So it wasn’t just her, then. Carl confirmed that her journalistic intuition didn’t need resuscitation. Poppy approached one of the onlookers, the young man closest to her, and asked politely, “Do you know the victim or his family?”
The man’s demeanor suggested that he found her question amusing. He was cute, but when he smiled, he was even cuter. He had the earmarks of a well-heeled college student; a navy blue pea coat tailored to his frame, and a monogrammed leather book bag. Either way, he seemed disinterested in a conversation. He turned his attention away from the perky blonde and back to the activities around the podium.
Poppy was a little taken aback. Most folks either wanted their fifteen minutes of fame or begged not to get involved, but she was rarely treated as if she were invisible. Carl returned with his camera just as Poppy decided to question another onlooker. She’d decided that a good human interest point of view would coat the sad saga with more poignancy. That and she was plain old curious.
The woman used her body to shield the little girl from the elements. The child had a pretty heart-shaped face practically buried under layers of a knitted scarf. She couldn’t have been more than ten.
The woman, possibly her mother, gave Poppy a sideways glance. There was nothing confrontational in her manner, still Poppy got that message. She wanted them to be left alone.
The little girl said, “Victor is in my class. The orisha is going to find him. It’s going to be bad.”
The woman said with a smile, “Sssh, stop spouting nonsense. Santa Claus will put you on his naughty list.”
Poppy stared directly into the child’s eyes. “What is oreesha?”
The woman bent down and whispered into the girl’s ear. Then they both stared straight ahead as the laborers made quick work of the job.
Poppy didn’t know why prickles of hot fear suddenly raced up her spine. She felt that she didn’t want to be at this place at this time. There was a light touch on her shoulder. She jumped and spun around. Heather Hopkins beamed at her with perfectly white teeth.
Heather worked at a rival news station. She was a statuesque Barbie doll clone who was, unfortunately, more than eye candy. She had true journalistic skills, but it was rumored that her boob size helped grant her access to legitimate scoops.
“Hey, girl! Didn’t mean to scare you!”
Poppy led Heather away from the onlookers. She didn’t want to be overheard, and she didn’t want any pathetic comparisons to the obnoxious beauty. “What’s up?” Meanwhile, she glanced over and saw Carl panning the crowd of onlookers.
“Is this story weird or what? I mean, not the kidnapping, that’s bad enough but these folks standing out here like they’re waiting for a rock star.”
Poppy shivered inside her coat. She demanded, “What do you want, Heather?”
Heather smiled. She had dimples too. “What’s your take on the goings-on? I mean there’s more here than a kidnapping, but what, I don’t know.”
Poppy gave her a half-sneer at the audacity. Did the showboat actually think Poppy was going to give her an angle when they were working the same story? “I guess a missing child isn’t enough for you?”
Heather laughed. “You’re right, I’m a simpleton. Still, there’s more here.”
A limousine rolled into view and half skidded to a snow-crunching stop. Heather, with the prowess of a shark sniffing fresh blood, pointed at her cameraman and directed him toward the new arrival.
Carl, who had been on the opposite side of the crowd, scampered delicately in the snow toward Poppy, but her interest wasn’t on the politicians exiting the limo. She was drawn to the men positioned a discreet distance from everyone else. They were huddled on the porch of the abandoned house located directly across the street from the school.
Poppy was particularly interested in the Asian. He seemed to be observing everything at once, including her. She recognized him as a police detective.
She stood her ground as the other reporters swarmed the limousine. Carl said, “Can’t believe the mayor and the governor are out here. Wow! Hey, now’s our chance to get some real background. Want to catch up with the others?”
Poppy couldn’t explain her feelings. She was being foolish, perhaps even squandering her chance to sit in an anchor’s seat, but she trusted her instincts. Right now, her intuition told her the real story was with that pensive detective. The guy looked troubled. That was never a good look for a detective.
She asked a bewildered Carl, “Who’s he?”
Carl smirked, but there was no humor in his manner, “He’s on this one too? I forget his name, but he was one of the detectives on the last kidnapping case. Kid was dead by the time they found him. Hope they don’t get the same result this time.”
Carl aimed his camera at the sudden activity buzz. Someone shouted, “Here she comes!”
Poppy found it difficult to budge from her stupor. A sudden movement drew her attention. The Asian was looking up too. She had assumed that boarded up windows, peeling paint and general neglect meant abandonment, but she thought she saw someone…or something…flit past the upper, possibly an attic, window. That window wasn’t boarded and the open blackness reminded her of a toothless mouth. Maybe she’d only seen a curtain fragment or a blind remnant, or had it been something not quite as mundane?
“Carl?” It was a whisper.
There was a commotion as a woman emerged from the limousine. She was wrapped in an expensive fur coat and was helped up onto the riser. She positioned herself at the podium and leaned over the microphones. Maybe it was the lights trained on her, but her appearance seemed surreal, too perfect and at the same time, very false. Still, there was no denying that she was beautiful.
Although the woman gave the cameras her full regard, Poppy was disturbed by her complete lack of emotion. Perception was reality and the woman looked like she was guilty of something.
Poppy thought, Hey honey, how about a little grief?
The woman looked directly at Poppy and smiled.
Poppy’s heart stopped. She couldn’t have heard that!
For long stretches, the woman only peered into the cameras. She glanced from one to the other before she spoke in a mesmerizing monotone. Her words, begging for her son’s safe return, seemed somehow hollow. At the end of her plea, she announced that she was offering a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for his safe return.
Poppy was startled by such an announcement so early in the investigation. She looked back at the Asian detective. In the waning sunlight, he appeared ghostlike. He wore the oddest expression. Poppy couldn’t decide if it was panic or plain old fear. Whatever it was mirrored the undercurrent of…what? Creepy doom? Poppy snickered. The poor fella could just be suffering from irritable bowels. That kind of money was only going to bog down his investigation.
Poppy’s attention was drawn back to the top window. Yes, she had seen someone move. Although she couldn’t tell who or what she’d actually seen. She squinted as if narrowing her eyes would give her a clearer view, but when she blinked whatever it was had gone only to reappear seconds later. He, or she, was still little more than a silhouette in the dusk, but Poppy was able to grasp what the person held.
“Carl? Do you see that too?”
Perhaps he heard the terror in her voice, but Carl responded without any preamble by aiming the camera in the direction she indicated.
“Yeah, I do!” he exclaimed in an audible whisper.
Although they were live, Poppy couldn’t help it, she screamed. Her shriek was eclipsed by an explosion.
The crowd, once reserved, dissolved into a frenzy of screams as people ducked and dodged for cover. Poppy dipped behind a car with the microphone still clutched in her hand. Her heart pounded as she tried to quiet her nerves and give a blow-by-blow description of the events.
She couldn’t stay behind the car and get a good story. After a few seconds, she scooted from her safe position over to where Carl crouched, and mouthed the words, “Stay on the window.”
She continued to enlighten her viewers as onlookers cleared the street and police officers cautiously surrounded the house. The grieving mother was hustled away along with the politicians. Poppy was going to ask Carl to pan over to the broken window glass next to where the mom had stood when another shot rang out.
This time Poppy didn’t scream, despite the wetness seeping through her clothing as she sank lower into the snow. That last bullet rang just a little too close and jolted her with the reality of their danger.
Her eyes saw, and her voice described how the police had swarmed the house. How plainclothes detectives were trying to enter the home to arrest the active shooter. There were no deaths so far, but…
The unexpected happened.
There was a loud crash. Something, or someone, fell out of the window.
Carl said, “Omigod!”
The body struck the ground and sprayed blood.
Poppy had been cut off. The network had switched to a commercial. She couldn’t believe they had just broadcast a possible death on air. She turned to Carl. “Did you get all that?”
Carl crossed himself. He was such a teddy bear, but seeing a death left her shaken too. The scene was horrific. The guy landed in a bloody splash. Steam rose where hot blood met cold ice. It was haunting.
Poppy asked, “Carl?”
“There was something else in that house?”
She didn’t like his tone. “What do you mean? Another policeman?”
He crossed himself again. “No, I saw…I saw…”
The producer issued new instructions in her earpiece and congratulated her on a job well done. The other networks didn’t have the footage on the shots and the fall. The nation was already looking at Richmond because of the weather system. An assassination attempt on the mother of a kidnap victim was going to go national too. Let’s face it, if it bleeds it leads.
Poppy was exhilarated. If she played this right, she could end up at an anchor’s desk in no time. She needed to get a little closer to the new crime scene without the police catching her. Off to the left, and within her peripheral, she got a glimpse of Ms. Fake Boobs preening in front of her camera. No one else had actual start to finish footage except her and Carl. Ha, take that, Ms. Blow-up Doll.
The commercial break was almost over. She had the feature story. Although still visibly shaken, Carl lifted his hand and gave her the five finger countdown. According to him, Bradley, the tailor-suited and bleached-blonde anchor, was about to toss an intro to her in 5…4…3…2…
Poppy made a couple of faces to alleviate her stress before she looked dead-on into the camera. She was ready to begin her spiel.
All sounds stopped. She didn’t even hear the nearly subliminal moan of the wind. The total absence of sound swallowed her in a purer fear than any anticipation of a gunshot.
The microphone felt heavy. She lowered it when she realized that Carl was still holding up a single finger to designate the last second before the anchor’s intro. He was like a statue. The red light never brightened into the ‘on’ position.
Her heart quickened when she saw how no one and nothing moved. It was too quiet. Although she was surrounded by people, not a single soul moved. Poppy felt terribly alone.
Maybe she was looking at this wrong? Maybe she’d taken a bullet and had died? Maybe she was a ghost?
She tried to calm herself down, to think rationally, but she couldn’t. Panic swelled in her chest as terror filled her veins. Even the snow looked menacing in this new universe. It swirled in a manner that seemed more predictable. It was starting to look as if it was forming a barrier. But that didn’t make sense, and the sky flashed with lightning, and wait for it…the boom sounded loud and close like dynamite.
She wondered if she was wearing the same lost soul expression as that detective, the Asian one whose name she couldn’t remember. She turned back to the house and found herself staring into hell.
Poppy screamed as horror washed through her and nearly drowned out her sanity. There was no body, just a shadow. There was no face, but there were eyes. Instead of eyelids or whites or pupils, there was only fire. Staring into those eyes was hypnotic. The harder she fought, the more she was drawn in and she did it. She peed on herself.
Poppy felt the intrusion like tentacles creeping through her thoughts. She tried to make her body move, she needed to run, and to free herself somehow as that thing filled her nostrils with the too sweet scent of vanilla. Instead of running away, she found herself compelled to move closer. Yes, it was a she that draped her in that cloying vanilla aroma. It was a she that spoke delicately in her mind all the while peeling away layers of Poppy’s psyche.
Poppy could feel the power and depravity. She was afraid the shadow, with the hellish eyes, would take a bite out of her soul. “Please, I have children who need me.”
She wanted to wake up, to hear noise, to see activity instead of being trapped in a nowhere place with…
I have a child who needs me.
The voice filled her with such pain that Poppy went numb. In her mind’s eye, she saw the little boy on the flyer except that he was laughing and loving her and calling her Mom.
She remembered his first birthday party. He blew out the candles and beamed with a toothless grin while his friends sang Happy Birthday as a big red dinosaur with human hands twisted together a balloon poodle.
She remembered chasing after his sled as he slid down a snow-covered hill in the park while his rascally dog pursued. The dog’s name was…yes, Rascal, of course!
Those memories were generous and warm just like his sweet kisses. Their lives were ordinary in that tiny apartment. The purity of her love for little Victor was overwhelming. She loved her peaceful and normal…
Life?
The fiery eyes continued to burn memories of young Victor in her mind while adding spices of rage and heartache to her torment. The brutality of her loss made it difficult for her to breathe, to feel, to function. Death, she was certain, was better than the not knowing and the not having back.
Poppy tried, but she couldn’t stop crying. The hell eyes convinced her that she would continue to die in dribbles the longer Victor was missing. How could she continue without her heart, without him?
“Please,” Poppy begged as the pain became unendurable. “Please stop.”
Her knees sank onto the snow while her agony radiated throughout her body until she thought she couldn’t suffer anymore without physically dying. She laid in the snow, on top of her urine, and found the numbing cold somehow comforting.
Then she seemed to receive a fainter final message.
She saw Jackson. She saw him as if she were an omnipotent spirit. The scoundrel had broken their agreement and he was in her part of the house, in her bathroom. He had that look on his face, the one where the warm smile didn’t quite reach his cold eyes. What startled Poppy was the syringe in his hand. He was in her medicine cabinet. He sat the hypo down long enough to open up her tube of toothpaste. With a sneaky grin, he injected the contents of the syringe into the tube. What was that?
Poppy said, “He’s trying to kill me?”
Jackson hates to lose, you know that. Be careful.
She believed the message. She now knew why she was always so exhausted. Although she just didn’t want to believe that he would try to kill her, given his behavior and her chronic fatigue, it all made sense.
Finally, the pain ebbed. Poppy sat up carefully never once removing her gaze from the flaming eyes. She straightened her clothes and swept the snow off her hair. She wasn’t scared anymore. “I know you.”
Of course you do. We’re connected. If you find out anything about my son, I will know it.
“How do you do this? I mean…” Poppy blinked, and she was gone.
The red light came on the camera and Carl dropped his remaining digit.
Poppy was so startled by the abrupt transition back to reality that she couldn’t move.
Carl looked from behind the camera and gave her a quiz
zical expression. Tired, weak and probably smelling of her own piss, Poppy launched, with crisp detail, into the events leading up to the shooting. She exclaimed with just the right amount of zest how some of the police officers valiantly led the onlookers to safety while others stormed the house. She altered her tone to sound reserved as she apologized for filming the suspect’s fall from the window. She affirmed in a proud manner that WKLF broadcasted the events live and was unaware the outcome would be so tragic while she heard in her earpiece that her segment was going to be packaged for their national affiliate.
She did a toss back to the anchor. “This is Poppy Stevens, back to you, Bradley.”
Red light out.
Chapter 11 – Friction
The black male on the ground wasn’t Mason Epps.
His partner peered down from the broken window. “All clear.”
Harry holstered his weapon as he whispered a sigh of relief. He cautiously joined Ethan to study the body. What puzzled Harry most was the amount of blood that melted the snow around the corpse.
The guy had degenerated much worse than a jumper from that height should have. In a way that was tragic, yet comical, he looked like a bug squashed on a windshield. He was flattened. The scene just didn’t make sense. Harry stepped gingerly, careful not to contaminate.
From his perspective, he could see the guy’s eyes were open and unblinking. Blood had gushed from his eyes like tears and he wore the remnants of a bloody mustache. His mouth hung open in a silent scream.
Harry move closer and pressed his fingers against the young man’s throat. He felt the artery, but there was no pulse, just as he suspected.
Not far from the dead guy’s outstretched fingers was a Barrett, a 50-caliber do-the-deed sniper rifle. Harry had to wait until the techies set up an official perimeter and processed the scene, but it was clear the bozo meant to cause a fatality. That fine piece of professional equipment easily cost over ten grand. Harry wondered, how the hell did the shooter miss with a cannon like that?
Ethan was still circling. “What the hell? Is he dead?”
Stolen Prophet: A Horror Supernatural Thriller (The Prophet's Mother Book 1) Page 11
