by J. S. Bailey
Not wanting to come across as a total dunce, Bobby said, “I know it’s not any of my business, but—”
Her lips formed a faint smile, and a single tear glistened on her eyelashes. “I’m fine. I really am.”
“You’re a counselor. Shouldn’t you let other people counsel you if something’s wrong?”
“I don’t think you can counsel me, Bobby, but thanks for asking. So what are you going to do about Mystery Woman?”
So much for wanting to find out what was bothering her. “Nothing, I guess, unless the person who dropped this off is going to come back with an explanation.”
Carly picked up the picture again. “She looks lost.”
“I know.” Bobby rubbed at his chin. “Do you think she knew someone was taking her picture?”
“I’m not that good at reading people.”
Bobby racked his mind for ideas and came up with zip.
Then it hit him. “Someone’s stalking her.”
Carly gave a thoughtful nod. “I can see that. But if you don’t know her, why would someone leave this here?”
“That seems to be the central question.”
As Bobby reached for his can of Sprite to finish it off and start on one of the bottles, the too-familiar jolt of terror signifying an oncoming premonition filled his veins.
Carly, detecting his abrupt change in mood, said, “What is it?”
Bobby was already moving out of the kitchen as he processed what the premonition was telling him. “Someone’s outside. They need me to help them.” Hurry, hurry, hurry! a voice from within shouted at him.
He fumbled with the locks and flung the door open, his heart beating so fast that dizziness threatened to overcome him. He raced outside through the swarm of moths and into the driveway, blinking so his eyes would adjust to his darker surroundings, then looked up and down the street to try to find the person who needed him.
Carly was right on his heels. “Is this one of your premonitions?”
He didn’t answer. He swiveled his head to the right, where a street lamp illuminated a four-way stop, then to the left, where most of the houses sat in the unbroken shadows of night.
A human form that he couldn’t quite make out stood in darkness on the other side of the street about six houses down from his. Not knowing if he or she was to be the victim or the perpetrator, Bobby set off in a jog to prevent whatever it was that needed preventing.
A flash of headlights coming from behind made Bobby halt and glance back. A white work van had just turned onto Oakland Avenue from another street and passed Bobby in a matter of seconds.
It stopped next to the person standing on the opposite sidewalk, blocking him or her from view.
Faint voices carried through the night. Then a high-pitched scream that was quickly muffled and silenced froze the blood in Bobby’s veins. By the time he convinced his feet to start moving again, the van accelerated and disappeared from view.
The figure he had seen was gone.
Carly caught up to him, panting and holding her side. “What happened?”
Bobby stared helplessly after the van. He didn’t have time to run back inside, find his keys, and hop into his Nissan, which Carly had inconveniently blocked in with her car.
“Bobby?”
His breath hitched in his chest as the full weight of dread slammed back into him. “I should have run faster. Then I might have stopped them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m too slow, that’s what!” Tears stung his eyes. “Phil told me I need to get into shape. Now I know why.”
“Are you going to keep speaking in riddles? What did you see?”
Bobby started back toward the house, his head now pounding. “Someone in that van just swiped someone off the sidewalk, and I wasn’t fast enough to stop them.”
A SINGLE police cruiser glided into Bobby’s driveway at 12:30 am without the clangor of sirens or lights.
Two uniformed officers—a man and a woman—climbed out and approached Bobby’s porch, where he and Carly had chosen to wait with the open bag of chips sitting between them.
Bobby rose, brushing chip crumbs from his hands.
“Mr. Roland?” asked the male officer, a fortyish man who looked capable of bench pressing a car. His nametag identified him as D. Dodgson.
“That’s me.” Bobby glanced over at Carly, who was on the verge of crying again. He didn’t know if the source of her sorrow was the apparent kidnapping, the unnamed thing that had upset her prior to his calling her on the phone, or both.
“I understand there was some kind of disturbance here.”
“Well, not here exactly. It was down the street.”
The female officer—F. Jergens—was already jotting down notes, her mouth set in a firm line. “Could you please describe what happened?”
Bobby had already fabricated a plausible cover story so he wouldn’t have to explain anything about his premonitions. “I was walking Carly out to her car when a van stopped down the street. I thought I saw someone standing on the sidewalk before that.”
“Approximately what time was this?”
“About 12:20. The van stopped next to them and we heard screaming, and when the van pulled away nobody was there anymore. We thought someone must have opened the passenger side of the van and pulled the other person into it.”
“Can you describe the vehicle?”
Bobby strained to think. He’d been so caught up in the moment that he recalled few details. “It was a white work van that didn’t have windows in the back.”
“It was a Trautmann Electric Company van,” Carly said. “I saw the logo when it went by.”
The two officers exchanged a glance. “I’ll be darned,” Jergens muttered as she scribbled down the name.
“Wait a minute,” Dodgson said, his eyes widening in surprise. “You’re the Jovingo girl, aren’t you?”
Carly gave a wordless nod.
Bobby didn’t dare ask what had brought on this sudden exchange.
“Sweet Jesus,” the man murmured. “I’m so sorry.”
Carly cast her gaze down at her feet. “Thanks.”
Officer Dodgson seemed to forget that he was in the middle of conducting an investigation, for his face became incensed. “I couldn’t believe they let her out early. Good behavior, they said. Well, what did they expect? She couldn’t get hold of a gun while she was locked up.”
Bobby looked to Carly for an explanation, but she wouldn’t look at him.
Officer Jergens lightly cleared her throat and eyed her partner with some disdain. “Could we please get back on track?”
Dodgson sighed and became all business once more. “Okay,” he said to Bobby. “Show us where you saw this happen.”
Bobby pointed at one of the houses on the other side of the street. “It was over there in front of that big brick house. Do you want me to go over there?”
Officer Jergens smiled. “That won’t be necessary. If we have any more questions, we’ll be back. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”
Bobby took that as his cue to go back inside. He and Carly watched from the front window as the cruiser backed out of the driveway and approached the place where the person had vanished. Soon flashlight beams swept the ground as the officers examined the scene. Next they would probably knock on a few doors to see if any of the neighbors had witnessed the kidnapping.
“Who do you think that was out there?” Carly asked.
Bobby thought about the dark-haired woman in the photograph. “Hopefully nobody we know.”
HE AND Carly stayed up for a while longer bouncing ideas off of each other, and when they continued to get nowhere with their speculations, Carly announced she was going home to try to get some sleep.
She left the Sprite bottles and partially-eaten bag of chips behind.
Bobby had refrained from asking her about Officer Dodgson’s strange comments because he knew he’d likely get more information out of a brick wall. He didn’t
need to be a genius to know that what had upset Carly was the same thing that had upset the officer.
Having three mysteries to ponder now—the note, the apparent kidnapping, and the source of Carly’s distress—Bobby stripped out of his clothes and let hot water blast him clean in the shower for ten blissful minutes. He toweled off, put on a clean pair of boxers, and sat on the edge of his bed with his baby blue Fender Stratocaster. He fingered an A minor chord and picked the first notes of “Stairway to Heaven,” but his eyelids grew heavier and after a few measures he set the guitar aside and turned off the light.
Despite his fatigue, sleep remained elusive for him as well.
“Who is she?” he asked the ceiling. “Can you at least tell me that?”
Eventually his mind conjured images that were only half-dreams, as he still had the sense he lay in bed. The dark-haired woman stood wild-eyed at the end of the bed with her hands clasped together in front of her. “Who am I, Bobby?” she asked in Carly’s voice. “Who am I? Can you tell me who I am? Who am I? Who am I? Who am I?”
A scuffling noise outside made him jerk awake before he could tell her he didn’t know. He lay still, waiting for the sound to repeat itself, but all remained quiet.
Unlike in his old bungalow, his bedroom here sat at the front of the house. He rose, peeked out through the blinds, and saw a car of indeterminate color and make slowly drive by.
The sound had probably been nothing.
A false sense of security…
He walked out into the living room anyway and opened the front door.
Another envelope—complete with red smiley face—was taped in the same place where the other one had been. He tore it off, took it to the kitchen, and withdrew another ransom-note-style message:
Missed her by that much.
BOBBY ATE his breakfast bagel at the card table in the kitchen with the two notes and the photograph laid out in front of him, wondering if detectives usually felt this frustrated when trying to piece together clues to solve a mystery.
Upon rising at eight o’clock, he’d gone outside and scoured the tiny lot again to see if the nameless Bringer of Notes had left any indication of who he or she might be. Although Bobby had the lanky build of the constantly-eating Norville “Shaggy” Rogers, this was not an episode of Scooby-Doo. Criminals just didn’t leave trails of footprints behind that would lead to their capture, and they were (usually) smart enough not to leave personal items lying around that could be traced back to them.
He could just forget about the woman and the notes, of course. God knew he’d have enough on his plate already working up the courage to face the possessed. But last week when he met Randy, who devoted his entire life to aiding those in need, Bobby realized something: while Bobby had always tried to save people whenever a premonition told him someone was in danger, he had never made an active effort to help others.
He would no longer be so laid back in regard to his fellow humans, and not just because he was now the Servant.
It was a fact that was still difficult for Bobby to fully accept. He had often been angry with God for scores of reasons he didn’t want to think about at the moment, and now he was gifted with the ability to sense God’s Spirit—a sensation that reminded him of what it might feel like if a coach or mentor was hanging out nearby at all hours of the day ready to dish out encouragement and advice.
It was interesting, to say the least.
Bobby paused in his pondering to sip at his coffee, then refocused his attention on the second note to try to glean further meaning from it.
Missed her by that much.
Missed who? The woman in the photograph? Perhaps Bobby was making connections where none existed, but it seemed like the person who’d left the notes must have observed the kidnapping, which would indicate that he or she had helped orchestrate it.
It also meant that the dark-haired woman and the figure standing in shadow on the other side of the street were one and the same.
Wondering if word of the kidnapping would appear on the news, he went to the living room and switched on the television.
“Is Autumn Ridge the new vehicle theft capital of Southwest Oregon?” a news anchor was saying as soon as the picture came up. “Some residents think so. Since January of this year, more than a hundred cars, trucks, and vans have vanished from their owners’ driveways, never to be seen again. Law enforcement has been working to uncover a possible theft ring.”
The screen changed and showed a picture of a Trautmann Electric Company van.
“Local businessman Bill Trautmann has not been immune to this string of thefts. Just last night he reported one of his company vans missing from his lot. He told us at Channel 8 News that he will not press charges if the van is quietly returned undamaged.
“Police advise residents to keep their cars locked at all times and to keep an eye out for suspicious activity.” The anchor ended by providing a number for people to call if they had any information about the thieves.
“Huh.” Bobby went to the window and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his Nissan had been spared.
He switched off the TV when the news ended and went back to the kitchen, disappointed that nothing had been mentioned about an abduction. He wished he knew Mystery Woman’s name. It would feel nicer to think of her as someone with an identity.
What can I do to help her?
He stared at the picture on the table and at the cabin-like building in the background. The woman stood partly in shadow, and the quality of the light made it appear the picture had been taken sometime during the morning.
What was it Carly had said? That’s right. The building looked like one of the shower houses at a state park she’d visited, but Bobby couldn’t remember its name.
He called Carly’s cell phone, and she picked up in a breathless voice. “Hello?”
“Carly? This is Bobby.”
“I told you I’m fine.”
“No, it’s not that. Are you busy this morning?”
“I’m unemployed and live with my parents. You tell me.”
“Then I hope you’re up for a road trip.”
JACK FELT immeasurably better about himself than he had at the bar the other night as he sauntered into the office of his employer, Troy Hunkler. His moods always tended to improve whenever he’d found a new way to make someone’s life hell, especially when it involved getting back at that person for doing the same to him. Some might have considered that a personality flaw, but Jack had never found a problem with it. It was an engrained facet of his very being. He couldn’t change the way he felt even if he wanted to.
The base of operations was vastly better than the one Troy worked from when Jack first got the job. The old one occupied a dank, windowless basement that constantly smelled of Lysol. This one sat on the top floor of an old building and had broad windows, comfortable furniture, and a wine rack along one wall.
Hunkler Enterprises was moving up in the world, and Jack was moving right up with it.
And to think his old teachers were convinced he’d never amount to anything. He half-wished they could see him now.
Troy was speaking heatedly into his iPhone when Jack entered. “I don’t care if Vincent wants to see his family!” he snapped, his face red. “He agreed to cut off all contact with them when he started working for me.” A pause. “If he keeps whining, tell him I’ll be over to set him straight.” He ended the call with the stab of a finger and laid the phone down on top of the desk. Troy’s face resumed its normal color, and he smiled. “Jack, you’re early.”
“Of course I am.”
Troy laughed. He was shrewd enough to never be swayed by the powers of persuasion Jack executed so well over other members of their species. Forty, with a patch of blond hair, Troy had once been into boxing and had two cauliflower ears to prove it. If Jack ever wanted to try anything funny in Troy’s presence, he would likely end up with two black eyes and a shattered nose.
Or worse. Most likely worse.
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“Sit down.” Troy gestured at the empty seat. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
That could either be a good thing or a bad thing. “Does this have something to do with Vincent?”
Troy rolled his eyes. “I never knew a grown man could be such a sissy. It’s like he was supposed to be born a girl but his DNA got all screwed up and spat him out like this instead.”
“If he gives you too much trouble, I can kill him,” Jack said, only half-seriously. Vincent was too important to die.
“I’d agree to that in a heartbeat if I had someone else like him lined up to take his place. Without his ability, half our enterprise goes right down the drain.”
Jack nodded. Until he’d tracked down Graham and learned about the Servants, he had no idea that other people like Vincent existed. “Is anyone looking for a new one just in case?”
“I’ve had Orin snooping around in Internet chat rooms for leads, and Theo went down to L.A. to ask around in psychic shops and places like that. But what’s it matter to you? Vincent isn’t even the reason you’re here.”
“Good. Vincent isn’t my problem.”
“Nor should he be.” Troy rose, went to the wine rack, withdrew a bottle of merlot, and poured it into two glasses sitting on a sideboard. He brought them back to the desk and offered one to Jack, who took it without objection even though he would have preferred to drink bleach. “You’re a very good employee, Jack.”
Jack sampled the wine with the tip of his tongue and did his best to maintain a straight face. “I try to be.”
“I often wonder what your motivation is. What keeps you going when others have opted to quit.”
This isn’t like Troy. He’s up to something. “I enjoy the work.” And the control. Working for Troy gave Jack a certain level of autonomy he wouldn’t have had elsewhere. He didn’t have to abide by a dress code. He didn’t have to clock in and leave at a certain time each day. The world was Jack’s domain, and as long as he did what was expected of him, he maintained his standing in the company.
Troy was giving him such an odd look that Jack wondered if he’d accidentally uttered his thoughts aloud. “But why do you enjoy it?”
