The Uninvited

by F. P. Dorchak

  Fisher was led through the detention center’s entrance, and taken directly into the rear of the jail, to Ronda Ettbauer’s cell.

  “This is Ronda Ettbauer,” the uniformed officer informed, unlocking the cell door. “Take a peek.” The officer stood back, a look of amused amazement on his face.

  Fisher looked to the officer, then entered the cell.

  Covering every inch of wall, floor—and most of the ceiling—were creepily written characters Fisher had never seen before. Drawings. In black permanent marker.

  Thousands of them.

  * * *

  Kacey and Sheila were seated at their table in the restaurant facing Pine Island Sound. Kacey wore her mysterious ring up against her wedding band.

  “I can’t believe we’ve had the same images. This is... I don’t know what this is.”

  Sheila settled in across from her. “I know. I knew I felt something about you when we met, but this... this is incredible. Surreal. Made-for-TV.”

  “Do you think it really means anything?” Kacey asked, “you know, like we’re really twins, separated at birth kinda thing?”

  Sheila shook her head. “I doubt it—and hope not; don’t want to add ‘incestuous’ to my list of qualities,” she said, smirking. “What I’m wondering is if all this—the ring, those murders, us—are all tied together in some crazy metaphysical knot. There’s just a strange feeling about it. Don’t you feel it?”

  Kacey nodded.

  “It wasn’t until those murders that I began having those weird dreams... those nasty nightmares. And there was meeting you, and all my guilt—”

  “I knooow,” Sheila said, touching her hand, gently. “You don’t have to go into it. But I really feel there’s something beaucoup strange going on, here. I don’t usually have weird things like this happen to me, I just report and produce them. And your dreams... they’re so vicious.”

  The two sat silently.

  “I’m glad you told me about them, though,” Sheila added, “but I’m sorry I’ve been so nasty in them.”

  “Oh, it has nothing to do with you, I’m sure—”

  “I’m not so sure,” Sheila said, “I believe that when we dream of another there’s an unconscious acceptance on the part of the person we’re dreaming about. At least that’s what I’ve been told by some of my more enlightened friends. Of course, it could also just be some Freudian or Jungian imagery on your part, as well. I mean, really, who knows?”

  Kacey looked to her.

  “We did a piece on dreams and dreaming a year or two ago. Anyway, why I’ve chosen to take on such vicious symbolism—because that’s what I believe it really is, not literal, just symbolic—I can’t explain. Unless our mutual desert images are somehow involved. And who knows—with all this violence and research on violence you’ve been immersed in, it might just be as simple as an unconscious projection, or whatever the official term is.”

  Kacey again nodded.

  “But how does this ring have any meaning to me? To you? I mean, I just happened upon it on the Interstate—it might even have been there long before Jack and Hedda even found their way there. If I hadn’t been there—if the paper hadn’t even hired me—I wouldn’t have been there—”

  “But you were, and that’s the key. The paper did hire you, we did meet, and you did find it. See what I mean? There’s a certain synchronicity to everything. A serendipity. Things like this—I really believe—just don’t happen for no reason. It’s too weak an argument for such an incredible array of circumstances.

  “Could I see the ring again, please?”

  Kacey handed it over to Sheila, who took her hand first, tenderly examining it, then the ring. Kacey again found herself excited by the warmth of Sheila’s touch. What was it about her and her touch that no other woman had so similarly effected? Were they linked? Were they—

  “Oh, my God,” Kacey suddenly blurted.

  Sheila looked up, still holding her hand.

  “What if—and I don’t know that I necessarily dismiss the idea entirely—but what if,” Kacey said, looking to Sheila, and focusing in on her deep, dark, eyes, “we both really are tied through some past life?”

  A server appeared at their table, depositing water and iced tea. Kacey and Sheila released their hands, smiling uneasily to the server.

  “Need more time?” the server, a grinning pimply twenty-year-old asked.

  “Yes, please,” Sheila answered. The server departed.

  “I can’t believe I actually said that,” Kacey said, looking away, embarrassed.

  “That could explain the shared images,” Sheila said. “I mean, I always feel a sense of deep, all-pervading nostalgia while around you. I didn’t want to say anything for fear of further weirding you out, but I’ve wondered the same thing. When I first met you... there was a deep—unaccountable—sense we’d met before... or knew each other from somewhere.”

  “Well, since you brought up the dream stuff, and all, I just made the leap. I mean, I’ve also thought about past lives, but there’s no real proof about that sort of thing, is there?”

  “We haven’t done a piece on past lives,” Sheila said, sitting back in her chair, “but I’ve heard and read the intelligence. Drs. Ian Stevenson and Jim Tucker. Big names. Peter Ramster. Science frowns upon it of course, but I kinda feel that if there’s all this overwhelming circumstantial evidence—everybody’s talking about it, even if they say they don’t believe in it—then there’s got to be something to it. I mean, how do you explain people swearing they’ve been places they haven’t been before—in this life? Or the feeling we blithely dismiss as ‘déjà vu’? And anyone interested in this stuff knows about that English lady who went so far as to travel to Ireland to actually put her nagging questions to the test... to find out if she’d actually lived before in that coastal town—then actually found the remaining members of her children from that life.”

  “No way!”

  “She actually found them, Kacey, told them stuff only a mother—their mother—could have known. How do you explain that? There’s got to be something to it. Maybe you—me—we’re all tied to this image we keep seeing. Of those men chasing off that other one, leaving that woman behind to be captured. Maybe —”

  “Here comes the server again—I think we better order,” Kacey said, and opened her menu.

  * * *

  “This is just goddamned weird—hey, get off those things!” Fisher shouted to an officer who started walking over what Ronda had written all over the floor. “Throw some plastic over this stuff—I don’t want any of it messed up—and get Pam in here, with her camera.”

  “Sorry.” The officer nodded. “I’ll get right on it.”

  “Then get me a linguistics expert—pronto.”

  The officer again nodded and left the cell.

  Fisher looked to Ronda, as she stood quietly in the corner on the other side of the cell, staring at the floor. She grasped a worn permanent marker in a still-twitching hand.

  “What is this stuff? Arabic?”

  Ronda said nothing; didn’t look up.

  “You know what it means?”

  The uniformed officer returned with some large sheets of folded-up plastic and a couple other cops.

  Ronda shook her head.

  “You don’t know what this means?”

  “I just write it. It fills my head... until I let it out.”

  “Is it filling your head now?”

  Ronda shook her head. “No... but it’ll be back.”

  Fisher motioned for the cops to position the plastic over Ronda’s strange script on the floor.

  “It will?”

  “It’s not done.”

  “It’s not? Well, how about you trade me your markers for pen and paper, instead?”

  Ronda looked up to him as Fisher held out his hand. Fisher gently removed the marker from Ronda’s cold, clammy hand.

  “It’s not over,” she said, “it’s never... ever... over.”

  * * *
>
  Mark had rushed home as quickly as possible. While hurriedly setting up Emily for her feeding, he played with the DVR remote and recording menu to find his recording of the past ten hours of HLN. As much as he was expecting to see his wife, he was still shocked to actually see her. Hear her, there, on television. He paused in mid-feeding, hitting the remote’s “Pause.” He stared at Kacey’s image. She sat among the rest of the onlookers, beside a stunning

  (beautiful mommies)

  brunette. They seemed to know each other. It took Emily’s wailing to bring Mark back to reality, and realize his pulverized squash had dripped onto the feeding tray instead of making it into Emily’s beckoning, hungry little bird-like orifice.

  “Oh—sorry, Buckaroo,” he said, cleaning up and shoveling a couple quick spoonfuls into her mouth. He turned back to the screen, still paused. “There’s your mommy, honey. There she is. Big as life. On TV.”

  Emily flailed her hands about some more, and tried to say words that vaguely amounted to “ma-ma.” Mark faced her, and something knotted in his stomach.

  Mommy.

  He lowered the spoon and stared at his precious little angel who was busy trying to smear more pulverized squash all over her mouth, again from the feeding tray.

  “Oh, my God... you don’t even know how to say your own mother’s name.”

  Mark stared at Emily as if truly seeing her for the first time. My God, he thought, what has become of us? How dare we bring another life into this world and not have her know how to call out her own mother’s name!

  More pounding by Emily on the feeding tray again broke Mark’s train of thought. No more leaving messages. He had to get them back together. Even if she hadn’t wanted to be found, she had been... it had to have happened for a reason. And he was going to find out that reason, so help them.

  * * *

  Kacey returned to her hotel room without Sheila. As much as she enjoyed her company and the day they’d had, she really needed to be alone for the night... and neither of them had felt up to driving back to Sunset Harbor. Sheila’s hotel room was on the first floor, while hers was on the second. Kacey collapsed on the queen-sized bed and closed her eyes.

  What was she doing?

  It was bad enough she still wasn’t sure what she wanted to do about Mark and Emily, but to intentionally complicate matters with another relationship... that was a recipe for disaster. Everyone knew the Golden Rule: stay out of relationships for at least a year after divorces—but even that was for divorces. She still wasn’t sure that was what was in the cards for her and Mark. Though they might be separated (if Mark hadn’t served up any papers, that is), they weren’t divorced. Not yet. Not officially. There was still a chance for reconciliation—

  And just why had she left, anyway? She seemed to have forgotten... was it something about dirty diapers? Feeling closed in? A loss of identity?

  And did any of that matter anymore?

  There were people getting murdered in their sleep, and she was worried about changing diapers and being called a—

  Kacey bolt upright.

  Mommy!

  Did Emily even know the word? The term? The emotion?

  Mommy...

  Had Mark taught her—

  Mommy!

  How would she call out to her if she ever returned?

  “Oh, what have I done....”

  Kacey got back to her feet, closed her eyes, and placed a hand to her head. She stood that way for a moment, then opened her eyes. She kicked off her shoes and stripped down, making her way to the bathroom. Putting on her robe, she stared at herself in the mirror.

  What had she become?

  Was she the same person she’d been a year and a half ago? Could she, really, ever have any kind of a relationship with Sheila? Would Mark take her back? Would Emily?

  She lowered her head in resignation and cried.

  * * *

  Kacey turned on the TV for company and opened her planner. Dialing her newsroom number, she entered her code, and began to take down her list of messages... when she came to Mark’s first message. Her heart stopped. It felt as if her blood had actually reversed in its tracks. Nearly dropped the phone. She’d only heard one word from him, when she’d tried to call him that one time, but now, to hear full sentences... she’d thought she’d forgotten what his voice sounded like.

  It was all still there, baby... the emotion, the love... the concern.

  His voice flat-out bowled her over, there was no question about that. It was even a good message... not too much emotion, just a “hello, I know where you are” message, and it tugged at her heart. But it was the next one that pissed her off.

  He was coming to see her, he’d said.

  No!

  All her longing and confusion went out the window—how dare he! Didn’t he get her letter?

  Of course not, she’d just mailed it.

  Damn him! No... this couldn’t be... she wasn’t ready!

  Son of a bitch.

  Kacey slammed down the phone and shot to her feet. He simply couldn’t do this... he had to stay where he was—let her come to him. This couldn’t be forced... he had to allow her her time, he—

  Kacey went back for the phone. Dialed the outside line, then the number that would take her back a million years to her previous life... her life with Mark and Emily and diapers and full-on motherhood and responsibilities. She closed her eyes, trying to calm herself—spewing to him at full-tilt wasn’t going to do anyone any good—but he had to be told to back off. He had to let her make up her mind, and come back when she was ready. Nobody was going to swoop down out of the sky and steal her off and away, again. Nobody. Not ever again, goddammit. Never. She would die first. Die...

  When a sudden scary thought entered her mind: not ever again?

  What “again”?

  And where had all that anger come from?

  4

  Ronda Ettbauer sat naked and huddled in the far corner of her new cell. Her cell mate was a young Mediterranean woman who huddled in a corner opposite to her, silently but emotionally watching her with bloodshot eyes as she calmly, methodically, tore off tiny strips from her orange jumpsuit and lay them out neatly upon her thighs, perfectly spaced and parallel to each other. When Ronda had six narrow strips, she calmly began ripping wider ones, some four-to-six inches in width, and also began setting those calmly and perfectly beside each other on her thighs. Her eyes were wide and pained, and thick tear stains carved down her cheeks. Her mouth was taunt, her chin clenched.

  When she’d gotten what she thought were enough, Ronda carefully set the remains of her jumpsuit on the floor beside her, then picked up some of the smaller strips, rolled them up tightly, very tightly. When the first one was complete, she brought it up to her right ear and carefully, forcefully, screwed it into her ear canal as far as it would go. Then she picked up the next strip and began rolling it up, and when she was done, turned her head and jammed that narrow wad into her left ear. Working her jaw, she managed to clear her ears and force both wads in a few extra centimeters more.

  Satisfied, Ronda then took up a couple of the wider strips and began to roll those into a slightly elongated ball the size of a small tangerine. She looked to it, compressing it a couple time in her hands, then compressed it once more and crammed it in its entirety into her mouth. She gagged at first, feeling immediately panicked, but, Strong Soul that she was, closed her eyes and willed the gag reflex and panic to depart. Her cell mate had jumped when she gagged. Once calmed, Ronda reopened her eyes and tried to inhale through her mouth and found she couldn’t. The Mediterranean woman began to fidget, whimpering and pacing like a frightened dog as she watched Ronda in her corner. She began to cry, trying to hide her face in the corner, but was unable to not watch.

  Again satisfied, Ronda now picked up the narrowest remaining strips and rolled those up into tiny, tight, wads. When she had two of them ready, she carefully inserted them up her right nostril as far as they would go. One right after th
e other. It hurt, but she kept at it. No pain, no gain. Then she picked up the other two strips, and, with her cell mate quietly weeping from her corner, finished the job...

  Chapter Twenty-One

  1

  Tiger sat before the lawyers in the tiny, Spartan, interrogation room. He scratched his bushy heard with fingers that were still not quite clean under the nails, no matter how many times he’d scrubbed them. He sat in his jumpsuit, they in their prim and proper business suits. This was the moment he knew’d been coming. It’d been put off by time, ant attacks, a murder or two, his spa stay in the local hospital, and his jail time, but there would be no more delays. Like his journey here, there was no stopping it. His time on earth would now have a definite end date... a last meal.

  Tiger blankly stared at those before him out of pure, unadulterated exhaustion. He was tired... tired of the nightmares, the images, the constant, constant wind blasting through his consciousness. It had long since become more than just noises in his head. He actually felt the winds and screams in his bones. He just wanted it all over, as quickly as possible. No matter how things were to get screwed around into knots in the court room, he knew what had happened. What he—and all the others—had done. Whether or not anyone could put it into words, or allow themselves to admit, consciously or unconsciously, there was no controlling what had happened. At least not in any way he knew. And with this knowledge came a peace, one that only someone in his position could ever truly understand.

  Tiger gradually tuned back into the men and women sitting before him. How long had they been talking to him?

  “... are you listening to us?” Gordon again asked. “Do you understand what we’re telling you?”

  Tiger looked into Harry’s grim face and set jaw as if he’d just awoken from a deep sleep.

  “I’m not stupid, sir,” Tiger said.

  It took such an effort to talk anymore.

  Gordon looked to Benét and his companions. “Well, that’s good to know. You understand the gravity of your situation? That we’re calling you to the stand? Now would be a real good time to come clean.”