“I’ll say,” Harry said, absentmindedly, as he flipped through an “Important—Rush” folder on his desk. “And you say that you’ve never heard of anything like this before?”
Ofo again chuckled. “Are you kidding? Never. I mean, this is history, the Mongolian Holy Grail we’re talking, here. Little is known of their daily life, really, their spirituality or shamanhood—it’s not like they wrote all this stuff down—or if they did, we haven’t found it. They were a nomadic, warrior clan—or clans—they weren’t into diaries; it was the succeeding generations that wrote all this stuff down—”
“Thank you, Doctor, you’ve been most informative... insightful.”
“My pleasure. Um, can I... do I have your permission to use any of this? Publish it, I mean—my findings?”
“For that you’ll have to get back with us after the trial, since it’s currently evidence—but I don’t see any problems once we’re done.”
“Thank you... you have no idea how important this is to Mongolian scholars like myself. It’s literally like she’d actually lived that life, then came back to tell us about it. I can’t find enough adjectives to describe this find. Thank you.”
“Thank you, professor. I wish you all the best.”
“Good bye.”
“Bye, professor.”
Harry hung up.
Mongolians?
What the hell had this to do with the murders? Ronda Ettbauer? Harry pushed aside the paper on his desk, and grabbed Ronda’s folder; flipped it open. Scanning her fact sheets, he found absolutely no mention of any data indicating familial mental illness—though her parents were a bit on the strict, religious, side. And she also had no knowledge of Chinese, ancient, Mongolian, or otherwise. She was an elementary school teacher, that was all. No Asian specialization of any kind. Zip. Yet... here she was, caught red-handed at a crime scene with a handful of others, most of whom were awaiting a trial’s outcome to forever determine how the rest of their lives would be spent. She’d been the lucky one. The others would more than likely spend their remaining life behind bars. He doubted the death penalty would be imposed... but one could always hope...
And where the hell had her words come from? How had she been able to write in “Oygur,” or whatever it was the professor had called it?
2
Kacey entered her apartment, soaking in the air-conditioning after a humid, muggy day outside. Though it felt great to be back, her return ride with Sheila had largely been a silent, uncomfortable one. The trial had put a new spin on things... a new perspective... and it shook her world. She realized that not all things were nice and good for others. Intellectually, she’d supposed she’d always known this, but now she’d seen firsthand just how nasty other lives have had it. Her life had been pretty good... except for deserting Mark and Emily, that is. She never realized just how great she’d had it until hearing all the gruesome testimony and detail. It seemed different when it was all written down on paper, in her articles, but when it was vocalized—actually spoken into the air and hit the old tympanic membranes—it seemed to take on a much more intense, personal impact she found hard to deal with.
And she’d been holding hands with a woman.
This had to stop—all of it—and she had to get back to reality. Maybe that’s why she’d been having the nightmares... it had all been unconsciously stewing around inside, and she’d been too busy, too... misdirected... to deal with any of it.
Sheila... was a great woman, and she’d had a great time with her, but she wasn’t for her. Journalism was a fun, exciting life... but she missed her family. Maybe this was what she needed. Time alone. She picked up drafts of articles and glanced over them. Such nasty details. Murders. The Hockers. She glanced out the window toward her beat-up car, the driver’s-side window still covered in plastic mat and duct tape; looked to the clock. There was still time.
Still... time...
Putting down the papers, she pulled out a phonebook and looked for a mobile windshield repair company. Finding one, she made an appointment—for today. Those murdered were unable to do things like this, just like the suspects. Yes, she had it pretty darned good. Do what she wanted, when she wanted. She sat down and closed her eyes, laying her head back against the couch-back and wall.
Still time...
The ring
Always on her mind. There was just something about it... she knew it... and somehow, Sheila and her were tied to it... but how was that even a remote possibili...
Chim-a acha ghuyu, minu tölüge yabughad ögügechi!
Kacey bolt upright. Two people... attacked on a barren steppeland...
Odu, yag odu yabu, busighu!
The images hit swift and powerfully... a woman’s pleas... dire peril...
She grabbed the couch; her heart raced.
Tede chim-a yi alakhu bar jabduju baiina. Chi odu yabu, türgen yabu! Tede nar masi olaghula baiin-a. Chim-a acha ghuyu, minu tölüge yabughad ögügechi!
As Kacey, the vision blasted through her like a divine wind, she once again found herself understanding the strange language.
... as long as there is a sun and the wind, I will be with you, but if you stand to fight them, you will surely be killed! Now, go, my love! Go!
Kacey stood, but swooned, overtaken by an overwhelming flood of imagery... of a far-off land swept by wind. Instead of her apartment, she sat in a crude wagon—actually a smaller cart—a man on horseback beside her. She wasn’t just viewing this—she was... she was... there; was the woman. They were young, bundled in nomadic clothing, the both of them. Off in the distance she spotted three men on horseback racing toward them. There was an incredible sense of urgency—fear—and she knew her new husband would be killed.
Go! Kacey urged with all her heart and soul, you must leave! As long as we both shall live, there is a chance we shall again meet! Here, take my shirt! she said, pulling it off, take this! Remember me—my scent! Now go, my love! Quickly!
Kacey-as-nomad watched her new husband speed off toward the distant hills without her, felt her heart leap into her throat. She looked back to the attacking riders. When she thought her husband should now live, survive the attack, she felt a kernel of joy... but should she kill herself or allow herself to be taken?
She had pledged her vow to her husband on the promise that they should meet again, and had to honor that vow.
The riders were upon her amid a flurry of thundering hooves and dust, one immediately ripping the reins to their
(my love!)
cart from her hands. Of the other two, one positioned before her, and the other on the other side of the cart. No one said a word, though Kacey felt as if she were, again, living a nightmare—but she knew this was real. Real life. It was no dream... it was reality.
As all four rode on, the bleakness of her situation impressed upon Kacey an incredible, unspeakable despair. The nomad that she now was burst into the most grievous howl. Wailing, she cried, “My husband has never turned his back in dishonor, nor run from battle, yet you had made me send him away on my honor! He will find you and send you back to before you were born! We will be together!”
One of the men riding beside her sharply backhanded her.
“You are ours, now,” he commanded, “your husband is no more! We will cut him up into little pieces and feed him to you if you ever speak of him again—or he comes riding into our tents! No more of this!
* * *
Kacey came to as the doorbell turned into a manual rapping at the door.
“Hello! Harbor Glass and Mirror! Hello?”
Kacey shot to instant wakefulness and immediately darted for the door.
“I’m so sorry,” she apologized, opening it and swiping away lose hair from her face. Rubbing her eyes, she said, “I dozed off.”
The Harbor Glass guy smiled. “No problem, ma’am. I just got here. Didn’t know if the doorbell worked. You called for a car window replacement?”
“Yes. You probably already saw it’s the one with t
he plastic mat for a driver-side window?”
“I did,” he said, smiling.
“Need me?”
“Nope. I’ll get back to ya when I’m done.” The man scribbled something on his clipboard and departed.
Kacey closed the door and sat back on the couch, staring at the ring.
... as long as there is a sun and the wind...
She held it up against her wedding band.
She’d made a mistake. A huge one. It was time to grow up, sister, move on. Make a decision one way or the other and quit leading others on. Screwing up other lives.
Kacey grabbed the cordless and dialed a number from a piece of paper in her pocket. No one picked up, but the voice mail for the room did kick in.
“Sheila... this is Kacey. I don’t quite know how to say this, so I’m glad you’re not there. It makes this that much easier, though I probably don’t deserve it. Look, I’m getting my car fixed, so I’m gonna drive down Friday by myself. I think... I think we need to stop seeing each other. I know you won’t believe me, but it’s really nothing against you. I hope you understand... someday. I have to get things back in order, and I can’t do that with you there. I’m sorry... I’m not mad, really I’m not, and I treasure the time we’ve had together, but I just need to do this, need to be by myself. Get back into who and what I am—only better—you know? Please, don’t take this personally—you’re a wonderful... beautiful... person. But I have to be alone. Thank you for helping me, I really mean that... for being there. Both times. You don’t know how important you’ve been—and are—to me. Or maybe you do....”
Kacey reverently replaced the phone back into its cradle. She sat back down at her table and dumped her head into her hands, feeling more alone than when everything first happened.
As long as there is the sun and the wind, I will be with you...
3
Prosecutor Harry Gordon, sporting an upset stomach, approached Tiger, who sat relaxed but nervous in the witness box. Tiger’s hair was neatly combed and detangled, his beard cleaned up but not shaved, and he wore a meager, powder-blue, state-provided dress shirt, neutral trousers, dress shoes, and a tie. Harry bet he hadn’t looked this good in years. As he approached the stand, though, Harry slipped on what seemed to be sand. He paused, momentarily dizzy... off balance.
Sea-sick, if he hadn’t known any better.
He cast a slightly surprised look to where he’d slipped. Regaining his composure, he continued.
“Tiger... are we to understand that to be your real name?”
Tiger looked to Harry, then the jury, and nodded. “It is.”
Winds gently rustled in Tiger’s head.
“Can you tell us where you were in the early morning hours of March 10, just after one a.m.?”
Tiger shifted nervously in his seat. “I was walking down a road—”
“Tamiami Trial Boulevard?”
Tiger blinked, wincing. “I don’t know the name... it’s just a street, a road, like any other.”
“So, you were walking down this road...”
Tiger again winced. “I was, ah, walking, as I said... not knowing where I was going, or why... just... walking. It was warm... and the ants... the ants were hungry.”
“Ants?”
“They just kept coming... attacking me... wouldn’t leave me alone.”
“What’d you do?”
“Kept walking. It was all I could do. Nothing else mattered.”
“Where’d you come from?”
“Up north... somewhere.”
“You don’t remember where you came from? Where you were born? Please, sir—”
Tiger shook his head.
“Okay... we’ve established you walked in to Safe Harbor from parts unknown. You do know that was where we found you?”
Tiger shrugged. “If you say so.”
Gordon scoffed. “I say so. That’s where we found you with the others—”
“Objection!” Benét sounded. “There has been no basis for tying this man to the rest of the suspects!”
“Your Honor,” Gordon interjected, “that’s precisely what I’m attempting to do. He was arrested with the other suspects, in the same location, doing the exact same thing as everyone else we apprehended there.”
“Overruled,” Stoker said.
“We picked you up along with the others, in the Safe Harbor Retirement Community, in Sunset Harbor, Florida, on the night of March 10th, at about two in the morning. You, along with everyone else, were found knee-deep in an apparent murder spree that left an entire retirement community dead. Now, we ask, why, sir, were you there? What was your purpose?”
Tiger blinked, the noise in his head partially drowning out Gordon’s words. Tiger’s words came out measured and pained.
“I... don’t... know. I really... don’t. All I know is what you tell me. I have no memory or knowledge of any of this. I don’t even know these people—”
“You don’t know the people you were there with?”
“I don’t know any of them.”
“You acted solely on your own?”
Tiger flinched, turned his head slightly.
“Are you all right?” Stoker asked.
“I have... headaches.”
“Are you having one now?” Stoker asked.
“Yes.”
“Bailiff—please get the defendant aspirin and water,” Stoker directed.
“Thank you,” Tiger said, nodding to the judge.
“Tiger, I repeat the question,” Harry said, “are you saying you acted on your own?”
“I’m saying I don’t know what I did, how I did it, nor why.”
Frustrated, Harry turned to the judge and threw his hands into the air. “No further questions.”
“Miss Benét?” Stoker asked.
D.A. Benét approached the witness stand.
“Tiger... were you read your rights?”
A Bailiff brought Tiger Excedrin and water.
“Yes.”
Tiger took the pills and drank deeply of the water, eyeing it uneasily as it went down.
“Did anyone test you once you were incarcerated, use the term ‘fit’ to stand trial?”
“Yes... I talked with that psychiatrist.”
“You mean psychologist?”
“Whomever.”
Benét nodded, eyeing him. She turned away from the witness, a thoughtful hand to her chin; looked back to him.
“Sir, did you plan to murder those people—whether or not you remember the actual act? To your conscious mind—now—at this very moment, did you ever plan, or otherwise consciously intend to harm, the residents of the Safe Harbor Retirement Community?”
Tiger shook his head, “No, ma’am, I did not.”
“To your current, conscious state of mind, did you know those you were arrested with, or are part of a group, cult, or otherwise, whose intention it was to murder or otherwise harm those people at that retirement home?”
“No, ma’am. No.” Tiger fidgeted inside the witness stand.
“Did you know, or in any way were you associated or have contact with, at any time in your life, those you are being accused of murdering?”
Before Tiger could answer, however, the sounds in his head again ratcheted up in volume, and he yelped out in pain. Brought a hand to his head.
“Sir? Are you all right?” Stoker again queried.
“I... uh... oh, God....”
Benét looked uncertainly to Stoker and the jury, but not Gordon. “Please, sir, I need your answer.”
“No, I do not know those people!”
“Are you sure you don’t? Think, hard, sir, to both of those questions. Or do you answer to another name of... Wallace T. Bryce?”
* * *
Kacey sat on the other side of the public gallery from Sheila, Banner, and the rest of the group she’d been sitting with up to this point. She set her notepad on the bench, beside her, brushing away stray grains of sand. She looked up to find Sheila staring at he
r and tried to look busy taking notes. Most of the time Sheila quickly looked away, but once or twice she held her gaze. She was sure there were tears—restrained emotion—in her eyes, on her face, but tried not to think about it. It had to be this way. She had no choice. She really wasn’t interested in her that way, she knew that now.
And there was a strange atmosphere to the day, the trial.
Things felt... thicker. Heavier.
Not so much in an oppressive way, but in a... an expectant?... way. She pulled out her ChapStick and applied some to her lips... when it dawned on her this was the first time she’d used the stuff since moving here (though always continued to carry it). And that was the other thing... it felt surprisingly dry in the courtroom.
Since when was any location in Florida dry?
Searching in her purse, she found an old tube of lotion and applied some. As Kacey returned the lotion to her purse, she moved her head to one side somewhat quicker than normal and grew dizzy.
What was wrong with her?
She felt decidedly beside herself. Something was different about today, peculiar, and it felt as if it was quickly becoming... weirder.
Kacey looked down to her hand. To the two rings she wore. Stared at them. Her vision blurred, and she thought... just for a moment... she saw two hands where there should only be one. She tried to shake it off, shook her hand, and tried to concentrate back on the trial.
There seemed a definite shift in the tone of the court proceedings. Kacey picked up her notepad. Heard a high-pitched ringing way in the back of her head, almost unimaginably so. She scribbled a note or two, still trying to shake off her blurriness, and, now, this internal ringing. When all this was over, she was going to need some serious recuperation time, then thought...
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