Blood Trance

by R. D. Zimmerman

  And I quickly threw open the door.

  Chapter 6

  I rushed through this next passage, there was a bright flash, and immediately I was standing alongside an open car door. I turned, glanced into the empty auto, and wondered where in the hell I was and what this was all about. Not quite sure what to do, I scanned the deserted street. Holy shit. I'd stepped through a wall or a dream or some such thing and had come out on the other side.

  “That's right, Alex. You've passed from a scene where your fears took shape to a scene where your memory is replaying something that actually happened. Would you like a break or would you like to press on?”

  I glanced into the dark sky above. Oh, yes. My sister had followed me here, and she was up in the heavens, observing and noting, even guiding my every movement. How typical.

  I had no choice but to go on, however. So okay, it was night. That much was obvious, for the sky was filled with dots of stars. I turned back to the car, bent over and looked inside, and noted a large manila envelope on the passenger seat. Maddy had given me that just before I'd left the island, asking me to hand-deliver it to Ray Preston, a former client of hers. I shut the door of the red car, which was all too familiar. Oh, I thought. That was it. That made sense. I'd just flown into Chicago, this was a rental car, and I'd just pulled up to a single-level suburban home. I glanced at the white house with the red-brick chimney and remembered who lived there. Oh, God. That was where the murder took place.

  “Where it will take place. You're not there yet.”

  What?

  “You're at the beginning, Alex. Helen won't be killed for a few more days, remember? That scream you heard is your link to that time. Let it take you back there, let it transport you and pull you back … and back … and back. Be there totally and completely. Hear that voice… now.”

  A scream? Where? My eyes quickly shifted, glancing from one house to the next. Was someone in trouble? I'd heard something, hadn't I? Yes, moments ago, just as I was climbing out of the rental car, I'd heard this plea, this siren of fear. But from where? I turned around, looked into a park that was thick with trees. Had it come from there?

  Almost in response to my question, a woman's voice rose from the forest and into the dark night, screaming, “No!”

  I looked from side to side, checked all the houses. This nice, supposedly safe suburb was locked tight, everyone sealed away for the night and plugged into their TVs. Oh, shit. Some woman was being attacked in the park and no one had heard the trouble but me. I had no choice. There was nothing else to be done.

  Without a further thought, I charged across the street and into this park that wasn't a simple park with a basketball court, wading pool, or anything so planned, but a nature reserve that was thick with trees and bushes, darkness and stealth. I hurried between two large evergreen trees, their branches dense and scratchy, and up to an oak tree, then froze. There was nothing but blackness before me, an endless sea of it, and I recalled that, yes, this was how that awful week had started. What an ominous beginning. But if I pushed on, kept all this going, and relived that week again, how would it be different, what would I see that I hadn't before?

  ”Your fear, Alex. If you can look at it clearly, give it a face and identify it, then I think we'll know who murdered Helen. To do that, though, you must re-examine each and every detail.”

  Yes, my fear. It was here, pounding in my chest, and right out there, too, in these woods, threatening, wanting to do harm. This time I had to concentrate on it, hunt it out. I understood that what I'd been afraid of that week and ever since had been unclear in my mind. A figure that I could not honestly see or picture.

  “As if cloaked in gauze?”

  Exactly. So what I had to do was use every bit of power hypnosis brought to me, use its ability to focus free of distraction to peel off that disguise, expose that person. I heard steps charging across the forest floor. Whoever was to kill Helen could well be out there, pounding through the night. I had to find it, confront it, strip it of mystery.

  Somewhere in the woods, a vulgar voice laughed and called out an oddly familiar threat, “I won't let you get away!”

  A woman's voice replied, “Please, no!” And then she called, “Help! Someone help me!”

  I was running again. Pushing forward. Smashing a branch down, plunging deeper into the woods.

  And I called, “Where are you?”

  From the left, the woman answered, “Over here! There's someone after—”

  She broke off in a scream that scraped my ears. I turned, rushed toward her plea. Running over the forest floor, I swerved in and out of trees, stumbled over branches. I heard steps from over there, off to the left, and I veered over, stopped and hung on to the base of a tree, my fingers grasping thick hunks of bark. All at once there were steps in front of me, charging close by. Next I heard someone behind. I spun around, studied the blackened woods. At first there was nothing, only the dead of the night, but then I noticed something, a shape, a figure that bloomed in the darkness. Gradually it took form, and I realized it was a person, of course. My heart began to pound as I noted the shape, the light-brown coloring of the clothes. Oh, God. I moved a half step back, took shelter behind the tree, for this was it, that thing, that person concealed in layers of material that had so recently confronted me in a room in a different plane of this life.

  Suddenly I sensed something else, heard another person running. Deep short breaths and heavy footsteps filled my ears. I spun around and a figure swooped out of the night, bolted right toward me. Lots of hair, a pale, pale face. Horrified eyes, all large and desperate. The terror came exploding out of her, bulleted itself directly at me.

  “It was her?”

  Yes. That was when I first saw her. Long, dull gray hair, full, flat face. I didn't know it then, back when it was really happening, because we had yet to meet.

  And so this person, this woman, well, she didn't know what to think when she first saw me. I edged out from the tree for I understood it was she who had screamed, who was being pursued, but when she saw me standing right before her in the dark, she skidded to a desperate halt.

  And begged, “No!”

  I didn't know what to say, how to react, so I just pushed my hand through the air, reached out for her. She started shaking her head and inching backward, the fear boiling in her, overflowing from her trembling lips, her shaking hands. Obviously, she thought I meant her harm, that I was reaching out to take her and beat her, perhaps rape her, too. For a very odd and quiet moment, the two of us stood in silence, the night dulling our vision, our senses. I could barely make out her eyes shifting from side to side, searching and hunting for escape. And then in an instant, that was exactly what she did, turned and tore back into the darkness.

  “No, stop!” I called. “Wait, I don't want to—”

  But it was too late. I started to run after her but then she screamed, only ran faster, and the next minute she was gone, gobbled up again by the blackness. It was hopeless—worse yet, stupid—to pursue her, so I slowed, then stopped, and stood in the middle of these dark woods, wondering what to do, how to proceed. Should I rush after her anyway and try to help her, to convince her that I meant no harm? Or should I leave her, so petrified, so in danger out here, and call the police? I could dash to my car, honk my horn, shout for help. Which, I realized with a dull sense of hopelessness, was exactly what I should have done in the first place. And which I should do now, but I scanned the woods, and it struck me that I was all twisted around, that I had no idea where the street was. Oh, shit. I could set out in any one direction and I'd certainly hit a street in this suburb, but who knew how far I'd have to go, how long that would take.

  She started screaming again, that woman who'd dashed away from me, and my decision was made. There was no time to seek out help beyond the confines of this park, and reflexively I was flying through the woods, following those screams that with each second were more and more sobs of desperation. And I understood. This woman was n
o longer running. She had been caught and someone was beating her. I heard the thuds, her moans and cries.

  As I clawed through the darkness, used her pleas like radar to direct me, I shouted, “Leave her alone! Stop!”

  My voice sparked hope in her, and she begged, “Help me, please!”

  There, off to the left. Her voice was clear, and I dashed through an opening, a small clearing of sorts with a picnic bench, and then back into the woods. I needed power, though. Power much larger than I to battle the attacker who might be armed.

  So I insinuated great authority, calling in my biggest, deepest voice, “Police! Get down on the ground with your hands behind your head!”

  I scooped up a large branch, which wasn't much but at least something. The woman's cries soon became less desperate, less pained, and I followed her voice, hoping that her attacker had fled. I came around a large bush, and there she was, this woman with the grayish hair, lying on the path. She eyed me, quickly pulled her arms over her chest, and I stopped, careful to keep my distance.

  “No, it's all right,” I said, laying down the branch. “I won't hurt you. I came to help.”

  She raised one of her hands to her mouth, then swiped at her eyes.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “You're not cut or anything, are you?”

  She shook her head. I moved no closer, instead bending down a bit. What in the hell did we do now? How did we get out of these woods and back to some sort of safety?

  “My name's Alex, and I—”

  In the pale light I saw her eyes suddenly grow wide again and burst with fear. She raised a hand, then stabbed a finger through the air, pointing over my shoulder. I spun around just in time to see the blur of a person come charging up behind me. Oh, Jesus. Against the dark backdrop of the forest I saw this shape—

  “Dressed in what?”

  Tan. All tan clothing.

  “Male or female?”

  As I knelt on the forest floor, I could clearly see that it was a woman. Short gray hair. Aged face, lined with wrinkles and a chin that was quivering. Thin body. And tan dress. Hers was a face of death, and she meant to kill me. That much was not only clear in those deep, demented eyes, but also in the way she held that knife. She was clutching it high overhead and she meant to plunge it as deeply as possible into me. Dear God. No wonder the woman I'd first heard screaming was so terrified. This attacker was as determined as she was apparently vicious.

  “I'll kill you!” the woman screeched, slashing the air with her knife.

  What had I walked into? What was this all about? I'd assumed that the first woman, the one now behind me on the path, was being attacked by a man, perhaps a rapist. But I was wrong, and as quickly as I could, I grabbed the branch and swung it out at this assailant, kept her at bay. She halted, and I kept prodding, poking at her with the wood. I was certainly stronger than she was, for I had to be at least twenty years younger, but her knife was long and undoubtedly sharp.

  The older woman jumped forward, again slashed the knife at me but missed by feet, and said, “Why are you doing this? Leave us alone!” At the woman behind me whom I'd come to rescue, she shouted, “Loretta, get up! Run!”

  “What?” I muttered, knowing that in this small neighborhood there could be only one. Over my shoulder, I shouted, “You're Loretta? I'm Alex, Maddy's brother.”

  Behind me I heard a distinct gasp of realization. All at once the woman I'd been sent to visit scrambled off the forest floor and hurried up behind me.

  “No, no, don't hurt him!”

  So there I was between the two of them. Loretta behind me and—

  “It's all right, Helen!” desperately continued Loretta. “He wasn't trying to hurt me.”

  Oh, my God. This older woman now in front of me, the very one who'd wanted so desperately to slash me to pieces, was Helen, Loretta's stepmother. Maddy had mentioned her, told me to take special note of her because in therapy Loretta had revealed the black side of Helen. The very side I was now witnessing.

  Helen slowly lowered her knife, tried to catch her breath, and said, “What do you mean? What are you saying?”

  “It's not him. It's not! He's… he's from Dr. Phillips. She sent him to visit me.”

  So it was obvious this older woman hadn't attacked Loretta, either. Or was it? This couldn't be some sort of trick, could it? After all, not only had the figure I'd seen chasing Loretta through the forest been wearing the same color clothing, I'd witnessed the same sort of savagery in the two.

  “Well, what's he doing out here?” demanded Helen. “If it wasn't him, then was it—”

  “Oh, I don't…” Loretta started to talk, stopped, then stammered, “I… I don't… don't know.”

  “I just got out of my car,” I offered, “when I heard a scream. It was obvious someone needed help.”

  As we stood there in the darkness, Helen eyed me, shook her head slightly, then said, “Just what the world needs, another do-gooder.” Still clutching the knife, she turned. “I guess we'd better get back to the house.”

  “Yes, come on,” said Loretta, hurrying after her stepmother. “Let's get out of here. You won't go right away, will you? You'll have some coffee, won't you, Alex?”

  “What?” I replied, unable to hide my confusion. “Sure, I guess.”

  As the three of us started down the path and out of those dark woods, I glanced past Loretta. Helen was moving swiftly along, and I stared at that knife she held so tightly. That knife.

  “What about it?”

  I'd seen it before. How was that possible, though, when I'd only just arrived and had never seen Loretta or Helen before?

  “Be clear on this, Alex. You've come back to the past with knowledge of the future. Had you really seen the knife before, or is it one you would see again?”

  Yes, again. I would see it again because it was that long-bladed knife, the one with the wooden handle, that Loretta would soon claim she used to kill Helen. The one supposedly used to pierce and puncture Helen's body over and over again. Oh, my God. Helen was carrying it now, in complete control of it, and all I wanted to do was rush up, twist that knife out of Helen's hand, and hurl it far away.

  “But you've come back to observe and study the past in order to glean new truths from it.”

  So it wasn't something I could alter?

  “Would that you could.”

  Amen.

  Chapter 7

  Sitting at the dinette table in Loretta's bright kitchen, I kept staring at that long knife with the arched blade and handle of good, solid wood that Helen had wanted so recently and so desperately to plunge into me. The knife lay on the speckled white Formica, and Loretta kept pushing it around, scooting it this way and that, as she pulled the coffee maker away from the wall, next reached for a ceramic canister of coffee lined up against the wall.

  If Helen wasn't going to ask, which she hadn't, I certainly would. “Are you sure you're all right, Loretta?”

  “What? Oh, yes.”

  “Don't you think we should call the police and report it?”

  Seated on the vinyl chair next to me, Helen quickly interjected, “Report what? That my daughter went into the park after dark when she knows it's dangerous? Dear Lord, if you only knew how many times I've told her not to go into those blessed woods at night.”

  Rather in shock at her response, I stared at her. Ten, perhaps fifteen years older than Loretta, Helen Long was a fairly tall woman, her grayish hair freshly coifed, and her attractive face crisscrossed with numerous fine, shallow wrinkles. But she wasn't attractive, not really. There was something much too tight about her small mouth, something much too angry in those eyes that lurked behind the gold-framed glasses.

  I said, “My God, she was attacked.”

  “By whom? I didn't see anyone, did you?”

  “Well—”

  Helen looked right at me, and I fell silent. I'd seen someone rushing through the forest, most definitely so. That could have been Helen, I supposed, in her tan dress, bu
t… but what was going on here? Helen should be pumping Loretta with questions; she should be trying to piece together what happened out there.

  “No,” continued Helen, “this is nothing, really. Just a little scare.”

  Someone being attacked in the park labeled as nothing? Something was being left unsaid, an entire dynamic left ignored, and it struck me that, of course, Loretta could have fabricated the whole thing. No, that couldn't be, either. I'd seen the fury in Helen's eyes. The danger had been real to her as well.

  I asked, “But, Loretta, you saw someone, didn't you? Someone attacked you, right? A man?”

  Searching for guidance, Loretta stared at her stepmother. She started to speak, then stopped. I didn't like this, for I'd heard the screams, seen the terror in Loretta's eyes. All of it had been so real.

  Finally she muttered, “I… I don't know. It…it was so dark.”

  Helen leaned close to me, nearly whispered, “Please.” Meaning, of course, please don't press this.

  And then she turned to Loretta, and asked, “Is that decaf?”

  “Ah, no,” replied Loretta, pausing.

  So what did this all mean, that there really hadn't been anyone out there and that Loretta was way more psychotic than I'd been led to believe? That could mean, of course, that this had happened before, might even be a regular occurrence. If that were the case, though, why had Helen been chasing through the woods with that goddamned knife and why had she been so absolutely ready to stab it into me? I wondered if there was a neighborhood thug, and I was about to ask, but it was clear I wasn't going to get any answers, at least not right now. Loretta was obviously the weaker, the more timid of the two, and I'd try to pry it from her later.

  “Well, maybe your friend here doesn't drink real coffee at night,” Helen chided. “You know, Loretta, that's awfully thoughtless of you. Not everyone's like you, not everyone can drink a pot of regular coffee just before going to bed and fall right to sleep.” Helen reached over to the counter, lightly brushed the knife aside. “The decafs in the other canister. That one.”