Blood Trance

by R. D. Zimmerman

  But all was oddly quiet. Unpleasantly still.

  I glanced down at my rental car, which sat so quietly down the street. I should have gone straight to it. That would have been the wisest. Something horrible was brewing here. I should get away. Flee these sick people and this warped neighborhood. I should retreat to my motel, call Maddy.

  But no. I had to find out.

  Studying Loretta's house, I saw that another light was burning. I had to find out who was there, who was home. I crossed the street, approached the house, walking across the short grass. The front window was glowing brighter. I could see no sign of activity, however. I looked through the broad living-room window, a big picture-window affair, but there was no sign of Helen or Loretta.

  “What about Carol Marie?Any sign of her car?”

  I didn't even think, didn't even consider the possibility of that, of Carol Marie having arrived while I was off in the woods.

  “Well, look now.”

  But I was focused on the house and I didn't even—

  “When you were crossing the street, when you were on the grass, was there anything on the periphery of your vision? Another car, perhaps, parked down the road? Is there an image of anything like that floating on the edge of your memory?”

  With a shudder, I realized there was. Another vehicle. When I had looked down toward my rental car, I saw but really didn't pay any attention to it. Another auto, perhaps belonging to a neighbor, perhaps not, parked on the outer edges of my memory, right behind my rental. It was a sedan, maybe white, maybe gray. Or silver.

  “So she could have been there.”

  God, I had to be careful. I knew that. Felt that. I was trembling as I approached the house, fearful of what I knew was soon to come. I stepped onto the concrete sidewalk, neared the front door. All was quiet, oddly still. I reached the door, peered in through the little window. A light by the couch was on.

  “What about the floor? Is there anything unusual, particularly on the carpet?”

  I couldn't see much. I looked in, past the entry, toward the kitchen. I could have knocked, but I didn't want to. But, no, I couldn't see anything.

  “Any blood?”

  White carpet. Pale yellow walls. That yellow and blue couch. All so clean. My curiosity gripped me. I didn't want to knock, to announce myself. But I desperately wanted to find out who was in there, back in the kitchen. If it was just Helen. Or perhaps Carol Marie or even Billy. So, like a thief, I passed around the front of the house, quickly made my way along the bushes, past the far window, around the far edge of the dwelling. I shouldn't do this, I thought. I should turn around. This isn't right. I could be shot.

  “Don't worry. There won't be any shooting.”

  Don't worry? What? I halted, stared through the night, across the lawn and back at the woods. Were Loretta and Ray still out there, still hidden in the trees, their bodies entangled? Somehow I didn't think so. But if not, then had Loretta already returned, somehow beat me to the house? And where would Ray then be?

  I crept on, touching the white siding, passing beneath a bathroom window, a high window that opened out like an awning. Another window, also dark. Aside from me and the little noise I was making, there was nothing but silence and stillness. I glanced over at the neighbor's house, some seventy feet away. If I were spotted, I'd be taken for a burglar. The police would be called, which actually wouldn't be so bad.

  I came to the back corner of the house, looked around. The patio was empty, the backyard still with the night. I saw the yellowish glow of light flooding out the kitchen window. And something moving. A shadow. So someone was at home. It had to be Helen, didn't it? It had—

  That charging sound. Oh, Jesus. I sensed the noise, the presence of someone else, but it was too late. Before I could spin around, before I could do anything to defend myself, something was thrown over my head. Oh, God. Dear God. A rope. A small rope. It was tossed over my head, then jerked back and I could feel its fibers burning and pulling, burrowing into me. I started twisting. I hit him. I reached back and smacked him on the head.

  “Him?”

  Short hair. Yes. I was sure of it. The hair of a man. But it was useless. He was strong. And the rope was cutting deeper and deeper into me, slicing off the air. I was gasping. Struggling for my breath. Falling. Thinking, wondering. Was this how I was to end? Because I was losing. I struck again. Saw a flash. An arm. A flash of brown shirt. He was winning, this man, this murderer. I was losing. I struggled and hit, but the night was becoming darker and darker, folding in on this, on me, because I could no longer breathe. Nothing. No air. And then, just as I was falling, I heard a scream. My own? No. Someone else's. A woman's scream.

  And in an instant I was disposed of. Hurled into a black pool. Dipped into a muddy nothingness. Dropped on the ground and left for dead.

  Chapter 26

  I was gone for a long time after that. It was like I was hiding at the bottom of a black pool. Or maybe I wasn't hiding. Maybe I was stuck down there, unable to surface. Then, however, I heard that voice. And that's what pulled me up, brought me back alive. Eventually it did, anyway.

  “And what is said?”

  When I was coming back up, someone was talking. I heard the words. But I couldn't tell what they were. It didn't make any sense.

  “But it does now. Let yourself hear those words.”

  No, it was all so mucky. So muddy. I think some part of me understood because I think that was what shocked me awake again. But exactly what was said, I couldn't discern.

  “The voice says—”

  There on the bottom of that murky, black pool, I began to stir. It was like I was being talked at through water. Someone was saying something directly and clearly, and through the viscosity of the black water I was supposed to understand.

  “Be there again. Be there with amazing hearing. One.”

  I felt the bottom of the pool, soft and smooth.

  “And then you notice someone above. Two.”

  Yes, there was someone up there, right on the edge.

  “And on the count of three you hear them say—”

  I was struggling to see who it was. To see who was floating above me, trying to say something, talking. But I couldn't tell. Couldn't be certain. All I heard was that sentence, that heavy voice.

  “And it says?”

  God, I didn't know. Couldn't bring back the words.

  Then suddenly it was like I was slapped. Or something exploded. Something went off and I was hoovered out of that darkness, sucked right off the bottom of the pool, and in a flash I was back on the surface. I opened my eyes. Looked up. Saw little bumps. Sprayed plaster. Off to my side, two armchairs, my jeans thrown on one of them. And there was my black nylon suitcase. The motel. I'd thought I was waking up back on Madeline's island, but I hadn't been. I was still there, down there in suburban Chicago. I was lying on the bed. What? Hadn't I just been at Loretta's? How had I gotten back here?

  I swallowed, which proved to be incredibly painful. Something like a sore throat. More like a sprained muscle. I touched my neck and winced. The skin was tender, perhaps raw. I recalled the attack. The rope. I sat up. My head started spinning, so I didn't move. Just sat there. It hurt to breathe, to have anything going up and down my throat. I'd been attacked, nearly strangled to death. No wonder.

  A few minutes later, I got up, went to the mirror. My eyes were all puffy. My dark hair matted and twisted. My shirt was slightly wet, too, for I could see the dampness on either shoulder. I pulled down my collar, saw the streak of red-raw skin, some little droplets of blood, and a black-and-blue mark that seemed to be budding and flowering as I watched. I reached for a washcloth, turned on the cold water, soaked the cloth, and pressed it against my neck. When I pulled it away, the washcloth was stained a bleeding red.

  I cautiously opened the door, looked both ways, checked the parking lot. I saw a familiar car. My small red rental that was now oddly parked at an angle, half in one space, half in another. And then I headed for
the ice machine. As I traipsed along, I wondered how I'd gotten back there, who'd delivered me to my bed and my car to its parking spot.

  I returned to my room with a bucket of ice, settled a cold compress on my neck, winced in pain. And couldn't help but worry what was going on back at Loretta's house. I lay back on my bed, the ice pack on my throat, and realized that someone had gone to great lengths to get me out of the way. To remove me so I wouldn't be a complication. Something was going on back there. Certainly something dangerous. I found myself lying there, worrying about Loretta. She'd become involved in a series of circumstances from which she had no escape. Of that I was certain. And none of it was good. I thought of the night I'd been chased in my car, the time I'd been clubbed at the car wash. Now this, a strangulation, a near murder. My own near murder. I thought of Ray, Carol Marie, Billy. Loretta. And Helen.

  I thought of calling the police. But what would I tell them? I didn't want to go into the attack, how I'd nearly been killed. That would stir up too much. Too much of nothing. Besides, it was Loretta I was worried about. She'd gotten involved in something and now she was in danger. I knew that then. I had to tell her…

  “Very good, Alex. Just let it float to the surface.”

  I had to tell her to stay out of all this, whatever it was. I had to tell her she was in danger, that someone had tried to kill me for meddling and that she, too, was at risk.

  “There it is, Alex. Excellent. That's exactly what you heard, isn't it?”

  As I lay there, that frigid compress extinguishing the burns on my throat, I knew. I had to tell Loretta what I'd overheard when I was lying there half unconscious. How someone had blurted two words: “It's yours.”

  Chapter 27

  I quickly sat up. I had to get back there, to Loretta's. For some reason I'd been spared; perhaps the whole idea was simply to get me out of the way. But that warning was echoing silently in my head. And that trance sense of mine was telling me something that I would find out all too soon: Something horrible had already happened at Loretta's. My heart began to race, to speed as if I knew someone was being killed right that moment. Murdered in a most gruesome fashion, over and over. In my mind's eye I saw blood being splattered and spewed, fountains of it. Jets of it. Spraying everywhere. All that furniture. That nice white carpeting. All of it covered under a red mist, no, a red snow of blood. Loretta, I thought, as I hurried to put my shoes on.

  The phone rang. I jumped and caught it on the second ring.

  “Hello?” I said.

  For the longest while there was no reply. Only deep breathing. I could hear that, which was why I didn't hang up.

  Finally, a voice said, “Alex?”

  I held my breath. “Are you all right?”

  “I… I guess so.”

  “But something's wrong, isn't it, Loretta?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” Then Loretta asked, “How about you, Alex? Are you all right? I'm sorry about what happened. How's your neck? When did you wake up?”

  Her voice was uneven. The words broken. I could only imagine what had happened at her house.

  “I'm fine, Loretta,” I said. “Are you alone? Would you like me to come over?”

  “I'm the only one here now. Everyone else left.”

  “Then I'm going to come over. I'm leaving right now. Will you be all right until I get there?”

  “Uh, sure.”

  “Should I call an ambulance?”

  “Why, no. It's too late.” She added, “Remember what I wrote Dr. Phillips? Remember? I told her it was a matter of life and death. I was right, too.”

  My stomach bunched up. Oh, God. I hung up, pulled on my shoes, tucked in my shirt, studied my neck in the mirror. I felt my pockets for my car keys, came up with nothing, then spotted them over by the TV, alongside my room key. And then I was flying out of there, down the stairs to my car, which was parked so haphazardly it seemed to take forever. I drove through Loretta's suburb as if I were being chased, racing around the bends, past the dark houses, toward the truth or what I'd be able to make of it. Too late. Loretta had said that, and I knew it was, too.

  I pulled into the driveway. Just before I jumped out, I stopped, looked around. I'd been attacked here not so very long ago. I scanned the road, saw no other cars.

  I searched the lawns, spied no one else. Was I safe? I studied the house, saw the living room now blazing with light. I stepped out of my car, shut the door, hesitated as I checked the environs once again. And then I started moving. I think I knew then. I think I knew what I would see, what had happened. I had a huge vision of death, a wall of red that rose before me.

  “Loretta?” I called as I approached the house.

  There was no answer. I kept moving, came to the front door. I wiped my feet on the mat as I rang the doorbell. No answer. I rang again, those canned chimes dingdonging inside. I peered through the window in the door. Something was wrong. There was stuff on the walls. Something splattered. It looked like syrup.

  I pulled open the screen, pushed open the door, called, “Loretta? Loretta, it's me, Alex.”

  No response. I stepped onto the slate entry. I knew someone was dead. I could smell it. So thick, so dirty. My stomach rolled. And I could see it, too. That stuff on the walls. On the carpeting. Droplets on the leaves of the plants that sat in the little dividers that separated the entry from the living room. Those weren't droplets of syrup. No, they were droplets of blood. Everywhere. On everything.

  I panicked, was sure Loretta had been killed in the time it had taken me to get here, and I shouted, “Loretta!”

  I took a couple of huge steps, froze right there on the edge of the white carpet. Helen. I gagged when I saw how she'd been hacked and knifed. Blood was pouring out of her chest, dribbling over the side of her body. I watched as the red liquid flowed down and over a footprint in the carpet. How the blood washed the track away. She was very dead. Horribly so. Oh, God. Had Loretta done this? I looked around at the yellow walls, the yellow and blue couch, the little coffee table that had been shoved or pushed out of the way. Everything splattered with blood.

  The wind came up. I heard it gather outside, the trees bending and swooping, and then all of a sudden behind me there was a horrible explosion. A huge bang. I jumped, turned around, my feet sliding in some blood. It was the door. It had blown shut.

  And really there wasn't much more. Not enough. I couldn't tell, didn't see. It was just so horrible and I was so afraid. If only I'd thought more clearly, looked more carefully at everything. All the evidence, the crime scene, where she was killed. Because then I heard the noise from the bedroom. I didn't know who or why or if I was to be killed next. I thought for an instant that it might be a trap, that I'd been lured here. Maybe sicko Loretta wanted me dead. Maybe to punish her shrink, Maddy. Dr. Phillips. I had to get out of there. Find some way to get the police. That was what I thought. But there was that sound coming from the bedroom and then, of course, I saw her. Loretta. Bursting out of the back. A mad tornado of energy. Streaking by the living room. Rushing into the kitchen.

  “That's good, Alex. That's enough”

  No, I hadn't done enough because I hadn't stopped any of it. Not one bit. Helen was dead.

  “I'm going to bring you out of this. Three.”

  There was no escape. Not really. I couldn't get away.

  “Two.”

  And there she was. Loretta, knife in—

  “And one.”

  Chapter 28

  I lay there in that magical, mystical recliner. Eyes open, head back. Looking up at the wooden ceiling. Then glancing out the French doors, into the dark night. Out at the black sky that I had somehow just flown through on my way back from Chicago. That bloody time with Loretta. I had just been there but that was over and now I was back here. In the flash of a second, in the diminishing count of three, two, one, I had flown through time and space and back to the island. Back to this recliner. Back to this room where one light was s
oftly glowing behind me.

  “Are you all right?” asked Maddy, her voice nearly a whisper.

  “I guess.”

  “A little tired?”

  “I guess.”

  It had been no fun, those other times, looking at the murder scene like that. Zooming in and focusing on all that blood; then pulling back, only to zoom in again. And again. Nor was it fun now. I hadn't just gone over what I'd found that night. I'd relived the whole event. Yet I felt empty, unsatisfied.

  “I feel like a book on tape,” I said. “You know, like I just told an entire story. Only I feel like I didn't come up with the right ending. One that makes sense, I mean. Did I just waste an evening? I did, didn't I? We're not any closer to figuring this out, are we?”

  “Oh, nonsense.”

  “Or should I ask, are you?”

  When my sister didn't reply I glanced over, saw her reaching over to her wheelchair. Oh, God. I hoped she wasn't going to play another one of those wild pinball things, where she went blindly whizzing around this room. But she wasn't. Instead of hoisting herself into the seat, she reached over and pulled a cordless phone from its holster.

  Maddy pressed a single button, and said, “Hello, Solange. An evening tray, if you would, please.”

  Evening tray? What the hell did that mean? I shook my head. Sometimes I was certain my sister enjoyed all this. I could never—and never would—say it to her face, but she seemed to get a kick out of it all. The royal cripple stuff. Evening tray? I'd always felt sorry for her. But maybe this was what she was meant for. This island. All that money. It was a role that she played beautifully. A life that she seemed to relish. I couldn't really imagine her as a mom, staying home, baking cookies in some suburb. That just wasn't Maddy; she'd never been that wholesome or down to earth. She always had been above the rest of us in some way, even as a kid. And as I lay there pondering all this, I knew she would have made her life unique even if she were sighted. Somehow. I couldn't imagine her as a lawyer or a corporate exec, either, even though she could easily be running a huge company. Maybe a doctor doing strange and wonderful things à la Mother Teresa with a dash of Dr. Albert What's-his-name. No, Maddy had never been meant to fit in. This was her path. Her place.