Dr. Shrove.”
“So are you one of her friends?”
“Not really.”
“A classmate.”
“No.”
“Then who are you?”
“Someone who has to tell you that you’ve gone too far. Now you are in real danger. Quit while you still can.”
“Quit what?” Ashe asked. “What are you talking about? Who are you?”
“Others will suffer if you don’t listen to me.”
The line went dead. Ashe looked at his phone. The other person had hung up. This was the second time he’d heard this warning. Someone knew an awful lot about his life, and apparently had access to his office and maybe even his house. He needed to leave and find Cybil. They had to get out of Mobile before both ended up in the morgue, in jail, or worse, but he had to stay long enough to get Smalls out. They all needed to get out of town.
The door to the outside opened. Ashe looked up. He had every time the door opened. Scott Johnston walked in carrying his briefcase. Rogers
was with him.
“So where do they have him?” Johnston asked Ashe.
“Somewhere back there,” Ashe said. “I’ve got no idea. They haven’t been very helpful. All they really told me is that his bail has been set at $200,000.”
“Chump change,” Rogers said.
Ashe didn’t find it funny. He stared at his colleague. The thought of Rogers harassing Marianne almost every day made him want to punch him where he stood, but that was not a good idea in the middle of the jail. Johnston walked up to the desk; he stooped to look through the small hole in the glass at the officer behind the desk.
“I’m Scott Johnston, legal representative for a prisoner you have in there. Father Peter Smalls.”
“All right, who are these yahoos?” The officer pointed to Ashe and Rogers.
“My assistant counsel. This is a murder arrest. I don’t usually do these by myself,” Johnston said.
“Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly,” the officer said.
“Remember that I am an attorney, and making me sit here too long doesn’t benefit anyone,” Johnston said.
The officer glared up at the lawyer. Ashe could see the disdain in the cop’s eyes, but he picked up a phone and mumbled something into it. Johnston sat down beside him; Rogers sat on the other side of Johnston.
“Why did you do that?” Ashe asked.
“What? Pretend that you are legal counsel?” Johnston said. “Dr. Rogers knows Father Smalls very well, and you called me to represent him. Also, you were just in here the other day. I don’t want them picking you up for killing that detective.”
“I don’t think there’s a chance of that. As I understand it, there’s video of three men dumping his body,” Rogers said. “I’ve seen the grainy stills from it on the news. None of them looked like Ashe.”
“There’s video of the murder they’ve got Father Smalls in here for too, but they still arrested a priest for sexual assault and murder,” Johnston said, “and people call us sharks and cutthroats.”
The heavy metal door that led to the interior of the jail swung open. Detective Cooper came out. She looked them over.
“Are you three the attorneys for Father Smalls?” she asked.
“We are,” Johnston said. “Can we come back to see him now?”
“I have him in one our interview rooms, so yes you may. By the way, I know you’re lying.”
Johnston nodded. He stood and motioned for Ashe and Rogers to follow him. As soon as he stepped through the doorway, the smell of the place made Ashe shiver. He’d spent only a few hours in there but that time was enough to scare the living daylights out of him. His whole life had been spent avoiding trouble to keep out of juvie and then jail. Now he voluntarily walked into what he started to think of as the belly of the beast. They walked down the corridor until they came to one of the interrogation rooms. Cooper opened the door and let them inside.
Smalls sat at the end of a short wooden table with his handcuffed hands resting on it. He wore an orange jumpsuit. His eyes drooped and looked haggard. Johnston scanned the room, but Ashe and Rogers sat down.
“I assume there is no recording device,” Johnston said.
“You would be correct,” she said.
“No one is behind that mirror on the far wall?” he asked.
“Not a soul.”
“Your name is?”
“Cooper. I’ll be leading the investigation into the murder of Amanda ‘Hortense’ Moore.”
“So you’re a detective?” Rogers asked.
Johnston looked around at him. “I’ll handle the questions, if you don’t mind.”
Rogers puckered his lips and nodded.
“Are you a homicide detective?” Johnston asked.
Cooper shook her head. “I investigate sex crimes. I was training with Detective Semmes for homicide. Since he’s been murdered, I’m dealing with this.” She looked at Ashe and then to Smalls. “If you need anything or when you’re ready to leave hit the red button by the door and talk to whoever answers.”
“Thank you, but this isn’t my first time doing this sort of thing,” Johnston said.
She looked at Ashe again. “I know it’s not.”
Cooper left the room, pulling the door shut behind her. Johnston set his briefcase on the table and plopped into a chair. He opened the case and took out a yellow legal pad.
“I didn’t do it,” Smalls said. “I had nothing to do with that girl’s death.”
Johnston looked at him and wrote something down on the pad. “Of course not.”
“So how did you end up in here?” Rogers asked.
Smalls told them his story. Ashe only heard bits and pieces of it. Most of his concentration focused on the threat he’d received. He didn’t even know if the mystery man had found Cybil’s cell phone or kidnapped her. As far as he knew, she might be dead, murdered by whoever had killed Semmes and probably Hortense.
“They arrested you because you were wearing a hooded sweatshirt,” Johnston said, “and the man on the video had on a similar one.”
“According to the officers, we were of similar height and build as well,” Smalls said.
“This isn’t going to stick,” Johnston said. “That’s all circumstantial evidence. They cannot hold you on such a high bond for that. The fact that you’re a priest and have been for a very long time should cancel all that out.”
Smalls turned his eyes down to the table. He twiddled his thumbs. “It’s not going to though.”
“Why not?” Johnston asked.
Ashe turned more attention to the conversation now. The idea that being a priest wouldn’t be taken into consideration intrigued him.
“I became a priest because of a problem I had. I felt it might be the best cure for it,” Smalls said.
“What kind of problem?” Johnston asked. “Do you mean homosexuality? Because if you’re gay, that will help.”
“It’s not that,” Rogers said.
“How do you know what it is?” Ashe asked.
“Erik and I didn’t meet as professionals. We first met at a meeting for an organization we’re a part of,” Smalls said.
“You’re an alcoholic,” Johnston said. “Problematic, but not a big deal.”
“We’re addicts,” Rogers said, “but not alcoholics.”
“Then what are you addicted to? I don’t have all evening,” Johnston said.
“Sex.” The word came out of Smalls’ mouth as a matter of fact. “Nothing illegal, I’ve never raped anyone, but I was a user for a very long time. It was causing me great problems including almost failing out of my doctoral program and losing loads of money. I decided to cure it with celibacy, and the best place for that was the church.”
Johnston blew out a long breath. “That might be a wrench in the gears. A sex addict priest isn’t going to get much sympathy. You can thank those in your profession who’ve ended up as child molesters for that.”
“So now you see my dilemma.”
Ashe looked at Smalls. Nothing had physically changed about the man but now he saw him in a different light. He also started to remember things from the night that Hortense died. She had to leave to meet a mystery man who hadn’t contacted her in a while. Smalls was elsewhere at that time, having left with Rogers.
“I dreamed about her death,” Smalls said. “Even the detail of her throat being slit.”
“So did I,” Ashe said. His distrust of the priest at that moment disappeared. “So did Cybil.”
“She told me about that before she left campus today,” Rogers said.
“You saw her leave campus?” Ashe asked. “Was she alone?”
“Yeah, but in a hurry. She was freaking out because some students told her about this girl’s death. Why are you so concerned about her?”
Ashe glanced around the table. “I called
her cell and some man answered. He said she’d forgotten her phone, and he’d found it. Then he told me to get out of town or I might end up in trouble.”
“Do you have a recording of this?” Johnston said. “It might be important.”
“It was just a conversation,” Ashe said.
“Strange because you got a message like that earlier, didn’t you?” Rogers asked.
“I did.”
“Mr. Johnston,” Smalls said. “Something very strange is going on around me and everyone in this room. It may be beyond our understanding. I need to get out of here so that I can figure it out before it is too late.”
“Strange things?” Johnston asked. “I’d call that an understatement, but I don’t think it’s going to happen. You’ve got a couple of things against you. There’s enough to keep you in here until we can have some kind of hearing before the judge.”
A knock came on the door and it opened. The female detective poked her head inside. “Time’s up.”
Johnston stood up. “I’m going to see what I can do.”
Rogers also stood. “Hang in there.”
Johnston and Rogers walked out. Ashe looked at the detective.
“Can I have just one minute with my client alone?” he asked.
“Thirty seconds, and you can drop the character, Dr. Shrove.” She closed the door.
“What’s the likelihood that the three of us would have such a similar dream?” he asked.
“Very rare, so much so I would think it would have statistical significance.”
“What does this mean?”
“I went for my walk this morning because I was trying to piece something together. I read about psychic dreams concerning the resurrection of the dead. It reminded me of another piece of research I read years ago. The book is in the basement of the church. I store my old books there. It was called Possessions in Modern Day. See if you can get it to me.”
Ashe turned the title over in his head a few times. “Will I have any problems at the church?”
“Hopefully not, but I’ll try to call them tomorrow.”
