Born of Shadows- Complete Series

by J. R. Erickson

  "Yes," she said urgently, excited and scared of the prospect. "Yes. I just, I feel like we should."

  She caught herself on 'we' and paused.

  "Not that you have to get involved," she amended quickly, hurrying to keep up with him.

  He stopped again, looking worried.

  "Of course we," he answered roughly. "It would have to be the two of us because..."

  "Because what? I'm a girl?" Abby snapped and then laughed at her own overreaction.

  "No, because great minds think alike."

  She smiled and nodded vigorously. Surely, together they could help. Maybe they could even find the murderer.

  "Why do you want to do this?" he asked seriously.

  She chewed anxiously on a strand of hair and searched for a brilliant answer that would wipe away any lingering doubts that either of them had.

  "No idea," she declared, but with enthusiasm. He smiled.

  Beside them, the water changed. Though no wind had risen, small crests started to roll in the previously calm lake. The tide shot further up the beach, soon swelling around their ankles.

  "Strange," Sebastian whispered, breaking the quiet.

  They stopped and turned to face the water. Its turbulent swells grew larger into folding white caps. Abby had never seen anything like it, the lake transforming so quickly. It was more than the waves; however, it hung in the air like a softly buzzing energy. She could almost feel her hair lifting with the static electricity surging around them.

  Sebastian grinned at her.

  "This is amazing," he laughed and threw his head back.

  As if on cue, the sky opened above them, a deluge of water pouring forth from a bulbous gray cloud that, she could have sworn, had not been there only moments before. Sebastian opened his mouth to the flood of rain.

  "Run," he yelled over the besieging storm, and they did. They raced back along the beach, their feet slow in the giving sand, their bodies instantly soaked.

  Chapter 6

  Abby crawled out of bed and smiled in spite of herself. Streaks of the morning sun ushered across the bedroom floor and warmed her legs.

  Downstairs, she found the couch empty, Sebastian's blankets neatly folded at one end, a sticky note on his pillow.

  "Had some errands, will be back in a couple of hours –S" the message read in sloppy cursive.

  Errands? She grimaced and crumpled the note. She wanted to get down to business, and now her partner had vanished. Of course, she needed to think of it that way, business. Because how could she think of their plan in any human terms? Murder was not a game of Clue. The images in her mind, the sinking weight of death as it dragged her beneath the surface and forced her eyes wide, her mouth open, was not at all glamorous. On the contrary, the mere thought of the girl's body made her heart thump wildly with fear and rage and guilt.

  She brewed coffee and retreated to the living room to watch the news, knowing that facts might chase away the veil of mystery plaguing her. No information allowed for infinite possibilities: rape, cults, disgruntled boyfriends, family feuds. How could she begin to understand why murder happened? But with evidence, with facts, maybe...

  A voluptuous blonde reporter stood in front of the forest, microphone held to her lips, as she waved a slender arm back towards the sun filled trees. Her hot pink pantsuit looked out of place on the tree-lined road.

  "The name of the woman found in the woods has not been released to the public. However, my sources indicate that she is a local woman, and her death is being investigated as a homicide."

  Abby strained toward the television, but the reporter was gone, replaced by an advertisement for bottled water.

  She decided to begin her search without Sebastian.

  She considered calling the precinct, but then imagined getting Tina on the line and dismissed it as an option.

  Her purse sat on the counter, and she dug out her cell phone, battery dead. She could use Sydney's phone, but worried about caller ID. She searched for a pen, and her fingers flicked across the unopened bottle of antidepressants that sat snugly in a zippered pocket. She had picked up the prescription four weeks earlier, but had not taken a single pill. The tiny green and cream capsules stared out at her, and she frowned back at them. A part of her blamed the pills, not for any specific thing, but for years of ambivalence. Only when she stopped consuming them did she finally get the courage to leave the life that she hated. If Nick or her mother had known that she was skipping her Prozac, they would have balked.

  She walked the bottle to the sink, unscrewed the cap and poured them into the garbage disposal, smiling in delight as the metal teeth crunched them into oblivion.

  She returned to her investigation and flipped idly through the phone book. Scanning the pages she passed C and beneath that Coroner. Bingo. She found a phone number for Cherry Road Coroner's Office and decided to call.

  "You've reached Seth at Cherry Road Coroners. How can I help you?" a boy's prepubescent voice cracked.

  "Hi, Seth, this is Officer Smith," Abby lied. "I just have a few questions about the body, if you've got a second."

  She felt like a horrible imposter, but if it worked she was a genius.

  "Oh, yes, of course, Officer. What do you need? My dad's back there right now with the Chief."

  "Yes, Chief Caplan, he's great, isn't he?" she blurted and then scrunched her forehead and took a deep breath. "I just need to get the exact spelling of the deceased's name." Her voice wavered, and she feared that she had blown her cover.

  "Yep, hold on just a sec."

  She waited, her stubby fingernails drumming on the counter. Seconds passed, and she wondered if he had to ask his dad, igniting the Chief's suspicions.

  "Okay, it looks like her first name is spelled D-E-V-I-N. Last name is B-L-A-K-E. Anything else?" he asked, eager to please.

  Abby scribbled the name quickly.

  "No, that's all I need, thanks."

  She hung up the phone and stared at the name: Devin Blake. It sounded masculine, not what she might have attributed to the red haired beauty.

  Sydney did not have a computer, claiming that its absence made the lake house woodsy. Well, woodsy in Sydney's version, but that didn't stop her from decking the place out in every other modern convenience imaginable. It was more likely that Sydney kept computers out because she didn't know how to use them and didn't want to feel dated.

  Abby ripped off the sheet of paper and walked to her car. She drove the long way to the public library, what Sydney called the 'scenic route,' to avoid getting stuck in the traffic jam most likely occurring outside of the crime scene.

  The library occupied a squat, brick building that smelled of mothballs. The librarian was probably not a librarian at all, but a local girl who got paid peanuts to point wayward patrons to fiction vs. nonfiction or shelve big boxes of books according to their ridiculously long numbers, something like ATR4539YTu. Abby knew because she had worked at a library for two years during college, and despite her love of books, hated every minute of it.

  The girl at the desk held a tattered copy of Rose Madder inches from her face, her brown eyes magnified behind thick-lensed glasses. Tempted to ask the young librarian if she knew the dead girl, Abby veered to the nearest shelf and peeked at her from between the books. She looked about twenty, but if Abby gave out Devin's name she might arouse suspicion. She decided to ask for help without any specifics.

  "Hi," Abby said politely, approaching the girl who looked up, surprised.

  "How can I help you?" the girl squeaked, sliding her book beneath the desk.

  "I was wondering if you keep local yearbooks here?" Abby tried to feign only mild interest.

  "Absolutely," the girl chirped, jumping down from her chair.

  She came around the desk, and Abby followed. They turned into a well-lit backroom where shelves were lined with newspapers, yearbooks, and magazines.

  "The little yellow stickers give the graduation date," the girl told her, pointing to the tiny yello
w tabs. "Anything else?"

  "No, this is perfect."

  The girl retreated to the front, eager to return to her book, and Abby walked the rows of neatly shelved yearbooks, searching for 2004 and 2005, assuming that Devin would have graduated in one of these years. She flipped through the books, her fingers brushing the glossy pages as she scanned columns of student names. The 2005 book had no Blakes at all, nor did the 2004. She opened them back up, deciding to look through faces of each graduating class. Again, the 2005 book revealed nothing. However, as she peered at the faces in 2004, she stopped. Devin was pictured, but the name printed was Devin Kent, not Blake. Why had the coroner given her the name Devin Blake? Could she have been married? She seemed so young.

  The redhead gazed back at her, poised in front of a towering birch tree. Although her face was slightly out of focus, Abby recognized the mass of red curls that fell over her right shoulder. She wore long, black, billowy pants and a tight, black corset that laced up the front in purple ribbon; her head was cocked at an angle as she stared at the overflowing branches above her. Her lips, painted reddish-black, were blood-like against her milky skin. Devin did not look like an average teenager smiling vainly at the camera. Instead, she looked regal, as if the photo belonged in the history text of some long dead royal family. Unlike the other graduating students, Devin did not have a trailing list of sports and activities. Only one group appeared below her name: 'Trager High Club for the Arts.'

  Abby found two more listings for Kent: Danny Kent and Eliza Kent. She flipped to their pictures. Danny, listed as a junior, looked nothing like Devin. He had short, spiky black hair and a large Roman nose. The girl, Eliza, was a freshman who also did not resemble Devin. She was plump and her thick brown hair was pulled over each shoulder, partially obscuring her round face.

  Abby wrote down the two names and the art club, contemplating where to go next in her search. She could probably track down a phone number, maybe even an address, but what if the family did not know of her death? If they did and were grieving, they might be angry for Abby's disruption. At the same time, she felt that her investigation would be stalled without speaking to the girl's family. She wished that Sebastian could help and wondered if he had returned to the house.

  * * * *

  Back at Sydney's, where there was still no sign of Sebastian, Abby searched through the yellow pages and found five Kent listings in Trager. She tried to rehearse her questions, but they sounded hollow and insincere. Finally, she just dialed the first number.

  The call went straight to the voicemail of Donald Kent, who was in Barbados until October. The next clicked to an operator who informed Abby that the phone number was disconnected. On the third call, she got an answer.

  "What?" The young voice, rude and unapologetic, startled Abby into silence.

  "Umm, hi, sorry, I'm from the Lansing News..." She trailed off, hoping that she had gotten the right number.

  "Listen, I've already talked to the police, what do you want?"

  Jackpot. Her hand trembled, and she leaned her elbow on the table to steady it.

  "Yes, I'm very sorry for your loss. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about Devin."

  The listener sighed, and Abby feared the click of his receiver.

  "There ain't much to tell. Devin hasn't lived here fer two years and even when she did, she hated it. Once she got started tryin' to find her birth parents, we just became a pile of trash hold'en her back."

  Well, that explained her name change.

  "I understand, and you are Devin's brother, then?"

  He snorted loudly and laughed. "Uh, yeah, I guess you could say that."

  He didn't add more and Abby hurried on.

  "So, where was Devin living for the last two years?"

  "Listen, lady, I'm not her babysitter, okay. I already told the police I DON'T KNOW. I heard she had a boyfriend, but I ain't ever saw him."

  Abby scribbled furiously, wishing that she had made a list of questions after all.

  "How about your parents? Are they at home?"

  "No, they ain't at home. And for your information, it's parent. My ma's been dead for ten years."

  "I'm very sorry to hear that, Danny. It is Danny, right?"

  "Yeah, it was Danny, but I can't talk no more."

  Click.

  Abby held the receiver in her hand, realizing that her vice-like grip had caused her flesh to turn stark white. She dropped the phone back into its cradle and stared at her scrawled comments, trying to make sense of them.

  Danny, far from distraught, didn't even sound sad. Apparently, not a very happy home at the Kents'. Scanning each word, she wondered how she could find the boyfriend.

  Sydney's clock, a giant black cat with whiskers for hands, showed almost four pm. Still no Sebastian, but Abby didn't mind - she could feel the wheels turning.

  She wondered, briefly, if her desire to solve the murder arose from a need to distract. She refused the thought and returned to her notes - they looked a bit blurry. She needed a break. A quick run to the grocery store would give her one, then she could make Sebastian dinner. She considered leaving him a message, but decided not to; it seemed too formal, writing notes back and forth like an estranged married couple.

  Chapter 7

  The small grocery store bustled with the talk of death. Abby listened to the stories as tourists and locals circled the shelves, stocking up on marshmallows and hot dogs. She made a beeline for the rack of gourmet items, looking at jars of imported olives and Spanish chocolates. She was not a great cook, not even a mediocre cook, but she persisted anyway.

  She picked up a small plastic basket and loaded it with makeshift gourmet options: chocolate truffles, basil, lemon, asparagus, salmon, capers, and a bottle of merlot. On second thought, Sydney kept the wine pantry stocked at all times, so she put the merlot back and grabbed a baguette instead.

  As she continued through the store, she perked up at the name Devin, barely audible in the cereal aisle. She wanted to peek around the corner, but didn't dare, fearing that the talkers might see her.

  "Yes, I told you, my boyfriend's little brother is best friends with Seth, who is the son of the coroner, and he said it was Devin Kent or whatever her name is now..." The female voice, gossipy, came out in a harsh whisper.

  "I cannot believe it, I mean she was weird, but who would want to kill her?" A huskier female voice responded.

  They both grew silent, and Abby could hear a customer's cart squeak noisily down the aisle, boxes of cereal plunking in. A short, round woman in a polka dot sundress walked from between the shelves, her squeaking cart continually veering to the left as she tried to wrestle it towards the checkout lane.

  The girls carried on, sounding much closer to where Abby stood, her head strained in their direction.

  "I heard she joined a cult, probably something that guy she was dating started..."

  "What was his name? Todd or Tommy or something?"

  "Yeah, something like that. I never actually saw him, so she probably just made him up."

  The girls turned the corner, crashing smack into Abby, who barely caught her basket before dumping the contents onto the floor. The girls, both in their late teens, rolled their eyes in irritation and walked on. The shorter one, her dark, bobbed curls bouncing rhythmically, turned once to glare at Abby before they moved into the frozen aisle. Abby looked down, embarrassed, and headed for the counter.

  She stood in line listening to snippets of conversations. Campers, afraid that it was a night stalker; the cashier claiming that she saw a strange van parked on the street just days earlier. One man talked loudly about Big Foot and despite the several, "shut up, Jerry"s that came from his severe-looking wife, he continued in earnest. Each theory sounded ridiculous, but Abby hung on every word.

  As she waited, determining what mess she might create with her basket of unrelated ingredients, she tallied in her mind the day's clues. She knew that the body was a young woman, Devin, and that she had a boyfriend
named Tommy or Todd. Devin was adopted, her brother seemed unhappy, and someone wanted to murder her.

  A sharp look from the woman in front of her made Abby realize that she'd been murmuring under her breath, an embarrassing habit of hers. "Don't think out loud, Abigail," her mother used to scold her. "You'll get sent away!" She clamped her teeth closed and stared at the ground before her, wishing that the line would hurry up.

  A puff of breath slid across Abby's neck, and she shifted uncomfortably. Why did people have to stand so close in checkout lines? She felt it again, cold and wet, more like air from the freezer than breath. Moving ahead, she looked down and backwards, but saw no feet planted on the dirty linoleum. She turned fully, scanning the candy racks to her right, but behind her the line was empty. Along the nape of her neck, she felt goose-bumps pulling her skin taut and knew that she had not imagined the breath.

  She scanned the store, eyes moving quickly across heads and over carts. They caught on a dark patch, blurred because the person stood behind a freezer. The man, it had to be a man, he looked so tall, stood in the frozen aisle, but a wide freezer, displaying microwave pizzas, blocked him. Abby did not want to look at him directly because she could feel his gaze slicing through the glass and across the store, landing on her. Her skin crawled, and she pretended to examine a magazine. 'Lose Ten Pounds in Ten Days,' it said. She slid her eyes off the glossy cover and back toward the man, searching for his dark shape, but the space stood empty.

  "Next, please, next, please." The irritated voice of the cashier broke into Abby's thoughts, and she jerked her head around. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with soft pools of skin beneath her eyes, glared at Abby and waved impatiently.

  Abby heaved her basket onto the belt and scuttled forward, shooting a final glance behind her at the empty aisle where the man had stood. She wondered if the figure was simply an ordinary patron picking up a pizza. She shook her head, "no," at the thought; she had felt his eyes on her. "Like someone walking over your grave," Sydney used to say, when Abby got the chills. The thought made her shudder anew. Had Devin noticed chills in recent weeks as people traipsed through the woods, carelessly stomping, where her body would lie?