The Girl in the Mirror

by Steven Ramirez

  They kept the conversation light until they’d gotten their food and were sitting inside. Though the tables stood close together, they had managed to find one in a corner. Lou had brought the case file, and they didn’t waste any time getting down to business. As Kyle went through the documents, reacquainting himself with the case, Sarah could tell by his serious expression that the old saying was true: once a cop, always a cop.

  “And what is your involvement in the case?” the former Dos Santos police chief said to Sarah.

  She noticed that he’d dropped the neighborly demeanor. Taken aback, she started to answer when Lou touched her hand and jumped in.

  “Kyle, I asked Sarah to look into the case.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sarah is, um. Well, I don’t know how else to say this. She’s psychic.”

  Sarah thought the old man was going to give her the dressing-down of her life. She knew plenty of people who didn’t believe in the supernatural. He lowered his head and rubbed the back of his leathery neck. Then, he looked at her, his piercing gray eyes seeing into her soul. Shitstorm alert.

  “Smart move,” he said. “I wished I had one when I was working the case.”

  She relaxed. “So, I studied the file, and I know you did everything you could at the time to solve those murders. But I saw something recently—something related to that photo you’re holding.”

  He examined the photograph of Peter in his bedroom. “And by ‘saw,’ you mean a vision?”

  “Precisely.”

  “And what is your conclusion, Sarah?”

  “Incest. Peter had been having intercourse with his younger sister for years.”

  “Consensual?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “Hm. Well, I always thought that kid was a little off. There was something, I dunno… He seemed cold.”

  Lou leaned in. “What do you mean, Kyle?”

  “I mean, he wasn’t at all upset by the death of his parents. I can still picture ’im, sittin’ there like he was waitin’ for the bus. Impatient-like.”

  “What about his sister, Hannah?” Sarah said.

  “Different story altogether. As I recall, she was blubberin’ like there was no tomorra. And they were real tears. I had to bring in a policewoman to comfort her. So, unless she was some kinda actress…”

  “We think Peter may have had a motive to kill his parents,” Lou said.

  The old man took a sip of iced tea and flipped through the file again.

  “You think they found out what was goin’ on with the sister, and they confronted him. And that’s why he killed ’em?”

  Lou glanced at Sarah for confirmation. “That’s my theory.”

  “I also think he killed Hannah,” Sarah said.

  The old man raised his scraggly eyebrows. “Why?”

  She looked at Lou and cleared her throat. “Well, because… Because I’ve seen her ghost recently.”

  “You know, it’s funny. There have been ghost stories floatin’ around Dos Santos for over two hun’derd years. I was the police chief of that town for thirty-one of ’em, and I don’t recall ever seein’ a single spirit.”

  Lou forced a chuckle. “I’m not exactly a convert myself—”

  Kyle looked at him, irritated at having been interrupted, which made Lou blush.

  “But that doesn’t mean I don’t believe in ’em. I know only too well there are some things that defy logic.” He smiled at Sarah. “I believe you, Sarah.”

  “Whew! Thank goodness,” she said, laughing. “For a second, I thought you might want to have me committed.”

  “Only if you start seein’ unicorns. So, Lou. I assume your plan is to reopen the investigation, find Peter, and bring ’im in for questioning? After all these years?”

  “That’s my hope.”

  “Have you spoken to Harlan Covington?”

  “He was the Moodys’ family attorney, right?”

  Sarah recalled seeing that name in the file.

  “Yes. Rather a slippery fella, if you ask me. Then again, I’ve never met a lawyer who wasn’t. You might want to look ’im up before goin’ off on a wild goose chase, though.”

  “Can I ask why?” Sarah said.

  “I’d hate to see you waste your time, is all. Peter Moody is dead. Buried in Resurrection Cemetery, next to his parents.”

  As the other two looked on in stunned silence, the old man took a huge bite of his fish taco and wiped his mouth with a paper napkin.

  Sarah realized she was no longer hungry.

  Nine

  Sarah was in Peter Moody’s bedroom again, barefoot and wearing a long, sheer white nightgown. It was late afternoon. Summer. A warm breeze was blowing in through the open window, rustling the curtains. Sarah could feel its warmth on her face and arms.

  The teenager was sitting hunched over in his desk chair, shirtless, his back to Sarah, rocking and repeating a chant she couldn’t make out. He was thin, she noticed. And she could see his bony shoulder blades. Though she didn’t want to, something compelled her to move closer. As she did, she could see clearly the books on the shelves: Encyclopedia Britannica, Great Expectations, Jane Eyre, and Catcher in the Rye. And comics like Watchmen and Fiends of the Eastern Front.

  Now, she was standing behind him, and as she looked over his shoulder, she saw him carving cryptic markings into his forearm with a penknife, the dark blood dripping into a black bowl decorated with strange symbols in red paint and whose inside was hammered metal. As if sensing her presence, the boy stopped and spun around.

  Sarah was standing across the room now, looking toward the bed, where Hannah lay naked under a sheet, trembling with anticipation. Peter was saying something to her, but his voice sounded muffled, as if he were underwater. She looked apprehensive as he gave Hannah the bowl and made her drink.

  When she’d finished, she swooned, her mouth ruby red. Carefully, he set the bowl down, peeled back the sheet, and climbed on top of her, moving his hips rhythmically. Holding back her arms, he kissed her on the mouth as dark blood ran from her lips onto the stark, white pillowcase.

  Sarah woke up screaming, startling Gary, who’d been sleeping next to her. Her hand on her chest, she could feel her heart pounding and the blood pulsing in her head. It had all been so real, and she was terrified of the evil she had witnessed. Calming herself with careful breaths, she gradually recovered as the remnants of the dream began to dissipate. She prayed fervently.

  Saint Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil…

  Turning sideways, she placed her feet on the floor and stood, realizing she was wearing the nightgown from her dream. Had she actually gone to that horrible place in the past? She checked her phone and saw that it wasn’t even eleven yet.

  She’d had such a full day, first at Casa Abrigo with Joe and Michael, then meeting Kyle Jeffers in Santa Barbara with Lou, and finally returning to her office to take a new client house-hunting. She’d gotten home quite late, and not having the strength to cook for herself, microwaved a frozen dinner of chicken parmigiana that had probably been the worst Italian food she ever ate. She had fallen into bed, too exhausted to read, thinking about what the retired police chief had said.

  Peter Moody was dead.

  Standing in the kitchen, she poured herself a whiskey and, closing her eyes, took a hurried drink. It felt good going down, warm and soothing. On the way back to town, Lou had expressed an interest in meeting with Harlan Covington and promised to invite Sarah. But what was the point? The attorney would simply confirm what they already knew: the boy had died, the body having been buried in Dos Santos.

  Then, a fresh thought. If she wanted to learn the truth, she might need to go to Resurrection Cemetery and visit Peter’s grave. Surely, she would pick up some kind of emanation. But she knew in her heart she didn’t have the strength to set foot in that place. It was too frightening—even for someone who’d been experiencing the paranormal for much of h
er life. What if she saw something more horrific than what she’d experienced in her nightmare? She might go insane.

  Sarah tried putting the idea out of her mind, but it was no use. When she moved to Dos Santos, Joe had joked about having a picnic at the cemetery. And now, it seemed as if she might need to go there. No, not yet. First things first. Better to wait and see what the lawyer said. Maybe there was another way.

  Instead of dwelling on the problem, she concentrated on her upcoming date with Michael Peterson. She would buy a new dress and maybe visit the salon. Though she knew she was getting ahead of herself, she tried imagining a possible future with Michael. He seemed nice, and though he was more than ten years older, she wondered if he was at all interested in having children. He’d never mentioned any from his first marriage.

  Then, another thought. If somehow things did work out between them, he could very well be the proud new owner of Casa Abrigo. And Sarah would have to come to terms with living there. Even with the remodel, she knew she would never be comfortable. Really, Sarah? You haven’t even danced with the guy yet.

  Sarah felt a sudden chill. Draining her glass and setting it down, she looked out her kitchen window into the backyard, where she noticed something tall floating above the ground, shrouded in mist. Looking closer, she could see it more clearly.

  It was the mirror.

  “It can’t be. Not here.”

  She made herself look away. But as she turned, she found Hannah’s ghost in the kitchen, less than a foot in front of her.

  “Not dead,” she said with lifeless eyes.

  Then, the ghost screamed in a way that suggested the whole world had lost its ability to hear.

  Harlan Covington was not a tall man, though he seemed larger than life sitting in his wood-paneled office filled with leather-bound legal books and antiques mostly from Europe. Recently, he had purchased the pricey building on State Street and rented office space to other attorneys at higher than market prices. Sarah knew this because she’d shown a nearby condo recently, and the owner—a family law attorney and no fan of his new landlord—had readily given her all the “juicy” details.

  Dressed in an expensive-looking custom-tailored suit, Covington appeared to be in his early seventies—impossibly thin with straight, snow-white hair he combed forward, presumably to hide a receding hairline, Sarah suspected. His tanned face was lined, his teeth even, though a little too pointy for her taste. He wore no wedding ring, but on his right hand she noticed an unusual, wide silver ring with a flat onyx face depicting something she couldn’t make out.

  “I see you’re admiring my ring, Ms. Greene,” the lawyer said, smiling. His voice was pleasant but with a force that belied his age.

  She and Lou were sitting across from him, separated by a large antique walnut desk Sarah recognized as Italian and hand-carved with full relief foliate motifs. There were two ornate male figures, one at each corner. They seemed almost to be watching Sarah, which made her uncomfortable.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to stare,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

  Getting to his feet, Covington reached over and presented his hand to her. She detected a subtle odor of soap. She saw what was etched into the onyx was a depiction of what appeared to be an old man, slightly bent and holding a staff. She’d never seen anything like it.

  “I found it on a trip to Venice some years back,” he said, not bothering to show it to Lou.

  Leaning forward, the police chief squinted at it. “What does it represent?”

  Stiffly, Covington took his hand back and sat, the tufted leather chair squealing to the touch as he settled in. For no reason at all, Sarah thought of pigs in a slaughterhouse.

  “I have no idea,” he said.

  Sarah turned to look at the objets d’art. Several things caught her eye instantly. The first was a magnificent Fardouelle à Paris clock featuring a carved dial with Roman and Arab numerals in enamel. And on a different shelf, an authentic Meissen ewer and octagonal basin, each decorated with polychrome Watteauesque figures against a gray monochrome park setting. Who in the world can afford these kinds of pieces?

  “I see you appreciate the finer things,” Covington said, almost startling Sarah.

  “Your collection is very impressive.”

  “My family was originally from the north of England. In those days, we couldn’t afford meat. Strange how things turn out. My assistant told me you’re here to discuss a former client?”

  Sarah took a sip of coffee from the bone china coffee mug she was holding and glanced at Lou as he opened the manila folder and referred to his case file.

  “That’s right, Peter Moody,” Lou said. “We understand you were the family’s attorney?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “We’re looking into the 1990 murder of his parents, Gerald and Vivian.”

  “Whatever for?”

  Sarah hoped Lou would be discreet about her involvement in the case. She’d gotten lucky with Kyle Jeffers, but she sensed Harlan Covington was the kind of man who would be less than impressed by input from a psychic.

  “We’ve uncovered some additional evidence we think might point to Peter’s involvement in his parents’ deaths.”

  Sarah was surprised at Covington’s reaction which, in fact, was no reaction at all. As he smiled professionally, she had a strong feeling the attorney knew something but wasn’t telling. He leaned forward, as if trying to peek at the file.

  “And the fact that Peter Moody is dead?”

  “Is irrelevant,” Lou said, his tone becoming authoritative. “Look, Mr. Covington, I’ve been a cop for a long time.”

  “Chief Fiore, I seem to recall you used to be with homicide here in Santa Barbara.”

  “Correct. And I don’t like cold cases. If I can prove Peter Moody had something to do with his parents’ deaths, it doesn’t matter to me whether or not he’s alive to stand trial. All I want is to solve the case.”

  The attorney studied him, his hands steepled together in front of his face. An image of him pressing a secret button and them falling through a trapdoor flashed through Sarah’s mind.

  “I see,” Covington said at last. “Well, as you know, anything my client may have told me is covered under attorney-client privilege.”

  “But—”

  “And survives the death of the client. Don’t believe me? Ask the Supreme Court.”

  “How did Peter Moody die?” Lou said, changing course.

  “I’m sorry to report he committed suicide.”

  “Do you recall when that was?” Sarah said. “And was that here or…”

  “1993, if memory serves. He was living in Lawrence, Kansas. Now, if that’s all, I have other appointments.”

  “One more question,” Lou said. “Please. Do you know if his sister, Hannah, is alive?”

  Sarah looked at him sharply. Why would Lou ask that? He knew as well as she that the girl was dead. Hello? I’ve been seeing her ghost?

  The attorney smiled cryptically. “That’s an odd question. Sounds to me as if you think something may have happened to her, too?”

  “We’re looking into that possibility.”

  “Well, I’m not sure how helpful I can be. After her brother’s death, I lost touch. As far as I know, she’s living in Lawrence. I have the address of her aunt and uncle. You can get that from my assistant.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I understand Peter is buried in Resurrection Cemetery?” Sarah said.

  “Yes, that’s right. Along with his parents. Now, I must conclude this meeting.”

  Covington stood. Lou glanced at Sarah, and they got to their feet as well. Carefully, she returned her mug to the coaster sitting on the desk. As she and Lou gathered their things together to leave, Covington stepped around his desk and offered his hand.

  “May I ask what your involvement is in all this, Ms. Greene?” the lawyer said as he shook Sarah’s hand.

  She blushed as Lou answered for her. “She and her business pa
rtner are renovating the old Moody house. They found something we think might be relevant to the case.”

  “I see. And what might that be?”

  Lou smiled. “Sorry, that’s covered under police privilege.”

  Covington looked at him darkly and almost said something. When they were at the door, the attorney spoke.

  “I can tell you with confidence, Chief, that my client had nothing whatsoever to do with those murders. I do hope you can find the real perpetrators, though. This tragedy has been weighing on me for many years.”

  “We’ll do our best. Thanks for your time, Mr. Covington.”

  After Sarah and Lou had left, the lawyer returned to his desk and made a call.

  “It’s me,” he said. “Fine. As I predicted, their questions were routine. No, nothing to be concerned about. No, I don’t know where the mirror is. Look, you do your part and I’ll do mine.”

  He disconnected before the other person could respond. Although the police chief hadn’t said so, Harlan knew that Sarah and her business partner had indeed discovered the mirror. And he also knew that, surprisingly, Sarah had made a connection with it. That was unfortunate.

  Glancing down at his phone, he noticed a text from his assistant. Bradleys r here to discuss will.

  He texted her back. Send them in.

  Ten

  When they reached the street, Sarah looked up to find dark clouds that seemed to surround the neighborhood like reapers closing in. Perfect, considering how she felt after having met the prince of darkness himself, Harlan Covington.

  “Hungry?” Lou said.

  “Always.” They started walking. “Hey, Lou, why did you ask Covington if Hannah is alive?”

  “Because I wanted to see his reaction.”

  “Ahh. Smart. Only, it didn’t work.”

  “Yeah, unfortunately. He’s good, I’ll give him that.”

  They decided on Jane Restaurant, which was within walking distance. It was after eleven, and Sarah and Lou were able to get a table before the traditional lunch crowd arrived. After the server had delivered their drinks and taken their orders, Lou went into debrief mode.