A Song of Forgiveness

by Lillian I Wolfe

  I took a deep breath and asked myself if I was doing the smart thing. I didn’t want to sour my budding friendship with Cara, who could at least see the yiaiwa and that could be useful. She might even have the ability to do something more than she realized. I needed to keep that connection.

  On the other hand, Father Garrity might know of more people who had encountered the demons. Whether he would tell me about it was another issue. But deciding to take the risk, I hit the send button and hoped to get a positive response back.

  That done, I went back to look for my Japanese gentleman, optimistic he would be curious enough to respond to me again. Disappointed that I had nothing in my messages, I turned to reading through the posts since I’d last been online. Nothing stood out as unusual or in the vein I sought. Oh well, building a network took time.

  I checked my email, then caught the local news headlines on my page and scanned down as the words “snowmobile overturned” caught my eye. A follow-up news report on Roger’s accident reported his death and said that it appeared he froze when he became lost on the mountain in the wooded area. It added the Sheriff’s Department was still investigating the accident and cause of death.

  Nothing new, but it occurred to me that it wasn’t as straightforward as the report indicated. Even with drugs involved, it didn’t seem like the Sheriff’s Office would be as concerned about it as they seemed to be. If Roger was taking drugs and he became disoriented and died, then it was unfortunate, but pretty much a closed deal. They must suspect something else about the case. Was there something they found at the accident or where he died that suggested otherwise?

  Whatever it was, I didn’t like it. I’d been pulled into this case and I had nothing to do with it. I truly didn’t want any part of it.

  Going downstairs, I brewed a cup of tea and settled on the sofa with Nygard at my side. He curled into me, his back pressed against my knees, and I watched with half-closed eyes as those little golden strings of light rose from his body. Energy shifted from his body to mine; I could follow the movement, feeling the rejuvenating power touching me and working its way up my thighs and into my torso. It warmed and soothed as it went. Who knew cats were so powerful?

  I thought once again about keeping my cat safe and how I could do it. In spite of what both Astrid and Gavin had said, I didn’t want to put him into a dangerous situation again.

  My cell phone rang, startling Nygard, who perked up at once, glared at the phone, then turned so his back was to me. Seeing it was my agent, I picked it up.

  “You disturbed my cat, Cate. What’s up?”

  “You know, I wouldn’t normally bother you with another one of these, but the woman who called begged me to call you. Her son died and he left a codicil in his will that if that should happen, he wanted you to sing at his funeral.”

  I groaned. “No, the answer has to be no.”

  Cate sighed loudly. “Will you at least hear her out? She was sobbing when she called me.”

  I closed my eyes in regret. I didn’t need this. I couldn’t take on a funeral now. If there was even a slight chance I might end up in the transitional cemetery, then I could end up battling a True Shade when I wasn’t ready.

  “Please, Gillian,” Cate pleaded. “I told her I’d talk to you.”

  “Okay, give me her name and number and I’ll try to break it to her gently that I can’t do it.” Even as I consented, I had an odd feeling about this.

  “It’s Margaret Halprin,” Cate said, spelling the last name, then she gave me the phone number.

  “Got it. But don’t expect me to do it. For now, I am not doing any more funerals. Find me a wedding or a birthday celebration, but no more funerals.”

  There was a pregnant pause, the kind that actually gave meaning to the phrase. Cate had caught her breath, almost holding it before speaking.

  “Funny you should mention that, my dear girl. It just so happens that I do have a request for someone to sing at a Bat Mitzpha.”

  “A what?”

  “It’s like a Bar Mitzpha, except for the girl instead of a boy.”

  “Oh. I hadn’t heard that before. What kind of songs?”

  “Pretty much what you’d sing for a boy. Just be sure to sing ‘Hava Nagila’.”

  “Sounds like something I can do. I’m game. Let me know the details and I’ll let you know if I’m free.”

  “Deal,” she answered and hung up.

  I stared at the name I’d written down and pushed the paper aside for now. I didn’t feel quite ready to take on a begging mother. It was easy to be tempted to do something you knew you shouldn’t when emotions got in the way.

  Nygard’s purring rumble started again and I let my eyes drift shut, allowing his form of kitty therapy to work on me. Wanting to get more information, I’d picked up a digital book on the metaphysical planes and read through part of it during my lunch at work. Orielle had only mentioned two of the seven listed, Earth or the physical plane and the astral plane. There were others, each higher up the path. But no mention of the lower two planes. I wondered where I might learn more about them if they weren’t considered part of the path.

  I stood on the crumbled path a short distance away from the towering wall of thorn bushes, black roses, and twisted trees that marked the demonic section of the cemetery. Vines so dark they looked black crept around the other corrupted plant life and wound their way out of the imposing hedge. Like a snake on a quest, they wriggled their way toward me.

  Involuntarily, I took a few steps back and looked around for a reason why I was here. Behind me, the crumbling garden of my visions looked even more run-down than it had when I had been here a couple of months ago.

  A rustling sound brought my attention back to the vines. Shifting direction, they made a lurch and continued to creep toward me, their thick tendrils lined with decaying leaves trying to get to me.

  Again, I moved away and began to walk off the path, parallel to the imposing barrier. More vines that hadn’t started moving yet began to ooze out toward me even as the original ones shifted to pursue me as if they could smell my blood and flesh. The rustling sound grew and a fetid odor of decay assaulted my nose.

  I paused, turned to face the nearest clump of them, and raised my hand, shaping it into an open cone. Gathering my anger and fear, I cast my light blast outward. Responding instantly, the power burst out and zapped into my target.

  I heard a hissing sizzled like I’d thrown water into a hot pan, followed by a disgusting odor of over-fried greens and something indescribable that permeated the air around me.

  Retching from the smell, I picked up my pace and angled even further away from the vegetation. Still seeking the reason I’d been brought here, I turned every direction as I walked looking for someone, a spirit who might need to talk or instructions, but I didn’t see anyone.

  After a dozen more yards, I came to what looked like an archway in the trees, the shape formed by the branches twisting together and more foliage covering the entry through it so much that it was almost impossible to see beyond.

  Here, I paused to peer at it, speculating on how anyone could get through without being attacked by the vines and roses. Already, a rose bush was growing larger thorns in amongst the enticing flowers. The scent wafted to me, a sickly sweet odor that lacked anything rose-like.

  “Help me,” a man’s voice called faintly from what seemed like a far distance.

  Certain it came from behind this hedge, I attempted to peer through the wall.

  “They’re killing me,” he cried out again.

  With a chill, I recognized the voice. Roger Mitchell!

  “Roger?” I called out.

  “Help me!”

  “I can’t,” I yelled. “You’ve been claimed by the demons.”

  “No!” he screamed back. “No, you can save me!”

  More vines jerked out of the tangle and leaped at me as I jumped back. More aggressive than they’d been before, they advanced quickly.

  “I can’t
!” I hollered.

  Then I turned and ran...

  I gasped and my eyes popped open as I came out of the dream with Nygard nudging his head at my arm with hard shoves. I laid my hand on his head and scratched his ears, letting him know I was okay.

  Just a dream. I sat up, my heart racing with the fear and anxiety I’d experienced. Like any of these vision dreams, they seemed so real and I wondered if they were any different from when I actually transported there. Things seemed just as real and I felt like I was there, although not terribly conscious of what I was doing. I’d even been able to compare the state of the decaying garden to the last time I’d seen it. If this was a dream and not the actual soul travel I’d done at Saffi Alden’s funeral, then how would I know that it had gotten worse?

  Somehow, I knew that Roger actually was on that side of the cemetery in the enemy’s zone. But why? Had he done something so bad that they could claim him?

  Worse, I’d refused to help him. What did that say about me? That I had such a grudge against him that I wouldn’t do it? Or that there was no way I could enter that side to help. That I was afraid?

  Cuddling Nygard for a few more minutes, I set him on the arm of the sofa and sat up, stretching my arms. Going downstairs, I brewed myself a cup of tea and went into my music room.

  Sitting at the piano, I began to pick out the notes of a new song that had been floating around in my brain ever since the evening at the winery. A few lyrics popped into my mind and I realized it spoke of a broken love affair and shattered dreams. Not what I’d wanted to write, so I backed away from it. I had no intention of letting my potential relationship with Ferris end up in the dark image my subconscious was trying to paint.

  Instead, I turned to something more upbeat and played a few of the songs from our planned set for Saturday night. I looked forward to doing the gig. It seemed like a long time since the last one and that hadn’t gone well with the hecklers. I hoped some of that craziness had settled and the interview I’d done would calm it. If it didn’t, I still had a plan to tease them along with humor and a good nature. Don’t get mad or upset would be my mantra. Now if Ferris and Digby would go along, that might work.

  FOURTEEN

  “You knew that guy who got lost and froze a week ago, didn’t you?” Heeni asked as I checked the list for the next dog to groom. She worked at the front station on a Saint Bernard who completely filled the big grooming table.

  “Yes. He’d been at our shows often,” I answered, not wanting to go into any detail. “I’m taking the standard poo—” I started to say as the door opened and derailed my train of thought.

  Moss and Hernandez strode in and their expressions looked serious. Damn. I dropped the pencil back to the clipboard and gawked.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Moss said. “But I need you to come to the office to make a statement.” His tone was no-nonsense, this is business and it’s important.

  Nonetheless, I said, “Right now?” Couldn’t this wait until after work?

  “I’m afraid not. We need to go now.”

  Behind Moss, Hernandez dropped his gaze to the floor, the only thing apologetic in this. Shit! There was bad news.

  I glanced at Heeni whose already big eyes had popped even wider. “I’m sorry, Heeni. I need to go—”

  “Go on. Go!” Using the grooming brush, she motioned for me to go out the door.

  I nodded. “I’ll get my purse.”

  Moss shoved his hands in his overcoat pockets to wait while Hernandez retreated to the outside of the door.

  We said nothing on the trip to the Sheriff’s Office. Moss and Hernandez didn't even talk to each other, which made me really nervous. This couldn't be good.

  When we got there, they led me upstairs to the interrogation rooms. I settled in to wait for however long before they came in. I didn't have long.

  Moss strode in with a file folder in his hand, Hernandez right behind him with a couple of bottles of water. He handed one to me, then sat next to Moss facing me. Yep, this was officially not good.

  “Ms. Foster, we want to get all of this on the record, so I will be asking you a few of the same questions Deputy Bancroft and I asked you a few days ago. Is that clear?”

  “Am I under arrest?” I asked, hoping my voice was steady. “I didn't do anything.”

  “No. For the moment, you're a person of interest in the death of Roger Mitchell.”

  “I don't understand. I thought his death was an accident.” I opened the water and took a nervous gulp.

  “Recent evidence suggests that it could be suicide or possible murder.” Moss's voice gave no clues to how he felt about it or if this was an accusation.

  I had nothing to hide, but I wondered if I should ask for a lawyer before answering any questions. Were they talking to Ferris also?

  “Let's start. If I ask any question that you feel would incriminate you, you can refuse to answer on those grounds. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “When was the last time you saw Mr. Mitchell?”

  “At his engagement party in the park when he hired my band to play for it. That was in November.” Don't say too much, I cautioned myself. Just answer what he asks.

  “Did you have an altercation with Mitchell at that event?”

  “It was more of an argument, but yes.”

  And so it went on from there with Moss asking all the same questions, getting my answers recorded. I worried that I wasn't saying exactly the same thing, but I tried to be as specific as possible while not going overboard.

  Finally, he asked, “How did you know that Mitchell's body was in a snowbank near the accident?”

  I shot a glare at him, angry that he'd brought this up and that he'd let it become part of the record. It was a favor for him, dammit! “I didn't know that it was there, but I had a sense of it.”

  “What do you mean by a sense of it?”

  “You handed me an object that belonged to Mr. Mitchell and I got an impression when I held it. I sometimes can get a reading from objects that were used by a person.”

  “So you read the object and got an impression. Was this visual or what do you mean by impression?”

  I hesitated, trying to figure the best way to tell him what it was like. “It was a combination of a hazy vision and a foreboding feeling that flooded my senses. Overall, it gave me the impression of a cold place surrounded by white and a stillness that suggested death.”

  “What object did you read, Ms. Foster?”

  “A flash drive.”

  “Is this the one?” He held up the rectangular silver drive that looked like the one I’d read.

  I swallowed hard as I framed my answer. “It could be. I have no way of knowing if it’s the same one. It looks like it.” I caught the twitch of his lip as it curved up while he set the drive down.

  “Is there a name for what you do when you read objects?”

  “It's called psychometry,” I said with a growl in my voice. He knew this, but he had to have me say it for the record.

  He glanced at his folder again, then asked, “Did you have any reason to want Mr. Mitchell dead?”

  “What?! No!” I blurted out. “I barely knew him except as someone who was at many of our band performances. Oh, yeah, and I danced with him at a wedding. That was it.”

  He tapped his folder a couple of times. “Where were you on January eighteenth and nineteenth?”

  I gaped at him. I'm supposed to know off the top of my head. Unless it was a spectacular date, I couldn't recall. “May I consult my phone for my calendar?”

  He nodded, a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. Bastard!

  Pulling out my phone, I called up the schedule for that week. “I was at work from nine in the morning until three in the afternoon. I went home, fed the cat, then went to band rehearsals in the evening. I was with Ferris Halliday and Digby Norton until a little after ten when I went home. The only witness from that point on was my cat, although I have a few computer messages and a
browsing record that would show me on my home computer that night.” Shut up, my inner voice screamed at me. Don't answer unless you're asked.

  “How long have you known Mr. Halliday?” Moss asked out of nowhere.

  “Since my second year at UNR. That would be almost ten years.”

  “And Mr. Norton?” Moss made a note on a paper in the folder.

  “About the same.”

  “Would you characterize Mr. Halliday as short-tempered or irritable?”

  “No. He's usually pretty calm. Like everyone, he gets annoyed now and then, but not often.”

  “And your other bandmate?”

  “Digby is fun, likes to have a good time and rarely even gets cross. It's not in his DNA.”

  Dammit, were they going after my friends as well? This reminded me of the first time I'd been interviewed by Moss back when they thought I might be connected to Marielle's murder. It had been a long, draining day then, and they had been skeptical of my story. Luckily, Hernandez had believed me and it proved to be a breakthrough on the case. After that, I'd worked pretty well with the two detectives on a couple of cases and they'd kept my secret. Now, I wasn't so sure it was safe.

  “Would either of them have any cause to hurt Mr. Mitchell?”

  Well, crap, how did I answer that? “No, I don't believe so unless they were threatened.”

  “Did Mr. Halliday shove Mr. Mitchell at the party you played at?”

  “I told you he did,” I answered, seeing the trap he was leading me into. “Mr. Mitchell made advances toward me and I pushed him away and he tried to touch me again, and Ferris stepped in. That's all there was to it.”

  Moss gave Hernandez a sign and the silent detective turned off the recorder.

  “I'm sorry about the third degree,” Moss said. “Unfortunately, it’s necessary under the circumstances.”

  “Really?” I scooted back in my chair, an annoyed expression clouding my face. I swallowed more water.

  “I have to treat you the same as any other person who had contact with Mr. Mitchell, particularly since his ex-fiancée claimed you were the reason for their breakup.”