Simon Says... Ride (Kate Morgan Thrillers Book 3)

by Dale Mayer

  She nodded. “And what are you doing now?”

  “I’m living in Saskatchewan. My son’s at the university, and I’m dating a pretty professor.”

  “It’s nice to see that life has picked up and moved on for you somewhat.” She smiled at the thought.

  “But your call was a blast from the past, and one I would just as soon not deal with.”

  “Right, I understand. Listen. I have calls out to several other victims of similar accidents, and we’re going on a hunch with a current case. I would just like to confirm whether you know any of these people.” And she ran through the list of prior victim names.

  “Honestly, Detective, I don’t know any of those,” he said in astonishment. “Are you thinking that somebody other than the person who hit my wife is connected to another murder?”

  “It was vehicular homicide. Yes, she died by another hand, but …”

  He said, “I know. I know. I know. I don’t want to get into the logistics. I went through a lot of anger and hours and hours of torment trying to figure out how to get revenge. And then I finally realized there wasn’t any such thing. He’s already in jail, and that’s just the way life is.” He stopped for a second. “He is still in jail, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, the person who hit your wife is still in jail.”

  “Good. In that case I’m the one who’s blessed. My wife had her life cut short, and there’s nothing I can do to change that. But at least that asshole isn’t going free. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d just as soon get off the phone and forget that I had any calls to make on this matter.” And, with that, he hung up.

  She frowned, as she looked down at her phone.

  “Problems?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Just another husband who didn’t want to have all the painful past brought up again,” she said quietly.

  “It’s got to be painful for sure.”

  “I know. I know, but what else am I supposed to do?”

  “You do your job, the same as you do every other time,” he said gently. “But, right now, your job is to sit down and eat.”

  And, with that, he put their plates on the table with a hard bang.

  *

  Very early the next morning, long before the sun would rise, after Simon dressed, tiptoed out of Kate’s bedroom, and left her apartment in the dark, when he was heading down to his car, an overpowering scent once again hit him. He stopped outside in the fresh air, took several deep long breaths, smelling the same sweaty body odor. “Why body odor?” he murmured. “Makes no sense.”

  He had yet to tell Kate about it. Mostly because he didn’t know what he was experiencing and didn’t want to be questioned about it. Like her and her cases. He was interested in everything going on in her world, and her cases fascinated him. But, at the same time, there didn’t appear to be anything he could do to help her. It wasn’t something that he could ask about on the streets. It didn’t appear to be anything up his alley at all. And the scents certainly weren’t connected to the nightmare going on in her world. It was fascinating; it just wasn’t relevant.

  As he got into his car, it was like the leather in his vehicle … was just like that new-car fresh-leather smell. He inhaled deeply, smiled, and started up the engine. He could even smell the gas from outside. He shook his head and drove home slowly, even though at this sleepy time of the wee hours of the morning, not much traffic was on the road to hinder Simon.

  Everything out here was highlighted, exasperating in a way. It made no sense, and yet here he was, outside of his penthouse in his parking spot underground, hopping into the elevator, which had a less-than-pleasant smell.

  As he made his way up to his penthouse and into his living room, he tossed his wallet and keys on the countertop, putting away the few grocery items he’d picked up for his place. Hating the stuffy air, he walked over to the balcony, opened up the double doors and stepped outside, just smelling the city. The fresh air, the early morning, the coolness.

  Everything from gas to sweat to fast food to flowers to the sea. He turned to face the harbor and just took a deep breath of the fresh salty air coming in off the water. It was stunning; then it was weird when he heard the sobbing. He groaned, as he stood here, his head bowed. “I don’t know what’s the matter,” he whispered, “but I wish you would stop crying.”

  And, for the first time, he heard words, words that seemed to be directed outward.

  “Why?” this woman raged. “Why me?”

  Something was there, and he strained to see through the shadows. But nothing he could actually discern. “Why you what? Why? What’s going on?” he replied, in an effort to communicate.

  She answered, but it wasn’t to his question. “Of course it’s me. It’s not like I ever had anything good happen to me. And this is just another cross to bear.” And, with that, it’s like she shifted somewhat, like the shadows around her became more … they just became different. They weren’t new; they weren’t old. They were just different shadows. Something that struck him as odd because how many shadows could there be? Was she a prisoner? That was the thing that bothered him the most. What if she were being held captive? He frowned and whispered again, “Where are you?”

  Silence came from the other end, and then she called out, “Hello? Hello? Is somebody there?”

  He froze. “I’m here,” he said urgently. “Talk to me.”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked, clearly puzzled. “And where are you?”

  He felt and heard the pain and terror in her words. “Oh, God. Don’t be afraid. I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m not here to hurt you,” he cried out again and again.

  “Who’s there?” she cried out. “Who’s there?” she screamed. “Go away. Go away.” And then she burst into tears yet again.

  He closed his eyes, and thankfully he slowly withdrew from the scenario. And again it wasn’t by his own hand. If it had been by his hand, he’d be a happy person because he could control something, but it wasn’t his to control. The vision just shifted and changed, and it wasn’t the same mixture of grays anymore.

  Instead he was staring out at the city around him, studying all that was going on. Yet, at the same time, all he could sense was the deep, dark sadness inside her. Whatever it was, it terrified her, whether it was his voice or somebody else’s, he didn’t know, but the thought of her being a victim, hidden in the dark somewhere, incapable of getting out, was breaking his heart.

  And just when he thought that it couldn’t get any weirder, he heard that bicycle again, just the sound of the wheels turning and turning, again and again. Was she using it for stress relief? Was it even her? That was another thing that got him. What if, … what if the bike sound was not related to her at all? Maybe it was somebody else out there in this weird, wonderful world he had opened up in his mind.

  Wonderful? Right. He was being facetious about that. He groaned and whispered, “If I can’t help, I don’t want any of this.”

  And then the thought slammed into his head. It’s happening, and, therefore, you need to help.

  “What are you talking about?” A part of him suddenly understood these people were coming to him because he could help. And, with that stunned realization, he turned to face the living room. “But, if I’m supposed to help, how? What is it I’m supposed to do?”

  Silence was his only answer.

  Chapter 18

  Kate woke in the middle of the early morning hours and lay here, disappointed that she was alone. She’d heard Simon get up and leave, but she’d been so exhausted that she hadn’t murmured a dissent. She just knew that he was up; sensing something going on around her, she’d come awake, but, realizing it was him, she had let him go. But now she lay here, wondering what was wrong. Frowning, she reached for her phone, ignoring the time, and texted him. What’s the matter?

  She immediately got a question mark back.

  I woke up, and all I can think of is something’s wrong. And you’re the first person who came to mind. Her ph
one rang.

  “I don’t know.” His voice was distracted, worried. “Something’s happening with me, and I haven’t really been telling you about it. It’s just getting to me.”

  “You’re talking about that weird sense of smell and all that?”

  “Yes. And sometimes I get this sense of wheels turning.”

  “Wheels turning?” she asked, confused, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

  “Yeah, like somebody’s on a bike.”

  She pushed her pillows together and sat up and leaned against the headboard. “No, you haven’t told me about that.” Damn it, why did it have to involve bikes?

  “She’s crying. Often she’s just crying, bawling her eyes out. Tonight she spoke. She asked, ‘Why me?’”

  “Spoke? Did you see anything?”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing, just shadows.”

  “You think she’s a prisoner?”

  “Of course that’s what instinctively comes to mind, but I really don’t know.”

  “Hmm.” She didn’t know what to say to that. To any of it. On the surface there wasn’t much to go on.

  “I know. I’m nuts.”

  “No,” she said immediately, “not nuts. But you do have a track record that makes me wonder what this is all about.”

  “Oh, I have a track record now,” he said with sarcasm. “Funny, that’s not quite what you were saying to me the other day.”

  “You know I struggle with this,” she admitted, “but it’s obviously bothering you, so, if there are any answers that we can come up with, then we need to.”

  “Great idea.” And there was that tone again. “You think I haven’t been trying?”

  “I know you have. Like me working my cases, huh?”

  “That’s why I haven’t told you. This is a sensitive area of my life that I’m not very comfortable with.”

  “I get that. So do you want me to hang up?”

  “I want somebody to tell me what the fuck’s going on,” he roared.

  “So tell me everything, as far back as you can remember, when this started.”

  “I don’t know when it started exactly. A few days ago, a week maybe. I don’t even know. I don’t think it’s been that long. It’s just, it’s dominant.”

  “So it’s every day then?”

  “Yes, it’s every day. Some are better than others. But my experiences could be different, from her crying in the background to wheels turning to that exasperating sense of smell. Sometimes it’s even just incredible hearing.”

  “Interesting.” She thought about it for a long moment. “Do you have a first name?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “And no sign of a location or landmark or anything to help identify her?”

  “No. The only thing that I can tell you is that I hear her crying, sobbing, saying things like, ‘Why me? Why does this have to happen?’ It’s not so much a sense of self-pity as that of great sadness, grief almost.”

  “Like maybe she’s lost somebody, or she’s been caught up in something she can’t change?”

  “Caught up in something she can’t change,” he said thoughtfully. “That feels about right.”

  “Feels?”

  “Yeah, and that’s all I can tell you. It feels like that.” Again that defensiveness came into his voice.

  She didn’t blame him because they had no guidebook to anything that he was experiencing, and it had to be frustrating for him to not get any answers, to not get a say in anything one way or another. In order for any of this to come to a happy conclusion, he needed to find a way to get out of this. “How does that work, in terms of you shutting it off?”

  “I’ve tried and succeeded a couple times, and then, out of the blue, suddenly I’m back in it again.”

  “And usually it’s just the really strong sense of smell. Any theories on why it’s that?”

  “I think because I can’t see through her eyes. There are just shadows.”

  “Because she’s in darkness?”

  “Maybe, that’s why I was thinking captivity.”

  “And that makes a certain kind of rational sense. Do you think she has a message for you?”

  “I don’t know,” he said bluntly. “I did come to the conclusion that I needed to do something to help her.”

  “Okay,” she replied slowly. “Do you know what you can do?”

  “No,” he said, his voice heavy. “I just feel like the only reason I’m connecting with her is because there is something I can do. Just like with the jumpers, just like with the kids.”

  “And, in both cases, you gave information to me and between us—”

  Excitedly he interrupted her. “Yes! Between us, we helped. Why didn’t I think of that?”

  “Think of what?” Kate asked. “You haven’t given me anything to help you with, and I don’t have anything to give you.”

  At that, he stopped. “Then I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do with any of it.”

  “If you do find something that’s usable, then please let me know. If you figure out why or where she is, or if you figure out even something about the source of her grief, tell me. So, that bike, is it a stationary bike?”

  “I—I don’t know,” he said.

  “Right.”

  There was a long silence between them, and he finally said, “Go back to sleep.”

  “I’d love to. Why did you leave tonight? Why didn’t you just stay until I had to go to work?”

  “I don’t know,” he murmured. “If I figure it out, I’ll let you know.” And, with that, he hung up.

  She lay back on her bed, staring at the ceiling above her. Without the lights on, the room was full of shadows and darkness. She looked around, feeling a sense of comfort in what was the usual, the normal. How would she feel if this were not her normal, if this wasn’t usual?

  Of course it would be scary, and she would feel fear, depression, anger, grief—not the same things that this woman was feeling apparently, if Simon was connecting in any way that could be believed. She winced at that because there was a lot of belief required in this. A lot of trust and an acceptance that what he was doing was something he felt he needed to do. And a belief that there was no other way out of it. She’d seen him; she had heard the same nightmares that his ex had witnessed and had taken videos of, something Kate could never do. It surprised her that, after that scenario, Simon was comfortable enough to sleep beside her.

  Then again, she had worn him out.

  With a tiny smile playing at the corners of her mouth, she rolled over, punched the pillow a couple times, and closed her eyes. As she slid into a deep sleep, the answer came hurtling into her brain. She bolted upright, reached for the phone, and called him.

  His voice was groggy and disoriented when he answered. “What’s the matter?”

  “Simon, is she blind?”

  There was dead silence on the other end of the phone, and then he said, “Good Lord, I don’t know.”

  “It would explain why the other senses were heightened,” she murmured. “And why … why the hearing is so amplified, and so is the sense of smell. And maybe that blindness is the source of her tears. Maybe that’s the grief and the sadness.”

  “It’s possible,” he said slowly. “I hadn’t considered that.”

  “I know. Neither did I. I was just sleeping, when it hit me.”

  “Wow, when things hit me in the middle of the night, they rarely wake me up. I wake up in the morning with the answers.”

  “Apparently I needed to have this answer now.”

  “It’s possible. Let me think about it.” And, with that, he hung up.

  But she knew she was right. She didn’t know how it connected to her cases, but it felt right. It would explain the shadows too. Maybe she was going blind; maybe she had been going blind for a while. Kate didn’t know, but, as she checked the time, it was five o’clock already. She groaned. She would have to be up at 6:30 a.m. anyway. What were the chances of getting some sleep now? Not
much, she realized. She hopped up, had a hot shower, and got dressed, then sat in the kitchen and had a cup of coffee, staring out into the early morning light. Full of pent-up energy. She realized she wanted to go for a run. She should have done that before her shower.

  Groaning, she quickly changed into her running gear and raced from her apartment. She lived downtown, so not a whole lot of enlivening areas to run in, but, at this hour, it was just too gorgeous to stay inside. As she hit the pavement hard and fast, she realized it would be more of a sprint than a jog. Probably the stress inside her, the tension that was always coiled up there, waiting for her to find an answer. That feeling of desperation that she needed to get this case closed, before it became buried under fresher, newer cases that had information and threads that she could follow up on. How was one supposed to work with basically nothing, knowing that victims’ families, friends, people were out there, waiting for answers?

  She shook her head, trying to pull back the shadows, and ran harder and harder and harder. When her feet slowly calmed down, she turned around, only a few blocks away from home. And that was a damn good thing because now she was very tired.

  She rubbed her eyes, feeling the sweat collect in the corners, burning and stinging her tear ducts, flushing them out. That was what she thought anyway, since she wasn’t the teary type. But, as she slowly walked back to her apartment, swinging her arms and trying to loosen up her joints, she realized that this blind woman, whoever she was, could be connected to her case. Maybe she was alone now because of one of these accidents. Maybe she had been in one of the accidents. Kate didn’t know. Maybe it had nothing to do with these cases at all. Maybe it was a case Simon had yet to spring on her.

  She didn’t like the idea of that.

  Kate shook her head, walked up to her apartment, and stepped right back into the shower, and this time she stood under there, enjoying the hot water as it hit her shaky body, soothing some of her muscles that would pound and ache for the rest of the day. When she stepped out for the second time, she quickly braided her damp hair, wishing she’d found time to get it cut, then dressed in a no-nonsense black T-shirt and black jeans once again. She put on her holster, grabbed her jacket, and headed out. By the time she walked into the station, even without the time-saving efficiency of driving her vehicle, she was still early.