Death Prophets

by Steve Armstrong

  “I don’t think I can love anyone now. It’s nothing personal,” she finally said, after a moment of contemplation.

  “That’s okay. I’m not asking you to,” Matt replied, careful to keep his tone on the lighter side. He figured that would be the end of the conversation, but Grace stayed outside her car, casting her eyes to the Mid-Hudson bridge, lit up against the night sky.

  “I saw Dr. Driscoll, today,” Grace said. “She thinks I’m depressed. She wants to put me on medication.”

  Matt nodded. “I’m no psychiatrist, but that seems about right. You do seem depressed.”

  “I don’t want to go on medication.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it might mess with my head, my feelings, it could have side effects.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t really have one good reason. I’m just scared.”

  Matt scuffed his foot against the pavement. “It’s your decision, but I think you should take the medication.”

  “Have you ever been on medication?”

  “No, but my sister was. It helped her a lot.”

  “Was she depressed?”

  “No, schizophrenic.”

  “Is she better now?”

  Matt gazed at the bridge. “She went off her meds, stopped doing therapy, got into a bad relationship. She took her own life a few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Grace said, her tone remaining constant.

  Matt glanced back at her. “I’m not saying the same thing will happen to you. She was different, had a different condition, but I definitely saw that meds can help. You should try them. Life’s too short to spend it being sad.”

  Grace nodded and sat down in the driver’s seat. Matt stepped toward her and leaned his arms against the roof of her car.

  “This is probably going to sound sketchy, especially after I just said you were pretty, but do you want me to stay with you tonight? I promise it’s nothing fishy; it’s just probably better for you not to be alone. At least, that’s what Richard Anderson said.”

  “No thank you, that’s not necessary,” Grace replied. “It doesn’t matter who I’m with tonight, I’ll still feel alone.”

  “Okay. Well, if you want to talk to someone in the middle of the night, you can call me. I’ll leave my cell phone on.”

  “Thank you.” Grace reached for the door.

  “I mean that. I don’t mind waking up in the middle of the night,” Matt said.

  Grace nodded again and closed the door. She started the car so he stepped back. Matt watched Grace back up and drive off, afraid that maybe he had come on too strong with her. He truly intended both of his offers in a platonic sense but feared Grace might not interpret them that way. It didn’t matter now; what was said was said.

  Matt turned his attention to the two new threads of information that might lead them somewhere new: George Oliver and Jerry Banks. After twenty-five years, the data trail on them had probably gone cold. But perhaps he could find someone who knew them, who could help piece together why these men’s deaths inspired prophetic dreams and what these dreams might mean for Grace Murphy and Jack Walton.

  30

  Matt, Felicia, and John gathered the next morning at the detective’s house for a meeting of the minds. Felicia was the last to arrive. Her tenuous replies to John’s texts and relative tardiness made him worry that her self-recrimination from the previous day had spilled over into the new morning and she didn’t want to participate in the investigation any longer. But when Felicia did walk through the door, she was full of energy.

  “I think I might have a lead on Josh Williams.” She dropped a newspaper dated from a few days earlier on the coffee table in front of John and Matt. “Look at this article.” Felicia pointed to a headline that read, ‘Windfall Man Dies in Freak Accident as Sign Falls on Him’.

  “That’s a weird story, but are we going to attribute every freak accident in an hour radius to Josh Williams?” Matt asked.

  “If you read on, you’ll see the most interesting part,” Felicia said.

  Matt and John looked down at the paper. When John finished reading, he raised his head and stroked his chin. “So the guy who died was arrested for domestic abuse a few days earlier?”

  “Yes, and as we’ve seen, Josh Williams doesn’t like abusers,” Felicia said.

  “Interesting theory, but do we really think Josh Williams might be out there trying to kill all men who get arrested for domestic abuse?” Matt asked.

  Felicia looked at John, who seemed lost in thought. After another moment, John looked up and said, “Williams did say that after he killed Mike and Chris Sullivan that maybe he could use his powers to prevent evil.”

  “I think it makes a lot of sense,” Felicia said.

  “Alright, assuming you’re right, which still seems like a bit of a jump to me, how did Williams find this guy?” Matt asked.

  Felicia stared in concentration at the paper. “Maybe the answer’s right here.” She flipped to the back of the newspaper. “Maybe he read it in the police blotter.”

  “Can you check to see if this guy who was killed was in the blotter?” John asked.

  “Yeah, of course. Give me a minute.” Felicia took out her cell and dialed a number. “Hey Rick, it’s Felicia. Can you check to see if William Hunt from Windfall was in the police blotter a few days ago?” Felicia paused as the man on the other end retrieved the information she sought. “There was. What’d it say? Okay, thanks Rick. She turned her attention back to John and Matt.

  “So there was a report in the blotter. It gave his name and age, but not his exact address. I’m sure Williams could’ve looked that up on the internet.”

  “Well, it’s nice to see people still read the newspaper.” Matt glanced up at his temporary partners. “Okay, so now what? Wait for another guy to show up in the blotter and do a stakeout to see if Williams shows up?”

  John turned toward the reporter. “Felicia, can you keep a lookout for any other people who show up in the blotter arrested for domestic abuse?”

  “Yeah, no problem.”

  “I actually have some more actionable news,” Matt said. “Last night, Grace and I met this man in the city who professed to have the same kind of dreams Grace does, only twenty-five years ago. In one of those dreams, he saw someone who he swears was Dr. Jerry Banks. Now here’s the really interesting part: Banks worked for Stevenson Industries. Banks was killed back in 1989, a few days after Anderson dreamed about him when someone broke into his lab and trashed all of his research.” Matt leaned back and allowed that information to sink in.

  “That’s almost thirty years ago. But it must’ve made the papers. I could go look into our archives and see what I can find,” Felicia said, looking thoughtful.

  “According to Richard Anderson—the man with the dreams—Banks’ killer was never found,” Matt added.

  Felicia sat for the first time since she had entered the house. “What does what happened thirty years ago have to do with Josh Williams or anything else that’s happening now? Where is any of this coming from?” Her tone sounded skeptical rather than curious.

  “See, normally I’d be right there with you asking that question. But considering we have a man who can move objects with his mind and a woman who might be prophetically dreaming about people’s deaths, I’m willing to forego speculation for the moment into the why of all of this,” Matt said.

  “Did Richard Anderson give you the names of any of the other people he dreamt about?” John asked.

  “Yeah, one other: George Oliver. He saw three other people in his dreams besides Banks and Oliver but never bothered to check into them. Said he didn’t want to know.”

  “I can look into George Oliver’s obituary, see if I can find any relevant information,” Felicia volunteered.

  “And I can see if I can track down his wife—if she’s still in the land of the living, that is—or his kids or someone else who might know how he died and if he has any connection to Stevenson Industries, to
o,” Matt said.

  “Do you think Richard Anderson would be willing to help us?” Felicia asked.

  Matt nodded. “Yeah. The guy was torn between not finding out more about the people he dreamt of and finding out the reason for the dreams. So I think he’d be willing to help. Why, what do you have in mind?”

  “Assuming the other people he dreamed about followed the same pattern, they might have lived around here, too. Did he dream about all of these people in the same general time frame?” the reporter asked.

  “Yes, within a month of when the dreams began, I think.”

  “Then we could comb through the other obituaries in the paper and see if he can identify any of the people,” Felicia said.

  Matt waved his finger at her. “I like it. I’ll call him and see if he can make a trip upstate today.”

  John, who had been very quiet during the exchange of new leads, cleared his throat. “There’s something I didn’t tell you guys, yet, something that has to do with Thomas Wilson. Before I was shot, when I was still looking into Ray Browning—the guy who shot Dan and that Pastor last April—an anonymous source led me to Thomas Wilson. Said he knew something about what happened with Browning.”

  “Did you ever find out who the informant was?” Matt asked.

  “No. Whoever it was called from a burner phone. I couldn’t track them down and I never heard from the informant again.”

  “Here’s a crazy idea: could it have been Josh Williams?” Matt asked.

  “No, I don’t think so.” John shook his head “Williams didn’t know anything about Stevenson Industries at that point, at least, as far as we know.”

  “Maybe it was some kind of whistleblower,” Matt said.

  “I’ve considered lots of people; at one point, I thought it might even be you,” John said, nodding toward Felicia. “Or maybe your uncle.”

  “Well, I know it wasn’t me.” Felicia bit down on her lip. “And I doubt it was my uncle; he’s a company man. He’ll never say anything that could hurt Stevenson Industries.”

  “Here’s another crazy idea: what if it was Thomas Wilson? Maybe he saw things at the company he didn’t like, so he led you to him in a way that would make it look like someone else had?” Matt said. “Maybe that’s why you never heard anything more from the source.”

  “Interesting. I suppose that’s possible, if unlikely.”

  “Unlikely? That word doesn’t seem to apply anymore on this case,” Matt said.

  “Let’s hope it wasn’t Thomas Wilson. We’re going to need someone on the inside at Stevenson Industries who’ll talk to us if we’re going to start putting these pieces together,” Felicia said.

  “Anyone you know at Stevenson Industries, Felicia, who might help us or might have been the informant?”

  She shook her head. “No one that I know of.”

  “One more thing about Thomas Wilson. His partner died while they were working on some project for Stevenson Industries in India. Maybe it’s not connected, but it’s something I could try to look deeper into,” John said.

  Felicia stood up. “I’m going to head to the newspaper and start digging.”

  “Wait, before you go, there’s one more thing,” Matt said. “Grace really wants to meet your uncle, Felicia.”

  She frowned. “Why? You told her she was dreaming about my uncle?”

  “Yeah, I did. She just wants to warn him herself. Feels like it’s her responsibility.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Felicia said without hesitation.

  “What’s the harm?” Matt asked.

  “This is for her protection. Either my uncle won’t believe her or he’ll want to question her, and with the stuff Stevenson Industries has been doing lately, I don’t trust him or them.”

  “They never got aggressive in the past, did they? Just with Josh Williams?” John asked, throwing his two cents into the debate.

  “Do you want to take that chance?” Felicia countered.

  “Maybe it will be good for him. If he hears it from her, he might stop going after Williams, or at least think twice about doing so. It’s at least worth a shot,” John said.

  “Come on, Felicia,” Matt said, raising his voice a bit. “This girl has suffered a lot with these dreams. I think it might give her a sense of closure, even if she can’t save him.”

  “Or will it make it worse for her?” Felicia shook her head. “No, it’s a bad idea. Don’t take her anywhere near my uncle.”

  Felicia uttered this last phrase with such ferocity that Matt only managed a tepid, “Okay, whatever you say” in reply.

  After that final debate, the three went their separate ways and pursued whatever new leads they had found. Time was ticking, and they didn’t know how long it would take for Grace’s dream to come crashing into reality.

  31

  Grace sat in her car. She had just stopped by the local pharmacy to have her prescription of Prozac filled and now turned the orangish-brown bottle in her palm. An unopened bottle of water sat in the cup holder on her right and her stomach was full after a larger than average breakfast. Nothing prevented Grace from taking her first dose of Prozac right then and there. But she hesitated.

  Why was this so hard for her? Sure, the potential side effects were unappealing, especially the possibility that this medication could cause her to sleep even less than she was now. But dry mouth, nausea, and even weight gain didn’t frighten her that much. Side effects alone did not explain her reticence to go on medication. The stigma involved with medication and depression? That meant something to her, but she could easily conceal these two new parts of her life from others. Her boss already suspected something was wrong, and the two people—Amy and Matt—who had met her most recently seemed to instantly conclude she was depressed. Besides, Grace had checked the statistics: a lot of people used Prozac or some other kind of antidepressant. She certainly wouldn’t be alone. No, something other than stigma paralyzed her.

  She imagined different people’s voices in her head. First, Grace heard her mother’s voice, pointed and severe. Though she couldn’t be sure, Grace suspected her mom would be against medication. She would admonish her daughter to pull herself up by her bootstraps and push past her current malaise using sheer willpower.

  But other voices bounced around Grace’s mind, like Amy, her brother’s girlfriend. Although Amy hadn’t espoused the benefits of medication, Grace assumed her brother’s girlfriend would support such an action, especially since Amy had suffered from depression, too. Besides, Amy seemed like the kind of person who was always supportive. And Julia Driscoll, in her warm and soothing voice, took an imagined turn advising Grace, detailing the complexities of depression and the need to address the physical aspect of the illness. Matt Harrison made an appearance, too, reminding Grace how much the meds had helped his sister and how disastrous her life became when she dropped them.

  Finally, she heard her father’s voice. At first, this voice devastated her, because it had disappeared from her life and she could only reproduce it through memory or mental extrapolation. But she let it speak nonetheless. “Bug,” he said, “why are you so sad?” Bug was his pet name for her. It evolved from the long form of ‘Ladybug’—a name that Grace’s dark red hair only loosely warranted. When ladybugs stopped being all the rage as she grew older, he shortened it to ‘Bug’.

  Her father was a kind and patient man, though had the tendency to drift emotionally from the family, perhaps pushed away by his own weakness or her mother’s frequent criticism of him. But no matter how distant he grew, a sad look on Grace’s face always drew him out. “Why are you so sad, Bug?” Many times, especially as she hit her teenage years, Grace would tell him nothing was wrong and she wasn’t really sad. Yet even when she refused to disclose the reasons for her sadness, Grace appreciated the fact he noticed and didn’t try to squelch her feelings.

  Why was she so sad? Dr. Driscoll had started to investigate that question. Because Grace’s father had died? Jason wasn’t depresse
d and his father had died, too. No, Jason was as functional as ever or even more so. He had just received a promotion at his job and seemed to possess a really healthy relationship with a pretty, vivacious woman. Lots of people’s fathers died. All people who lived long enough would bury their parents. Most of them didn’t descend into some kind of depression that could only be lifted by consuming powerful chemicals and undergoing intensive psychotherapy. Maybe the answer was simple: Grace was weak. Where most people soldiered on, Grace needed sympathetic glances and kid-glove treatment.

  “I’m weak, Dad,” she whispered, a tear forming in the corner of her eye. “I’m not strong enough.”

  An unintended consequence of Grace’s propensity to conceal her problems from her father was that she didn’t know what he would say to her next. Yes, at various points he had called her smart, beautiful and strong. But did he know her well enough to use these words intelligently? Did he understand the shape of her soul? Or did he just hope that she embodied these words? Who did know Grace well enough to lavish these noble epitaphs on her? She spent most of her days at work or alone and that predated her depression. Of course, some would argue that it didn’t matter what others said about her; what did she believe about herself? But Grace couldn’t answer that question. Whether that was a by-product of her depression or an omnipresent reality for her, she didn’t know.

  One conviction she possessed was that her father wouldn’t want her sad. That last fact, when combined with the imagined encouragement of Amy, Matt, and Dr. Driscoll, propelled her to open the bottle. Grace pressed down and turned the thick white cap and shook out a pill. She stared at the white-green capsule for a moment before tilting back her head and placing the capsule in her mouth. With a swig of spring water, Grace was officially medicated. Maybe one day soon she would be able to answer the question of who she was.

  32

  Felicia settled into her desk at the Poughkeepsie Journal. It was eleven in the morning and most other staffers at the paper were too engrossed in their own projects to care much about what she was doing. Her hair was still wet and her body was sore from another morning workout. For years, Felicia had consistently exercised at a local Pilates and Kickboxing studio, mainly for aesthetic and health reasons. But now, after the events at 13 Prospect Street, her workouts had become more like training sessions that prepared her for some looming, undetermined conflict.