by Zoey Derrick
“Light and darkness all at once,” she used to say. Shane was born on the same day that my great-grandfather died.
Then my little brother, Ronin, came along. He was born with bright red hair and a pattern of freckles that formed a star under his right eye. This, too, the old woman had foretold.
Victoria’s prophecy was the spookiest. The old woman had told my mother that they would have “a daughter of four,” meaning fourth, and that she would be “frail and sickly, too”, or something like that. When Victoria was born, she didn't leave the hospital until she was nearly six months old. I suppose some part of me expected that she’d die young, but of my whole family, Victoria and I are the only ones still living.
Though in Victoria’s case, alive might be a better term. She resides in a state hospital in upstate New York -- one of the best. I wouldn't have it any other way. But I’m not sure she’s really living in the sense of having a life of her own.
My prophecy went something like: "Alone he'll be, a wealth of three, a wife she'll be." There was a poem, too, but that’s all that I really remember.
The prophecy, if it can be called that, alluded to a heart shape on her. It wasn’t until we were in the hospital and Dr. Alston was getting ready to do the ultrasound that I saw it. There, over her right hip is that heart-shaped mark.
I only wish there was someone that I could talk to about all of this as it seems to slowly becoming reality.
Four
Thoughts of Vivienne bring me back to the reason I came in here in the first place.
Shaking my head of those thoughts, I turn to the computer; pull up Safari and type in Rebecca Black. There are a lot of women with that name, but none of the entries are recent.
I search instead for local crime reports from the last two days and find a Star Tribune Online article about a girl who was brutally murdered in South Minneapolis. Victim still unidentified.
My stomach turns, and the shivering sensations on my back intensify briefly. I peruse the rest of the article. The information it contains is weak and provides me with no real concrete proof that it has to do with the Rebecca Black the cops asked about. Though the location suggests it could be.
I go back to Google and search for Riley Bennett. These results seem more promising, and within a matter of minutes I discover a connection I no longer like -- a business relationship that will soon be severed. Riley Bennett is the son of Elton Bennett, CEO of Bennett and Lisbon Enterprises, a company that I do business with on a regular basis.
No longer. I will not stand side by side with a man that bails his kid out of jail after that kid viciously beats a girl for being pregnant with his child.
I grab my BlackBerry, pull up a contact and press send.
"Good evening, Mr. Blake. To what do I owe this pleasure?"
"Hi, Jack. I need you to put your research skills to work. Are you ready?"
"Absolutely. Fire away."
Not only will I sever my ties to Bennett and Lisbon, but I will bring Elton down in a fiery inferno. I'm not generally this vindictive, but damn it, this is Viv we’re talking about.
When I’m done talking to Jack, I head for the bedroom and a shower. My back is starting to itch. That's odd. I try to scratch it, but its right in the middle of my back where I can't reach.
As my feet hit the bedroom carpet, I start shedding clothes, first unbuttoning the shirt and letting it slip from my shoulders onto the floor. Then off come the belt, pants and socks. Finally my boxer briefs hit the bathroom floor.
As I reach into the shower to turn the knob, something catches the corner of my eye.
I turn quickly but see nothing. It must be the stress. Maybe I’m even a little freaked out by the fact that Riley has been freed, and he’s wormed his way into my unconscious mind.
I turn again and it's back. This time I turn slowly, hoping to catch sight of whatever it is. For a moment I see it in the mirror, faint before it disappears again. I turn my body so that my back is facing the mirror. I'm looking over my shoulder, and in an instant the old lady's words come flooding back to me.
An angel is he
Alone in this world
With the wealth of three
He'll meet his true love
Answering her song
His wings he will grow
His heart will respond
Him she will follow
His wife she will be
Two joined making three.
Jesus, I’m losing it, I swear to God. I’m seeing things, and now, all of sudden after twenty years that old lady’s words come back to me.
Is it even possible that I am an angel? I thought angels were born of those that die and earn their right as angels. How is it that I’m walking this earth and can be an angel? ‘Cause that makes a lot of sense, doesn’t it?
Vivienne. How on earth does she fit into all of this? The heart on her hip, the birthmark. The need I feel of being around her.
What if all this is really coming true?
Five
My body is burning. The hum I’ve been experiencing of late has begun to burn across my entire body.
Opening my eyes, I look at the clock. Eight. I get up quickly, hoping that moving around will soothe the burning feeling, but it doesn’t.
Last night’s realization that something is changing in my body comes flooding back to me.
I’d never taken my family’s story as anything more than gibberish until now. The story tells, in some mixed-up way, that I’m supposed to become an angel.
An angel is he...
I shake my head. Jesus, I’m losing it.
“I’m hardly pure enough to be an angel,” I mutter as I shed the t-shirt I slept in and exchange it for a light gray undershirt and a gray button up dress shirt. I pull on my favorite pair of faded Wrangler jeans and slip on black socks and my black boots.
Every time I’ve seen Vivienne so far, I’ve been dressed in a suit. Not my usual attire unless I’m at the office, and I’m hoping that my normal, everyday clothes will be a little more appealing and less intimidating to her.
In case I make it to the office, I grab the hanger with a black dress shirt, black slacks and my silver tie.
As I leave my walk-in closet I sigh. “If only I had some answers,” I say out loud to no one, and my skin vibrates, hard and hot. I stumble. “Ow.” But just as quickly as it came on, it’s gone. “This is getting ridiculous.”
I march out of my room, irritated that I don’t understand what is going on with me. I doubt it’s something a doctor could help me with; I’m left to my own resources to try and figure this out.
I step into the kitchen to find Celeste, my housekeeper, is there. I hired Celeste about a year ago. She’s a plump little thing, standing at about five feet tall. She has stark blonde hair – no doubt from a box – and baby blue eyes and is not at all unattractive. She’s in her mid to late thirties and insists she loves her job. Despite my offer to let her live in one of my condos in this building, she doesn’t. She’d rather live at her boyfriend’s place.
“Good morning, Celeste.”
“Good morning, sir. Breakfast?”
“Please. The usual.”
“Coming right up,” she says as she gets to work.
“I’ll be in my office.”
She nods and goes about my breakfast.
As I walk toward my office, I take a look around my condo, wondering idly if it is something Vivienne would enjoy or feel comfortable in.
The shades are open, and light is flooding into the dining and living rooms. The floor is a beautiful walnut hardwood with a dark, glossy finish. My walls are painted a neutral tan, and the furniture is an eclectic mix of modern sofas and high-backed chairs. It’s quite stuffy and formal, if you want the truth of it. But I don’t spend mountains of time in the living and dining rooms.
When I’m home, I’m usually in my office, working, my bedroom, sleeping, or my entertainment room, which from here is behind the kitchen.
&nbs
p; I reach my office door at the far end of the long, rectangular living room, I turn back towards the kitchen again and there is a sudden image shift of a little girl making a figure eight on a big wheel. I smile at the thought and open the door.
The flooring changes from wood to black slate, an after-market modification to accompany the bleached white walls. My desk, to the right of the door, is contemporary: black with silver accents and white drawers. The drawers are out to the sides and the top of the desk only sits on the corner of the cabinets. The front is held up by a single leg, and the overall appearance is that it’s floating.
When I wake up the computer, I find two emails from Jack. The first one lets me know they’ve tapped into some information and that he wants to meet with me later today once they have something a little more concrete. The next contains a single image. A photo taken by one of the Capella Towers security cameras last night at about two in the morning. In the image I can see Elton and a younger gentleman. “Hello, Riley.”
I pick up the card Detective Stevens left when he was here last night and forward the image to his email address with the note, Taken Friday morning around 2 a.m. outside of Capella Towers.
“Here you are, sir.” Celeste comes into my office carrying a tray.
“Thanks, Celeste.”
She sets it down on the desk and departs.
I plow through my food and grab my jacket on the way out. I’m hoping to catch Vivienne leaving her apartment this morning on her way to the hospital for her appointment. My intention for being there is so that she can see me and know that I knew about her appointment. It will either irritate the crap out of her or warm her up to talking to me at the hospital. The only reason I’m going is to see her, and I don’t care if she knows that or not.
Six
By the time I arrive at the corner of Lake Street and Chicago, my back is on fire once again. There is a cab parked right outside the entrance to her apartment. Good – maybe she called a cab to take her to the hospital. If not, she has about five minutes to catch the bus if she’s going to make it to the hospital on time.
I park in my usual spot and watch. I look for the police cruiser Red told me about and see it parked less than a block away.
The bus that she should have been on comes and goes, and the cab remains. It’s chilly out this morning; a plume of exhaust smoke billows out of the cab’s tailpipe.
My phone rings. It’s Jack.
“Blake.”
“Hi, Mikah. Listen, I have something I need you to see.”
“Like?”
“Well you dropped a couple of names on me last night. Rebecca Black for one. She was found dead Thursday morning by the dumpster of a motel near Vivienne’s that’s well-known for prostitution and drug use.”
“Was she a drug addict?”
“We don’t know that yet, but that’s not what’s important.”
“What is?”
“The gentleman in the picture I sent you is Riley Bennett.”
“I figured. I forwarded it to Detective Stevens this morning.” I’m getting a little annoyed that he’s not getting to the point. And why the hell hasn’t Vivienne come out yet?
“We have video evidence that we need to submit to the police. We have a video of Riley Bennett dumping Rebecca Black’s body. Then he appears to inject something into her arm. After he leaves the scene, she moves and twitches a bit, then falls still.”
“Fuck!” I spat out. “Can we send it to Detective Stevens?”
“We’re working on that. The source of the video is unclear. We’re not sure if it’s a legal recording. I have a couple of guys on their way over there to find out. If it is a legal recording, we will turn it over anonymously.”
“Find out, and fast. I want this fucker to fry.”
“On it, boss.”
“Thanks. Anything else?” I ask.
“Not that can’t wait until this afternoon. I will let you know if anything else comes up.”
“Perfect, thanks.”
“No problem.” He hangs up.
I pull the detective’s card from my pocket, dial the number and wait.
“Hhhello?”
The voice is tentative, groggy from sleep. Not like the confident officer I met last night. “Detective Stevens?” I ask.
He clears his throat. “Yes.”
Much better. “This is Mikah Blake. We met last night.”
“Oh, of course. What can I do for you?”
“I sent you an email this morning that shows your boy Riley meeting his dad outside my building around two this morning. I have a security detail working on the full video exchange.”
“Are these cameras yours? The ones used to capture these images?”
“Yes, I had the security system installed a couple years ago, the previous one was shit.” I can hear my own irritation coming through. “If we find something you can use, you call your evidence boys and have them come get it.”
“Uh...that’s great. Thank you.” I can hear it in his voice: He’s not used to being told how to do his job.
“Don’t thank me yet. I want a report on Vivienne’s building from last night.”
“It doesn’t work like that, Blake. This isn’t quid pro quo here. What is your need to know?” The skepticism can be heard in his voice and the pain in my back spikes.
“Because when I arrived here this morning, there was a cab parked outside. Still is. I’d like to know when it arrived.”
“I can’t do that, Mr. Blake.”
“Don’t give me that bullshit. Why don’t you call your guy parked down the block from her apartment and ask him. Then we can move on from there.”
“Alright, hang on.” There is a series of clicks. Then he comes back on the line. Ring. “Blake?”
“Yup.” Ring. “Thanks, Detective.” I know he’s violating company policy. Ring. And, I know it’s killing him to give in to my demands.
“Yeah.” Irritation fills his voice. Ring. “Just don’t say anything when he answers.” Ring.
Click. ”You’ve reached the voicemail of Officer Anders. Please leave—” Click.
“What the hell?” Stevens says. “It’s ringing, so it’s on. But why not answer?”
“Let’s find out, shall we?”
Seven
I turn off the car, climb out and start walking across the street. I don’t like the tingles radiating through my body. “When was he due to check in?”
“Once every two hours or so. Less if we’re in an unmarked stakeout. So he would be checking—”
“Alright.” I cross Lake Street and approach the cab. The driver is there, reading the paper. He jumps when I knock on the back window as I keep walking along the car. “What are you doing here?” I ask him.
He cracks the window a bit. “Waiting for a fare.”
“Who?” I demand.
“What the fuck do you care?” he spats back.
“Just tell me who you’re here for.”
“It’s none of your damn business.” He rolls the window back up.
“Who is that?” Stevens asks in my ear.
“The cab driver of the cab outside the apartment. I’m almost to the squad car.”
As I approach the squad car, I slow my pace. Nothing moves inside the car. “If this asshole is asleep, I’m going to have your department for lunch,” I say into the phone.
I reach the car and rap loudly on the window. Nothing. Bending down, I look inside the car. Red. Bright, red fading to brown blood...
“Stevens, you have an officer down.” I don’t wait for his reply. I drop the phone and take off full tilt toward Vivienne’s apartment.
Jesus, please, dear God, no. Not her. My back is ablaze, my body trembling with the buzzing I’ve been feeling for the last couple of weeks.
I beat on the cab’s hood. “Call nine-one-one! NOW!” He nods.
I can hear sirens in the distance.
I grab the outer door, swinging it open so hard that the glass shatters. Th
e next door is locked. I shoulder-check the glass — once, twice. Finally, on the third try, it gives way, and I go stumbling inside.
As I climb the stairs three and four at a time, I feel like I’m in a nightmare with never-ending hallways.
I reach the third floor and apartment nine. I pound on the door. “Vivienne!” Harder I pound and turn the knob, but it’s locked. “Vivienne!” I ram my shoulder into the door, harder each time, and the door flies open. I storm into her apartment.
“Jesus! God! NO!” I shout.
I rush to the bed. Reaching up to her face, I pull the tape away from her mouth with one hand while I check for a pulse with the other. I can’t feel one.
“No, damn it!” Do not do this to me!
There is blood everywhere, all over the sheets. It’s still wet, but wherever she was hurt is no longer bleeding.
There is so much blood.
When I place one hand on top of the other and press into her chest to give her CPR, her sternum gives way more than it should, and I pull back immediately, afraid of causing more damage.
I lean down and place my cheek by her mouth, hoping and praying I will feel her breath against my skin.
Nothing.
Nothing...
Tears, tears – hot, molten tears stream down my cheeks – and the buzz, the buzz is gone.
Eight
Click...
Squeak...
Click...
Squeak...
Click, squeak. Click, squeak.
Click, squeak. Click, squeak.
White floors, white walls, white doors. No windows. Long, white hallway after long, white hallway.
Must...buzz...find...buzz... The zing is back, a mellow humming.
Finally I see the sign over the door at the end of the hall. The sign I’ve been seeking for at least the last ten minutes: Chapel.
I push hard on the doors, but they don’t budge.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Damn it.
Reach for the handle.
Push handle downward.
Pull on handle.
