Her Mind's Eye

by D C Vaughn

  Now, it was she who was suffering and she didn’t even understand why.

  She got up off the floor in time to hear the doorbell ring.

  ‘Jesus, not now?’

  Rebecca staggered to the front door and looked through the spy hole to see two detectives standing in the corridor outside. She could tell at once that they were detectives, despite them not yet showing any identification. The stance, the expressions, everything about them screamed official business.

  ‘Rebecca Kyle?’ the nearest man called. ‘CID, could you come to the door please?’

  ‘One moment,’ she called back.

  Rebecca leaned on the wall and closed her eyes, took a few deep breaths. Get yourself under control, Becca. You haven’t done anything wrong. The river, the gun, Sam crashing into the water. You haven’t done anything wrong.

  Remember the rabbit.

  Rebecca almost blurted out a laugh. What the hell was that? Even for somebody in her state, she couldn’t begin to think what could have put such a thought in her head. Rabbit? What bloody rabbit?

  ‘Rebecca?’

  She snapped out of her bemused reverie, more off–balance now than she had ever been. She sucked in a deep breath of air, then unlatched the door and opened it

  The two men confronting her took one look at her face, then their eyes drifted in perfect unison to her unkempt hair, down across the crumpled clothes that she had slept in on the floor and back up to her face again. The perfumed scent of old wine enveloped her; Eau de la pissed, the latest fragrance from Kyle. If one of them lit a cigarette she’d probably spontaneously combust on her own doorstep.

  ‘Detective Chief Inspector Stone and Detective Constable Harris, Exeter CID, can we come in?’

  Rebecca recognised them as the two detectives by the river the previous night, the men that Kieran had said were from CID. She stood back without a word and held the door for them as they walked in. She closed it behind them and gestured for them to head into the living room. Sharp eyes scanned the bedroom, bathroom and then the open plan kitchen as they walked through the apartment, and she knew that they wouldn’t miss the empty bottle on the kitchen counter. Not that they needed to see it, really.

  ‘We’d like to ask you a few questions about Samuel Lincoln,’ DCI Stone said as he turned to face her.

  ‘You mind if I answer them sitting down with a coffee?’ Rebecca asked as she walked somewhat unsteadily into the kitchen area. ‘Rough night.’

  Stone glanced at the wine bottles as Harris surveyed the view out the windows. ‘Rough?’

  ‘My fiance’s dead, I’m suspended from work and half the MCIT think I shot Sam,’ Rebecca responded flatly. ‘I decided things wouldn’t get any worse if I got shit–faced. How about you?’

  Stone didn’t respond. Stone by name, stone by nature. Rebecca reckoned him to be ex–military, like Kieran but without the personality. Harris was saying nothing, letting Stone take the lead.

  ‘Can you tell me the events that led up to your fiance’s shooting down by the river?’

  ‘No,’ Rebecca replied.

  ‘You can’t?’

  ‘You’re CID, you’ve read the case file by now,’ she said, riding an unexpected wave of belligerence as the kettle boiled. ‘I’m not surprised that MCIT passed this on to another department, standard procedure really. So, you know already that I can’t recall the events due to having suffered the minor inconvenience of being shot in the head. You’re following standard procedure, asking me the same questions as MCIT in order to see if my answers are the same, whether I slip up, reveal something unusual or perhaps incriminating because all liars eventually make a mistake and contradict or otherwise expose themselves under interview.’

  If Stone was going to be swayed by Rebecca’s act, he wasn’t showing it.

  ‘You know the drill, so tow the line.’

  The kettle bubbled busily as Rebecca leaned against the counter and folded her arms. ‘We had a drink at the Wheatsheaf, walked down the towpath for home, then Sam and I both got shot and he’s missing. I don’t recall the shooting, a gunman, or anything really. I remember waking up in the hospital and everything else you already know.’

  Stone nodded while Harris took notes, although she reckoned that he was recording his impressions of her as a suspect rather than anything she was actually saying. Both detectives were standing in front of the balcony blinds, the light bright behind them.

  ‘Do you know of anybody who would have wanted to hurt Sam at all?’ Stone asked.

  ‘Me, apparently,’ Rebecca replied as she poured her coffee. ‘Sam supposedly was reported to his employers, by me, for assault, as a prelude to an official police report if he did it again. This apparently happened shortly before the shooting.’

  Stone’s eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t think that you made the report?’

  ‘I can’t remember doing it,’ Rebecca said. ‘What I don’t recall is Sam ever doing anything like that to me in all the years that we were together.’

  The pain again, bolting through her skull and boring through her eyeball like a white–hot lance as she looked at the two men before the balcony windows. She winced, squeezed her eyes shut as she saw Sam raging at her, the windows bright with sunlight behind him, the blow and her falling to the floor.

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Stone was next to her as she opened her eyes, genuine concern on his features. She was holding her head in one hand, the coffee mug in the other.

  ‘I’m okay,’ she whispered as the pain began to recede. ‘I get a lot of pain on that side of my head. I suppose that’s what happens when you get winged by a bullet.’

  Stone stepped back as soon as he realised that she wasn’t about to collapse on the floor. Rebecca made her way to the sofa and sat down, cradling her coffee like an anchor to reality as the image of Sam flashed again through her mind, shouting, fists clenched, enraged at her.

  ‘You may have heard that police divers recovered a body from the River Exe yesterday night.’

  Harris had spoken for the first time, apparently eager to get the conversation back on track.

  Rebecca nodded. ‘Can I ask if it was Sam?’

  Stone shook his head.

  ‘The man is as yet unidentified. He was carrying no wallet, no keys or anything else that we can use to pick him out. Dental records are being processed along with fingerprints, but for now we’re canvassing the local area for information.’

  Rebecca took another sip of coffee, thinking hard.

  ‘What’s the chances of a body other than Sam’s being pulled out of that river in the same location?’

  ‘Slim,’ Stone replied. ‘But it could be a coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t believe in coincidences,’ Rebecca replied. ‘Nor should you.’

  Stone didn’t bridle at her tone, speaking methodically.

  ‘You’re an experienced detective so I won’t waste your time. You’re a person of interest to our investigation, Rebecca, and right now you’re looking how I’d expect a suspect to look.’

  Rebecca peered at him. ‘I might have lost my fiancé and my job, not to mention nearly my life, all in the last three days. What were you expecting, The Chuckle Brothers?’

  Stone betrayed not a hint of humour. ‘Let’s just say sarcasm wasn’t high on my list.’

  Rebecca’s cocky demeanour deflated there and then.

  ‘Look, I don’t have anywhere to go with this, okay? Everything was fine between Sam and I. I don’t recall anything about him hitting me, or any arguments for that matter. Even if there had been and I can’t recall them, that’s hardly grounds for whipping out a gun and shooting him. I’ve spent years locking people up. I know what’s on the other side of those cell doors, so shooting Sam’s the last thing I would have done. Booting him out of my home would have been my first choice because there’s no way I would have put up with anything like…’

  Rebecca’s mind flared with light as a flurry of memories flickered through the field o
f her awareness, but this time there was no pain, no bolt of agony piercing her skull. She saw herself at school, growing up, taking no crap from other children, forging ahead as an adult despite her debilitating OCD, fighting back at any opportunity. Her parents, ever urging her onwards, behind her every step of the way despite the dangers of the career path she had chosen. Rebecca Kyle had never taken crap from anyone, that much she could bloody remember. The pale flame inside her burned suddenly a little brighter.

  Booting him out of my home.

  ‘Something you recall?’ Stone asked, peering at her.

  ‘Yeah,’ Rebecca replied. ‘I wouldn’t have reported Sam for an assault. I’d have probably punched him right back.’

  ‘You realise what you’re saying isn’t helping your case in our eyes?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn abour your point of view,’ Rebecca shot back and gulped another mouthful of coffee. ‘Tell me, what happened to me after I was shot?’

  Stone raised an eyebrow. ‘We’re the ones supposed to be asking the questions here.’

  ‘You want answers? You want the truth? Then tell me what happened after the moment I was shot. Were there witnesses? Did anyone come forward with information about what was happening by the river while I was out of it?’

  Harris looked at Stone, who seemed to hesitate before replying.

  ‘I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation,’ he replied. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ Rebecca scoffed. ‘I’m in the seat for homicide, but I apparently also then shot myself and missed, and after I collapsed unconscious I then somehow managed to conceal the gun so well that nobody can find it. The man I supposedly shot was my fiancé who should be in the river but mysteriously cannot be found. You’re supposed to be a detective, Stone; anything missing in that picture for you?’

  Stone had reached the same conclusion that she had, except that she realised it was the opposite of what she’d intended.

  ‘That would all make Sam look like the shooter,’ he replied.

  ‘Sam hadn’t fired a gun in his life,’ Rebecca replied defensively, hiding behind the coffee mug. ‘He’s not the shooter.’

  Stone stood from the sofa. ‘We’ll see. We’ll be in touch.’

  ‘No,’ Rebecca said as she stood up and drained the last of her coffee. ‘I’ll be in touch. If you can’t solve this then I’ll damned well do it myself.’

  ‘You can’t…’

  ‘Go anywhere near the investigation, I know,’ Rebecca interrupted. ‘Seeing as how none of you appear to be getting anywhere close to the truth, I’m pretty sure I won’t get in your way. The door’s that way, can you guys find it or are you gonna need help with that too?’

  Stone and Harris cast her one last glance and then turned and stalked from her apartment.

  ***

  XI

  The wind was bitterly cold as Rebecca strode down toward the river, the water a winding sheet of beaten copper flaring in the light of the sun setting to the west. The trees were losing their leaves as fast as she felt that she had been losing her sanity, but at least coming down here was doing something positive, better than sitting on her arse in the apartment stewing on everything. Positive action. That was what she had needed and she didn’t give a damn about what Stone or anybody else thought.

  She had to do something.

  The banks of the river were clear now of tape, although she could see areas of disturbed grass and churned mud where the body had been lifted from the water the previous night. She knew that the coroner would examine the remains as a priority given the location and the recent events that had occurred there, but right now the dredging had come to an end as the police teams collated their findings.

  Rebecca purposefully retraced the steps that she could remember taking with Sam after they had left the Wheatsheaf on the Exe. She couldn’t remember much about what had happened inside the pub, fragments of recall confusingly interspersed with those of countless other nights spent there in the past with friends and family. Instead, she picked up the trail and wound her way south down Bonhay Road before cutting right onto the towpath to follow the river.

  The route was no more than five hundred metres, under the two bridges and out the other side to where an access path doubled back toward Commercial Road and the entrance to the small estate where she lived. Rebecca had deliberately taken another route to the Mill so that she could retrace their steps exactly as they would have taken them on the night, hopeful that doing so might jog some memory or other from her addled brain. The fact that seeing her balcony window with the sunlight blazing through had jogged painful memories of Sam’s anger, and then the sight of the river at night jolting her with memories of shooting herself gave her some hope that this experiment would produce the same result.

  Shooting herself.

  Rebecca realised that she’d matter–of–factly considered the reality of her own suicide. Such an act was nothing to be taken lightly, she knew. And yet, it seemed somehow separate from her, the act of another seen through her own eyes. She could not put her finger on it, but somehow the image in her mind’s eye was too indistinct, too broken, too unlike her to have been reality. She could recall turning a gun on herself, but at no point in her life had she ever even come anywhere close to considering suicide. That just wasn’t in her personality, wasn’t ever an option that she’d have considered, no matter what Sam had done. Sure, some folks took their own lives to cope with their crimes, or to bring an end to the misery of mental trauma, or even to spare themselves the agony of terminal illness. But Rebecca had suffered no such traumas until now, and she was sure that had Sam struck her as she was supposed to have reported he had, then she would have booted him out of their home, not shot him and then herself. That would not have solved anything, and would have in fact made everything much worse.

  There was nobody else about by the river at this time, the roads clogged with commuters just leaving for work. She could hear the traffic and see the rivers of headlights flowing by above and to her left, the sound somewhat muted by the towpath bank as she walked. It was a bit earlier than when the shooting had occurred so the lighting was better, but that would help her spot anything that maybe Kieran and Hannah had missed before CID had taken the case from them.

  On reflection, where Sam had been attacked was the perfect place to do so. The bridge alongside the crime scene offered shelter from view of the nearby houses, and a subway beneath Western Way offered an escape route that bypassed witnesses to the sound of a gunshot. Of course, there could have been others using the subway but it was Rebecca’s experience that for the most part pedestrians would avoid the use of subways after dark; the haunt of homeless persons and possibly muggers, folks preferred to stay out of subways and in sight of traffic. With a little luck, a potential shooter could have slipped away without ever being seen.

  She recalled Sam talking about work as they strolled south, unhurried. He’d had his arm around her, hers around him, idle chatter, just enjoying the evening and the promise of a weekend stretching ahead of them. The world was an imperfect place, and Rebecca’s job was one that often cast a shadow over the sunniest of days, given the things that she had witnessed. Yet moments like that with Sam were her everything, the reason for doing what she did. The world was just fine when folks simply tried to enjoy it instead of robbing, shooting, raping and generally making life hell for the other ninety–nine per cent of people who just wanted to live their lives in peace.

  She recalled no sense of concern, nothing major that tripped in her memory as unusual, other than Sam being a bit preoccupied with something to do with work. She again recalled him being somewhat troubled, that there were things occurring that she had not yet known about and that he was explaining them to her when they were attacked.

  They.

  She was sure that there had been someone else out there on that towpath with them. She could see nobody in her mind’s eye, and yet she was certain that the last thing she would ever h
ave done in her life was shoot Sam and then herself. Sam, for his part, seemed happy enough in his job and happy in his life with her. Yet, etched into her mind was the image of him raging at her, his face twisted with fury. She could see it, right before her, and yet somehow it seemed completely alien, out of place, a memory of something imagined rather than something tangible.

  She shook her head and sought a distraction, something else to focus her mind once again upon the task at hand. As she glanced across the river, she saw a small rabbit on the far bank leap up from the water’s edge and vanish into long grass.

  Did you remember the rabbit?

  Rebecca didn’t laugh this time. Instead, she was frustrated and unsure of herself. What the hell was it about a rabbit that kept popping into her head? She was sure that there was something there, like a word on the tip of her tongue, but the memory would not reveal itself and she was so wrapped up in trying to recall it that she didn’t see or hear the figure rush upon her.

  Arms wrapped around her from behind and a gloved hand clamped over her mouth. She smelled cigarette smoke and felt grains of soil against her face from the gloves as she was dragged into the shadow of the south bridge. A waft of body odour stained the air and she was about to jerk her head back into her assailant’s nose when a voice in her ear forestalled her.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you, I just don’t want to be seen. The police keep wandering up and down here but it’s only you I want to talk to.’

  The whisper was urgent, desperate even. The arms holding Rebecca eased their grip a fraction, as if to show her that she was okay. She stopped fighting. The figure held her for a moment longer, and then the hand slowly unclamped from her mouth.

  ‘I’m gonna let you go,’ he said. ‘But I need to talk to you and stay out of sight too, okay?’

  Rebecca, still as a statue for what felt like an age, nodded once.

  The arms vanished and she propelled herself clear, whirled to see who it was who had rushed her.