Chasing Morgan

by Jennifer Ryan

  “This isn’t good.”

  “Murder usually isn’t,” Tyler said from behind her. He’d been taking in the entire scene while keeping a close watch on Morgan. So far, she seemed fine. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  “That’s not what I mean. There’s no anger here. No rage. The two things you’d associate with someone strangling another person.” Tyler moved to the side of her, and Morgan went still when she felt the cold air on the back of her neck, raising the fine hairs on end and replacing Tyler’s warmth. Now someone else stood behind her, someone not of this earth.

  He’s coming for you, the breeze at the back of her neck whispered into her ear.

  “Do you know who he is?” she asked the room at large.

  Sam answered without even thinking. “You know we don’t.”

  “How come you don’t know?” Detective Stewart asked as he joined them. “I thought you were here to tell us,” he said sarcastically.

  “I wasn’t talking to you guys. I was talking to her.”

  Sam and Tyler exchanged glances. Detective Stewart rolled his eyes.

  Tyler asked the obvious question. “Can you talk to her?”

  “Yes. She’s here.”

  “Yeah, right.” Stewart wasn’t going to stand around in the middle of investigating a murder and listen to some psychic witch spout off about a ghost in the room.

  “Stinky Stewart, shut up. I came here because you involved me by giving my name to the press and the murderer. If you give me a few minutes, I’ll tell you what I know. And then, I’ll leave.”

  He hadn’t heard that terrible nickname since grade school. He’d been an outcast even as a small child and always felt like an outsider and the other kids sensed it. They’d given him the nickname in the first grade. He’d hated it then, but not as much as hearing her use it now. It did, however, have the desired effect. She couldn’t have known about the name unless she was psychic. He didn’t comment, or acknowledge he’d even heard the name, except to keep his mouth closed and let her have her few minutes.

  Tyler and Sam didn’t say a word. Morgan’s tone didn’t call for comment, and neither did the implication that she knew something about Stewart he’d rather keep quiet. Everyone went silent when Morgan walked around the table and stared down at the body of the woman, whose ghost lingered.

  Morgan sighed heavily. “The other psychics he’s killed weren’t as gifted, or gifted at all with the sight. She had a serious brain injury as a child. She woke up from a coma with the sight.”

  “Did she tell you this?” Tyler asked softly, unsure what to believe.

  Morgan smiled. “Still have a hard time believing in me. Yes, Tyler. Remember the rose princess. She left you a gift after you found her. Is it so hard to believe this woman . . .”

  Cheryl, she heard from behind her.

  “Cheryl is here with us now, and I can hear her.”

  “Cheryl?” Detective Stewart asked. “We haven’t identified her as of yet. We’ve only found information on Rose, the alias the woman used as part of her gimmick for the shop.”

  “Nobody wants a psychic named Cheryl when they’re looking for fun, or spiritual guidance, so she used the name Rose for the shop. He came in and asked for a reading. He knew she was different because she charged more. You’ll find a fifty-dollar bill underneath her. It’ll be your best bet for the man’s fingerprints.”

  She stood still as a statue, her eyes on the wall, opened herself, and in an unusual neutral voice she recounted the events as she saw them, like she was watching a movie on an imaginary screen.

  “Cheryl brought him back here. They sat at the table. She asked him what he wanted to know. He told her he needed to find me.”

  “I want to know where the psychic Morgan is. I want to know if she’s coming after me. I want to know if she sees me.”

  Morgan didn’t realize she spoke the words in an odd voice to everyone in the room.

  Her voice changed again.

  “Morgan seeks you out only to discover who you are. If you weren’t seeking her, she wouldn’t seek you. You started it, and she will finish it.”

  “Does she know me?”

  “Cheryl looked up from the crystal ball and into the eyes of a killer. Calm, his eyes were black as night, and just as cold as winter.”

  “She seeks the killer that you’ve become, not the one you try to hide. She doesn’t remember the past. It’s the present and the future she seeks. She’s coming for you. She’ll stop you.”

  “No!”

  “He leaped across the table and grabbed her around the throat. The chair fell back and they were on the floor. The crystal ball fell, and she watched it roll across the floor as her life left her body. She called out to me.”

  Morgan, he’s outside. He’s waiting for you. He knows you’re here. The soft voice came from beside her, as if someone stood right there.

  Morgan turned around abruptly, her eyes the darkest blue Tyler had ever seen them. She didn’t see him. She stared through him. He didn’t panic until she ran out of the room and toward the front door of the shop.

  She yelled over her shoulder, “He’s here. He’s waiting outside for me.”

  She made it out onto the sidewalk before Tyler grabbed her from behind and hauled her body against his chest. People gathered behind the yellow crime tape. All of them stared at her and Tyler. She tried to break free and scan every face in the crowd. She dragged Tyler several steps out into the street. Reporters yelled her name and threw out questions. She didn’t even realize they’d heard Tyler call out for her to wait when they arrived. Now, they knew she was here, and so did the killer. She just had to find him in the sea of faces.

  She caught a glimpse of him as he turned from the group and walked away. Free of the crush of people, he ran up an alley.

  “There. Blue jacket. He’s over there.”

  “Stay here,” Tyler demanded, and he and Sam took off through the crowd of people and went after the man they’d barely gotten a glimpse of as he ducked into the alley. Their only hope was that it was a dead end.

  They ran between the buildings as fast as they could. They didn’t see the man and had to take precautions not to walk right into a bullet, or anything else. Several shop doors lined the alley. All locked up tight. Dumpsters and trash provided several hiding places. They made their way, scanning every nook and dark crevice. They emerged onto a busy sidewalk and street with several other alleyways and streets leading off it. Their man got away, blended into the pedestrian traffic, disappeared down another avenue, or inside one of the many stores. The police would canvas the area, but both Sam and Tyler doubted they’d find anything. None of them had seen the man clearly.

  “Morgan can work with a sketch artist, but it’s going to take hours to circulate the picture. He’s gone. For now,” Tyler vowed.

  Tyler!

  “Morgan,” he said out loud.

  “What about her?” Sam asked, confused by his stunned outburst.

  “I heard her. She just called to me.” He turned and raced back to the shop, hoping he hadn’t left her and the murderer had doubled back and taken her.

  His panic only rose when he got back to the police barricade and she wasn’t waiting for him. None of the officers knew where she went. Reporters called out asking to speak with her. He and Sam kept their faces covered with the lightweight ski caps. With FBI written across their jackets, no mistaking who they were. They needed to get out of there and preserve their identities. They worked undercover and couldn’t afford to have their faces splashed all over the news. But where was Morgan . . .

  They finally got their answer when they went back inside the building. The coroner had arrived. In the process of bagging the body, he informed them, “Stewart took her with him to work with a sketch artist after he saw the fifty-dollar bill lying under the body.”

  “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Just a few minutes. She put up quite a fuss about going with him. She kept telling him she cou
ldn’t go into a police station. She said she wanted to wait for you two.”

  Sam and Tyler both knew why she wouldn’t want to go into a police station. No one ever went there because they were happy about something.

  “Shit!” Tyler said frustrated. “She can’t go in there. When I get my hands on Stewart, I’ll kill him.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  * * *

  “TYLER’S GOING TO wonder where I am,” Morgan said nervously.

  “He’ll be here soon. He and Sam will tie up all the loose ends at the scene. That’s their job. It’ll take them a while to coordinate everything with my partner, Detective Rasmussen. That will give us time to do the sketch of the suspect. Maybe we’ll finally have something to work with. If you’re right,” he added.

  “I’ll do the sketch, but I’m not going into the police station. You don’t understand; that will only make things worse. I won’t be able to function in there. It’ll be too overwhelming.”

  Stewart rolled his eyes. “You’ll be fine. I’ll set you up in an office, and you’ll do the sketch,” he ordered.

  They arrived and the closer they got to the door, the more she resisted. He finally clamped a hand over her wrist and dragged her up the steps and through the door, ignoring her attempts to pull free.

  “Let me go. I can’t go in there.”

  Several people waited in what could only be described as a reception area. An officer sat behind a short wall, typing on a computer, and ignoring the many people around him all asking for assistance. Several bench seats were pushed up against the walls, filled with waiting people. Some were just everyday people dressed in work clothes, a couple homeless people looking to get in out of the cold, and others who seemed to be the people most likely to be arrested. A couple prostitutes and a few thugs looked like they’d rather be anywhere than a police station. The odor of burnt coffee and unwashed bodies hung in the air.

  The girl caught her attention. Of all the feelings of anger and desperation in the room, her despair washed over Morgan and took hold. She tried to pull away from Detective Stewart, but he wouldn’t let her go and dragged her behind him. He walked her up to the man behind the wall.

  “Is the sketch artist here yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Detective Stewart, if you don’t want me to find out other embarrassing things about you besides your nickname, you’ll let me go. Now.” Morgan didn’t care about the sketch artist. She focused on the girl. About fifteen, she sat with her head down and her hands folded in her lap. She didn’t lean back in her seat, but crouched over as if sitting in a pew praying. Morgan heard her prayer.

  Someone, please help me.

  “Who is that girl?” she asked the sergeant.

  He looked up at the crowd, then back to Morgan. “I see the same people I see all the time. The faces might change, but the general array of characters remains the same.” He nodded to the girl. “All, except her. She comes in all the time. Sits there for hours. She doesn’t talk to anyone. I’ve seen her so many times before, now she just blends into the room.

  “I think she needs a place to hang out while her parents are working, or something. She doesn’t look like she lives on the streets. She’s got good clothes and almost new shoes.” He pointed to her feet with a pen.

  Morgan frowned. This man could notice so much about the girl and not see what was right in front of him. She was scared to talk to anyone.

  Morgan took two steps to go to the girl, but stopped short when Stewart blocked her path.

  “We’ve got work to do. We aren’t here to befriend little girls looking for a place to hang out. Why isn’t she at the mall?”

  “Because she came here for help.”

  The sergeant looked up from his computer. “She doesn’t make any trouble, sits there quiet as a mouse, so I let her be.”

  “Did you ever ask her if she needed anything?”

  “I did once. She just looked at me. She didn’t say a word.” He shrugged. “I’m not a babysitter to every young person who comes into the precinct. I have a job to do and taking care of wayward kids isn’t one of them.”

  She wouldn’t ask for help out loud. She’s too scared to talk to a man.

  Morgan turned back to the girl. She lifted her face and caught Morgan’s eye. Morgan about fell to her knees when the visions hit her, one after another. Unspeakable abuse inflicted upon a fragile, innocent girl. Tears slid down Morgan’s face.

  Stewart saw the tears and let go of her arm. She walked across the room to the girl. Small, timid, about five-foot-one, dressed in jeans and a long-sleeve white T-shirt. Her brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Her sad eyes got to her. She looked at Morgan coming toward her like a lost puppy looks at its mother.

  Morgan stood before the little girl and waited for her to speak. She didn’t, and Morgan knew she wouldn’t. She waited for someone to send her away. She didn’t believe anyone would help her, though she sat praying for that very thing.

  “My name is Morgan. I will help you.”

  All the girl needed to hear. She stood and wrapped her arms around Morgan and held on for dear life. She didn’t want to let her go and find that she was there one minute and gone the next, as if she’d conjured her up in her mind like she’d thought so many times. She’d sat in that chair praying someone would help. She’d imagined someone would see her pain and make it all go away.

  Today. Finally. Her prayers had been answered. This woman saw what no one else saw. This woman knew the unspeakable. This woman knew it without her saying anything, because she couldn’t say the words.

  The girl trembled in Morgan’s arms. She might be a teenager, but she was all little girl. Frightened to the point she’d never matured into an independent and vibrant teen. Her world was filled with dark secrets, and an overwhelming demand not to speak the truth, for to do so held the threat of even greater pain. Her only teenage defiance was coming to the police station time and again hoping for help. If she were found out, it would spell disaster for her, and even the possibility of death.

  Morgan turned the little girl’s back to the sergeant and Stewart. She held onto the girl with a good grasp, though hers was much softer and more comforting than that of the little girl, and for good reason.

  “Detective Stewart, would you please find me a female officer. We need someone who is soft-spoken, patient, and caring. This little girl needs our help.” To prove her point, she lifted the back of the girl’s shirt a mere two inches. The bruises and other marks were unmistakable. Both Stewart and the sergeant sucked in shocked breaths and understood immediately. Neither said a word as they went to get a female officer.

  Morgan stood with her arms around the girl. She didn’t speak. She didn’t cry. She just held on and trembled with fear her head pressed to Morgan’s chest over her breaking heart.

  The three officers returned. The new blond officer, a woman, had a soft face. Her eyes were blue, and although she looked to be all business, when she smiled at the girl, she looked welcoming.

  “I’m Officer McCormick. I understand you need my help.”

  Morgan liked her immediately. She’d said just the right thing to get the girl’s attention and a chance for trust.

  “Officer McCormick. I’m Morgan Standish.”

  “There’s no introduction needed. We’ve all heard about you around here. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Morgan felt just as welcome, as if she’d been invited to dinner.

  “This is”—she looked down at the girl in her arms and heard her say in her mind, Leslie—“Leslie.” Morgan looked into the girl’s eyes and waited for the questions to come. She asked one question. The most important one to Leslie.

  Did God send you?

  “Yes, he did, honey. I’m going to speak for you because you can’t speak for yourself. Understand?”

  The little girl nodded.

  Morgan looked at the three police officers standing by waiting. She noticed others had been informed she was
in the building. They stared with curiosity. Apparently, the infamous psychic had arrived.

  “What did she say?” Officer McCormick asked.

  No one actually heard Leslie speak, but Morgan heard her just the same. “She asked if God sent me. I think my being here was certainly meant to be. Leslie needs help, and I’m here to make sure she gets it.”

  “She will,” Officer McCormick agreed. “Let’s move into one of the rooms back here. They’re quiet, and we can talk.”

  Officer McCormick led the way while Morgan and the girl walked behind her. Morgan never let go of the girl, and the girl never let go of Morgan. Though many people stared as they made their way to an interrogation room, no one said a word. They all made way for the psychic, who heard a little girl speak, even though she’d never said a word.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  * * *

  “MORGAN’S BEEN AT the police station for nearly three hours,” Tyler said for the second time in ten minutes.

  “She’s helping out one of the officers with a child. I’m sure she’s fine,” Sam assured Tyler.

  “I don’t think she’s fine. You don’t think she’s fine.”

  “Why do you say that?” Sam asked.

  “Because you’re doing fifty in a thirty-five zone. You’re as anxious as I am.”

  Sam didn’t deny it. Anxious, jumpy, they needed to get to Morgan and make sure she was okay. Stewart had been vague, avoiding Tyler’s pointed questions about why he’d kept Morgan at the station so long. Still, Stewart’s tone held an edge.

  Tyler didn’t trust the bastard. Stewart left something out. Something he didn’t want them to know about Morgan and what was happening at the precinct.

  They’d spent the last three hours directing the officers in a neighborhood canvas trying to find the murderer. Stewart managed to send them a copy of the sketch the police artist completed before Morgan assisted with the child. They’d been surprised to get one so quickly. Morgan had been right. The guy was ordinary. Nothing distinguished him from a thousand other men, although the sketch and her description were very good.