Phantoms

by Terence West

She watched the "on" light kick off on the coffee pot. The water and grounds had coagulated into a thick black liquid. Leaning close to the pot, she took a whiff of the contents. She loved that smell. Looking over the counter, she spotted a small white mug sitting next to the squat black microwave. She lifted the cup into one hand and the pot into the other. Pouring slowly, she watched the coffee fill the cup. This was the ambrosia of the gods, she told herself, cradling the mug in her small hands. She began to lift the cup to her mouth when the phone rang. Staring crossly at the tan device, she set down the mug and crossed the room.

  Before the phone had a chance to ring a third time, she lifted it to her ear. "Hello?"

  "Chloe," Carrie's voice was full of excitement on the end of the line.

  "What's up, Carrie?" Chloe said after a moment. It was never a good sign when your producer called you at five-forty in the morning.

  "Have you looked outside yet?"

  "No I haven't. I just woke up a few minutes ago," Chloe admitted.

  "There's been a break in the storm," Carrie said fervently. "According to the local weatherman, Hurricane Katrina has moved off in a different direction."

  "Really?" Chloe said, sharing Carrie's enthusiasm. "That's fantastic!"

  "I'm going to call the others right now. I think we should meet at the Grant House in about an hour. That way, we can get a full day's shooting in before we go live tonight."

  Chloe felt a little dismayed at Carrie's suggestion, but she knew she was right. "That's the plan." Chloe looked at her clock, "Let's all meet down in the lobby in say, forty-five minutes."

  "We'll be there."

  Chloe hung up the phone and looked across the room at her still steaming cup of coffee. She sighed. There was no time for that now. She had to get ready. Abandoning the cup, she grabbed her travel kit and walked into the bathroom.

  ****

  Morgan reached over and snatched the phone from its base. She hauled it under the covers and to her ear. "Yeah?"

  "Morgan?" The voice on the other end of the line sounded surprised.

  "This is Morgan," she said, still partially asleep.

  "Morgan, this is Carrie, the producer."

  Morgan's eyes widened. Her mind had suddenly become awake at the word "producer". "Yes, Carrie, what can I do for you?" She lifted herself onto her elbow as she threw the covers off her head.

  "It seems we've been granted a break in the storm by the powers that be. We're all going to meet in the lobby in about a half an hour to take advantage of the good weather."

  "Sounds great," Morgan said eagerly. "I'll be there."

  "Morgan," Carrie said after a pause, "do you know where Sam is? I've been calling his room for ten minutes and I can't seem to get a hold of him."

  A soft smile crossed her face. "Yeah, I know where he is. I'll bring him down with me."

  Carrie chuckled politely. "I'll see the both of you in a half an hour then. You two behave yourselves."

  Morgan laughed. "I wouldn't bet on it, but we'll be there on time." Morgan leaned over and hung up the phone. Laying back in bed, she turned her head to the right. Sam was facing away from her. All she could see was the back of his head and his shoulders. She reached over and shook his shoulder gently. "Sam?" She shook him a little more firmly. "Time to get up, Sam." Maybe he's just a heavy sleeper, she thought.

  "Sam, we need to get going," she reiterated.

  Grabbing his shoulder, she pulled him over onto his back. A scream welled up from deep in her throat as she jumped back off the bed. She stared in shock at the form in front of her. The sheets and comforter around Sam were stained a rusty red color. The blood had obviously been there for some time as it had completely oxidized. Morgan stared as the blank expression on Sam's face. His eyes were wide and staring off into space. There were no cuts of bruises on his head or neck, at least none that she could see. Only a small smattering of blood was visible.

  Morgan took a deep breath and walked toward the corpse. "Sam?" she asked again, trying to hold back the tears. Slowly, she reached down and grabbed the covers. She didn't want to look. She began to pull them away. Don’t look, she said again. Please don't look, she pleaded with herself. With one swift motion, she ripped the covers away and stumbled backward.

  Sam had been completely eviscerated. A gaping hole ran from the top of his rib cage to between his legs. His organs had been mutilated and arranged messily inside his torso, while his intestines were partially wrapped around his waist. Morgan could see several of his ribs jutting out awkwardly from the wound.

  She involuntarily doubled over and vomited on the floor. Her emotions were racing and her head was spinning wildly. Lifting herself up, she charged toward the door and threw it open. She screamed for help at the top of her lungs. She didn't have the clarity of thought to do anything else. She screamed again. Guests hastily began to run out of their rooms, some pulling on their bathrobes, others hastily wrapping a sheet or towel around their naked bodies. Morgan began to sob uncontrollably as she melted to the floor. Her legs were like rubber beneath her, and they would no longer support her weight. She crumpled into a heap. All she could see was Sam's dead body.

  Trent emerged from his room, his white bathrobe hanging off his shoulder, wearing only a pair of red boxer shorts. His frosted brown hair was a mess on top of his head. He scrambled toward Morgan and knelt down beside her. "What happened?" he asked frantically.

  Morgan looked up with her tear choked eyes. "Why?" She repeated herself over and over. "Why?"

  Trent spotted the blood on her fingertips. He slowly started to back away from her. "What did you do, Morgan?"

  Morgan lurched forward and grabbed the ends of his bathrobe. "Why?" She screamed again.

  Trent quickly pushed her away. He looked at the red smears on his robe in horror. Turning away from her, he walked briskly into the room and stopped. From the door, he could see Sam's mutilated body. He held back the urge to vomit as he staggered out of the room. He had enough sense to close the door behind him. He turned quickly and threw his back to the wall for support. A large crowd had gathered around Morgan and the door. To his right, Trent could hear footsteps running up the hallway.

  "What happened?" Chloe asked as she skidded to a stop in front of Trent. Her hair was wet and she had only a towel wrapped around herself.

  Rivers was right behind her. "What the hell?" He dropped to the floor right next to Morgan.

  Trent shook his head. "I wouldn't do that, Mr. Gallows."

  River looked up with anger in his eyes. "Why not?"

  Trent glanced toward the door, then back to Rivers. "Because she killed Sam Peters."

  ****

  Montoya was sitting quietly in the waiting room of the hospital. Dawn and Bishop flanked her on both sides, while Cane sat directly across from her. It had been a long night. They had all taken turns sleeping in the hard plastic chairs while the other waited for word from the doctors. Montoya felt a sense of urgency every time a doctor or nurse walked past.

  She took a deep breath, then bit off another chunk of the candy bar she had bought two hours ago. She was too nervous to eat, but she knew she needed the sustenance. A woman can't survive on coffee alone, she told herself as she took another gulp of the heavy black liquid. Setting the paper cup and candy bar on the chair next to her, she slid down into the seat and stretched her legs. Slowly standing up, she began to walk anxiously around the waiting area.

  "You're going to wear out the tile," Cane joked.

  "I can't just sit here. I feel so… "she struggled for words.

  "Useless?" Cane queried.

  Montoya nodded. "We should've heard something by now. It's been hours."

  "You can't do anything for him, Detective. He's in the hands of the doctors." He looked up into her worried eyes. "I'm sure he's fine."

  Montoya heard her radio crackle to life. She quickly fished it out of her jacket pocket. "Go ahead, dispatch."

  "We have an apparent homicide at the Brenton Hotel," a wom
an's voice reported unemotionally.

  "Can't you get someone else to take a look?" Montoya asked.

  "Sorry, Detective, captain requested you because you're the closest."

  "On my way," she said angrily. Stuffing the radio into her pocket, she cursed under her breath. She turned around to see Cane, Dawn and Bishop standing behind her.

  "Mind if we tag along?" Bishop asked innocently.

  Montoya was about to refuse, but then sighed. "Why the hell not?" She turned and began to walk for the door. "Let's get a move on. We've got a dead body to take care of."

  Chapter 15

  Two large officers dressed in blue lifted Morgan off the floor. She had gone from sobbing insanely to being almost catatonic. Her dark mascara, which she had forgotten to take off the previous night, was streaked down her cheeks and her black nightie was barely covering her body. Her unblinking eyes were distant, as if she wasn't even there. She was a wreck with her long, black hair matted to her head. The two officers wrapped her slender arms behind her back and slipped the cuffs around her wrists. They made a horrid clicking noise as they locked shut. They began to lead her out of the building amidst gasps and muted whispers from the guests congregated in the hall.

  Chloe had retreated to her room and slipped into a pair of jeans and a white sweater. She had hastily pulled her curly hair up behind her head before she had returned. She now stood shoulder to shoulder with Carrie, Trent and Rivers. The officers had already told them there was a detective on the way to question them, so they shouldn't stray very far.

  Carrie was taking it the hardest. She wasn't upset at Sam's death, or Morgan's arrest, but rather that she was out two psychics and the live feed was less than fifteen hours away. She had been on her cell phone all morning trying to wrangle two replacements. She would be damned if she was letting this broadcast go down the tubes for a little thing like murder.

  Rivers, on the other hand, was his traditional arrogant, pig-headed self. The first comment out of his mouth Chloe had heard was how he could see Morgan's "cute" ass. This wasn't fazing him at all, but then, no one expected it to. He would always be Rivers and somehow, at that moment, Chloe was thankful for that.

  Trent was hard to read. Chloe had been trying to understand what was going through his twenty-two year old mind. It had shaken him, though. She could tell that. He had been chain-smoking ever since her return this morning. She could swear he had already been through a pack and a half just in the amount of time they had been waiting.

  They had been standing in the hallway, just outside Morgan's room, for the better part of the morning. Chloe glanced down at her watch. It was closing in on seven am now. She didn't have time for this. She stopped. Had she really thought that? Did the value of human life mean nothing to her? She shook her head. It wasn't that way at all. She was just shaken. Her mind was reverting back to what she knew the best as a defense mechanism: work. She honestly couldn't see how they were going to finish this broadcast. She certainly didn't want to follow Rivers around in the house for an hour. He would be excruciatingly boring. Besides, he didn't know the material. They needed a psychic, or at least someone who was familiar with what happened in the house.

  "I'm going back to my room," Rivers announced suddenly.

  Chloe was pulled out of her thoughts by the comment. She spun to look at Rivers. "What did you say?"

  "I said that I'm going back to my room," he repeated. "I need to get ready for tonight and besides," a wicked smile crossed his face, "there's an awful stench coming from there."

  Chloe looked at him angrily. How could he be so insensitive? "Are you actually a human being, Rivers, or some kind of mutated swine?"

  Rivers started to walk away slowly. "You can come back to my room with me and check for yourself."

  Chloe listened to him laugh at his own crude joke as he walked around the corner. "Jackass," she muttered under her breath.

  ****

  Montoya, Bishop, Dawn and Cane had walked the few short blocks to the Brenton Hotel. Along the way, they had encountered Enbaugh's wrecked car. They had marveled at the fact that, with the extensive damage, Enbaugh had even survived the crash. Before they had left the hospital, Montoya had left her mobile number with the attending nurse. She had instructed them that she receive a call as soon as they knew Enbaugh's condition. She had spent most of the walk continually checking her phone. She would check to make sure it was on, then check if the batteries were good, and then five minutes later, repeat the process.

  Dawn was worried about her. She didn't seem to be taking this very well. Dawn could tell Montoya would rather be at the hospital waiting for word on Enbaugh, and the wait was driving her crazy. She couldn't take it. None of them could. It was like water torture. Every doctor or nurse that walked in their direction could be the bearer of good or bad news, but then they would continue to walk by. It's funny how her mind associated things. "Sorry, not a winner, please try again" popped into Dawn's head.

  "So, this is the Brenton?" Bishop asked.

  Montoya looked up the face of the tall hotel, then over at Bishop, "Yep."

  "Nice place," Bishop said as they began to walk inside.

  The outside was littered with patrol cars. A lone ambulance sat near the door, its rear doors open and awaiting its precious cargo. Blockades had been set up around the entrance while yellow police tape hooked them together. Two officers, garbed in black rain slickers, stood at the front of the barricades holding people back. Several local news crews had parked their vans and were trying to break inside to get an exclusive.

  Montoya stopped. She had to walk straight through the crowd to reach the entrance. She didn't want to be accosted this morning, but she knew some of the reporters would recognize her. In the past, she had held several press conferences for the media and she was generally the person they contacted inside the department for information. It wasn't part of her job description. Technically, that fell to the capable hands of the captain, but he didn't like doing it. She guessed at first it was the thrill of being on TV, then later it just became old hat. Everyone knew her, so they felt more comfortable contacting her.

  One of the reporters, a tall woman with sleek brown hair, turned away from the barricade in defeat only to see Montoya approaching her. Her face suddenly brightened. Tapping her cameraman on the shoulder, she went charging through the group toward Montoya. "Detective Montoya," she said, sticking her microphone toward Montoya, "can you comment on the homicide this morning?"

  Montoya pushed the microphone away. "No comment," she said firmly.

  The reporters smelled blood. They all began gathering around Montoya, each shouting their own question. "Does this have anything to do with the Grant murders?" one shouted. "Can you tell us about the rash of murders lately?" another screamed above the crowd.

  Montoya was quickly losing her patience. "No comment," she repeated.

  "Detective," another reporter asked, "can you confirm your partner was a victim of this serial killer?"

  Montoya stopped. Spinning around on her heels, she grabbed the reporter by the collar and yanked him toward her. "Detective Enbaugh is not dead," she hissed. "Why don't you vultures go find a different corpse to pick at and let us do our job?" She pushed the reporter back into his cameraman as she turned to walk away.

  "What the fuck is her problem?" The reporter asked with a half cocked smile on his face.

  Bishop swept his leg under the reporter's, knocking him to the ground. Without saying a word, he continued behind Montoya.

  The four reached the barricade and were immediately stopped by an officer. Montoya reached into her jacket and produced her badge. She pointed her thumb over her shoulder, "They're with me."

  The officer nodded and lifted the tape. They quickly ducked under it and made their way toward the entrance. Montoya scolded herself. She had let them get to her and reacted badly. She knew she would hear about this from the captain. She returned her focus to the present. She had to have her wits about her. She
was an officer of the law, she reminded herself. She was there to protect and serve, and she couldn't do that in the state she was in. A crime had been committed, a person had been killed, and it was her job to collect all the facts so a fair trial could be had. She steeled herself as they walked into the lobby.

  Looking up, she spotted two officers bringing a woman down the stairs in handcuffs. Montoya stopped them at the bottom. "What have we here?" The woman refused to look up at Montoya.

  "Morgan LeFay," one of the detectives responded. "She was in the room with the victim and she has his blood on her hands."

  Montoya studied the woman for a moment. "Seems pretty open and shut, doesn't it?"

  The officer nodded.

  "On your way, then," Montoya instructed.

  The two officers pushed Morgan forward. She stumbled and almost fell, but quickly regained her footing. For the first time, she lifted her head to get her bearings, and stopped. "You!" She broke free of the officer's grasp and rushed toward Bishop. "I know you."

  Bishop took a step back with his hands raised. "I'm sorry, miss, I don't think we've ever met."

  "You can tell them that I didn't do it! You know the truth!" She struggled as the officers tried to restrain her. "Tell them!" she screamed.

  "Tell them what?" Bishop asked, genuinely concerned. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "The shadows," Morgan shouted. "Tell them about the shadows!"

  Bishop felt as if a dagger had been plunged into the very center of his soul. "How do you know?"

  "You've seen them," Morgan yelled as the officers pushed her toward the door. "I have seen you see them!"

  "I don't understand," Bishop admitted, but it was too late. The officers had pulled her through the large double doors. Bishop spun around to face Cane and Dawn. "What the hell was that?"

  "Very interesting," Cane said after a moment. "We shall have to talk to her, too."

  Dawn pointed up the stairs at Montoya. "Come on, we'd better catch up."

  ****

  "Right this way, Detective," said an officer as he motioned down the hall.