by Debra Webb
Even at five, the children knew there was absolutely nothing special about Mondays.
AT 4:30 P.M., Darby slowed the momentum of her bike in front of an antebellum home in the Lower Garden District. She stopped on the side of the street, propping her weight against the curb with her right foot, keeping her left on the pedal to facilitate a hasty departure.
Corinthian fluted columns supported the home’s double gallery. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the last of the sun’s warming rays to tumble across its floors. She didn’t have to get off her bike and walk to the rear of the property to know that lovely gardens, bordered by brick walks with a bubbling fountain in the center, graced the backyard. Though sorely out of place in its nineteenth-century setting, a colorful metal swing set—red, yellow and blue—stood proudly in the middle of it all.
Yellow crime scene tape sprawled across the front of the property, flapping in the wind, its middle sagging and giving the appearance of a sinister smile.
This was the home where Allison Cook lived…the yard where she’d been playing when she disappeared.
A shadow moved through the lush shrubbery. Male, she knew, but she couldn’t see his face. Yet his voice was familiar. She heard that raspy, evil voice in her dreams. No one can save the children. They belong to me. One, two, I’m coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door.
Darby shuddered, pushed the voice away. She stared at the bushes where her mind had conjured the image of the shadow. Did the police know that he’d been hiding there? He’d watched until it was safe to grab the little girl. She concentrated hard, tried to see how he’d hushed the child. An inhalant. Quick, painless. The child would slump helplessly in his arms.
Her fingers tightened on the handlebars. How long did he watch the children before he made a move? Where did he take them afterwards? If she could see, if she dared to really look, maybe she could save the ones who weren’t dead…yet.
The latest victim was still alive, but she couldn’t sense anything definite about the others.
“Move along, ma’am.”
Darby jumped at the sound of the harshly barked order. Uniformed policeman. NOPD.
“This isn’t a sideshow,” he snapped impatiently. “Have some respect for the family. Now move along!”
Darby blinked, dragged her sluggish mind from the trance she’d slipped into. She had to go. The realization that a cop was speaking to her, the visual implications of his uniform and the cruiser parked a few feet away, suddenly cracked through the haze.
“I’m sorry…I…” She looked back at the house one last time. The sound of weeping, the weight of overwhelming anguish, abruptly echoed through her soul.
“Let’s see some ID.”
Another voice.
Male.
Darby’s gaze collided with dark brown eyes that were methodically sizing her up. The eyes belonged to a man dressed in a suit. A cop, too, she realized when he flashed his badge.
“I’m Detective Willis. Let’s see some identification, ma’am.”
Still feeling dazed, she fumbled in her satchel for her wallet. She showed him her driver’s license and waited for him to ask the questions that would come next.
“Ms. Shepard, what brings you to this neighborhood?”
He wouldn’t want to hear the truth. “I was on my way home.” She mentally grappled for an excuse to be on this street. “I thought I’d stop by Sardi’s Deli.” She knew the place. It was only a few blocks away. Though there were delis close to home, he couldn’t prove that she hadn’t been headed to this particular one for one reason or another.
He studied her a moment longer as she put her wallet away. She could feel him assessing her, deciding if her excuse was legitimate or warranted further questioning.
Realization struck her then. They were desperate for a lead in this case. They were hoping the perpetrator would show up at the scene of the crime again. Perhaps to get a look at the grieving parents. He would so love that. The children belonged to him now.
Her senses went on alert as the detective reached into the interior pocket of his jacket. She held very still so as not to give away her edginess. When his hand came back into view, he held a small white business card.
“Why don’t you call me if you think of anything from your observations that might assist us in this case.” The statement was made grudgingly, but the look of desperation in his eyes didn’t back up his indifferent tone.
Darby reached for the card, her fingers brushed his and in that one instant she felt his pain, his fear. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to solve this mystery. Pain at having watched the autopsy of one dead child, fear that another might follow soon.
She nodded. “Sure,” was all she could manage.
Pushing off with her left foot, she sped away from the Cook home and the lawmen stationed there. Four children…one found murdered. How many more would be sacrificed before they stopped this madman?
Trying hard to think of anything but those helpless children, Darby rushed home, pushing herself to the limit. By the time she reached Cohn Street, her legs ached, her lungs burned. She lugged her bike onto the porch that fronted the shotgun house she called home. The place had been divided into two apartments. Hers was the one-bedroom on the left side. Her neighbor, a stewardess who spent a lot of time away from home, occupied the two-bedroom on the right. The place had a small but nice yard that the landlord went to great lengths to keep looking sharp. He’d won the city’s beautification award for rental property several years running. Inside, hardwood floors, ancient yet well-maintained fixtures and a gas fireplace provided the primary details Darby had been looking for when she found the place.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside the cool dark interior. Wizard, her tomcat, met her at the door. He yowled and wound himself around her legs, tail twitching. Darby tossed her satchel aside and ushered Wiz out the door. She’d had him neutered long ago so he wouldn’t wander far.
Without bothering with lights, she went straight to her bedroom to change out of “teacher” wear. Jeans and T-shirts were her preferred attire.
I’m coming for you.
The words whispered through the darkness, sending fear snaking around her chest.
Darby closed her eyes and forced all thought of the missing children from her mind. This was why she never looked, never allowed herself to see. Once it got started, she couldn’t stop it. She couldn’t let the visions…the dreams…take control of her life. Not again. She’d allowed that to happen once. Thank God she’d still been at home with her parents then. They’d protected her. But there was no one to protect her now.
Better lock your door.
Darby turned on the shower, stripped off her clothes and stepped beneath the spray of water. She focused on the feel of the hot water pelting her skin. She blocked all other sensory perception. She would not see, would not hear. There was nothing she could do to help those children. The dreams were never complete. Just enough information came to torture her with sounds and sensations. Never enough to help. It had always been that way.
And even if she could see, how would she ever convince the police to believe her?
She had to let it go. There wasn’t enough information to make a difference. She sensed snippets, voices, images, but there were never sufficient pieces of the puzzle to put it together. Back in junior high school, when her parents had spent the weekend coddling her after a fierce “dream” episode, she had promised herself she would never let the dreams take control again. The record of her “episode” was no doubt included in her school transcript. Crazy. Out of control. Talking nonsense.
The episodes had always been there, even before her real life had begun. Darby braced her hands against the slick tile walls and thought back to her early childhood. That place. The white lab coats and the constant poking and prodding. The only thing she could figure out from that time was that she’d been a part of some sort of experiment. She’d lived at this place hidden away in the mountains. A hospi
tal or clinic. They’d called it Center. She remembered the word, the place, but not in detail.
Her gut told her she’d been born there and would never have escaped if she hadn’t played the game she’d devised. Fear knotted inside her at even the thought of being back there again. She had known somehow, had sensed, that her future depended upon her not being able to perform as they required. All she’d had to do was pretend she didn’t see, that she didn’t understand.
When all means to prompt what the men in the white lab coats had obviously thought to be her hidden talent failed, they had sent her away.
At first, she hadn’t been able to remember Center or the men in the white coats. She’d been adopted by a nice family in New Orleans, the Shepards, and for a while she’d drifted in a sea of nothingness. It was as if she’d been born the day they brought her to their home. Only instead of being an infant, she’d been ten years old. Gradually, a few meager memories of her time before had come to her in dreams and visions, the very ones she struggled not to see to this day.
As a result of the intense episode in her junior high days, her adopted parents had insisted that she be evaluated. The evaluation had shaken loose even more of her hidden past, but she’d never told anyone. The psychologist had considered her “episode” a traumatic event brought on by puberty and had prescribed medication. Darby had carried those tranquilizers with her since. Whenever she felt control slipping, she took them faithfully for a few nights. The nagging dreams would stop. Her refusal to look, enabled by the medication, kept her sane most of the time.
Now and again, the struggle to focus on the here and now rather than on some stranger’s immediate past was nearly more than she could bear. The fight to keep the portal closed was a constant battle.
Darby twisted the knobs to the Off position and reached for her towel. Now, she decided, was a perfect time for that extra help. She’d been extremely lucky for several years now. She’d been able to control those heightened senses without the medication. But her usual means weren’t working. The voices and images kept coming, tearing her apart and at the same time telling her nothing.
She couldn’t risk another psychotic break like the one she’d experienced all those years ago. The adoptive parents who’d loved and cared for her were gone now, leaving her on her own. Alone with no protection, no support system.
She had to be strong, had to protect herself.
Wrapping the towel around her, she headed to the kitchen in search of the pills that would make the voices and images go away.
She filled a glass with water and unscrewed the childproof lid on the bottle. As much as she hated running from anything, she understood the necessity in this case. She couldn’t lose control under any circumstances. There was no one to protect her from the voices and the images. No one to protect her from the men in the white lab coats.
If they learned where she was and that she had fooled them all those years ago, they would come for her. She knew things, though she didn’t understand what any of it meant, that she shouldn’t. With every fiber of her being, she felt certain that if they ever found out she had the dreams, they would come.
Better lock your door.
Chapter Two
Darby stared at the front page of the Times-Picayune.
Third Child Missing—Police Have No Leads.
She took another long drink of water in an attempt to dampen her dry mouth. The pills left her with cottonmouth as well as a heck of a hangover. But they worked. She hadn’t dreamed at all last night. Even now, staring at the headline, she felt nothing. Numb maybe, but that didn’t count.
Tossing the newspaper aside, she pushed to her feet and gathered her satchel. She hated the medication, hated this feeling of nothingness. But it was better than the alternative, wasn’t it?
She dragged her fingers through her hair and sighed. Was it really? If she tried—really tried—could she see the man’s face? Could she help those children, assuming either of the last two taken was still alive? She just didn’t know. And, God, if she could help…she didn’t even want to think that way. The little Fairgate girl was dead. No one could help her now.
Work. She needed work to distract her. Having managed to wake up on time this morning, she was actually a little ahead of schedule. She’d take the scenic route this morning. Get some fresh air and exercise. That would clear her head.
Feeling better already, Darby hung the long strap of her satchel over her head and onto the opposite shoulder so it wouldn’t slip off and knock her off balance as she rode her bike. She said goodbye to Wiz and locked up her cozy apartment. After settling onto her bike, she took Broadway, then St. Charles over to Jefferson. The scenic route would be just the distraction she needed. She’d always loved the old homes and ancient live oaks that lined that street. There was just so much history there.
Darby wondered as she rode, the wind wafting her hair over her shoulders, if that’s what made her feel so at home in New Orleans. The sense of history, of old souls hanging about. Some might find that odd, eerie even, but not Darby. She liked the feeling of being close to such a colorful and varied past.
There was no place in America like New Orleans.
When she’d been a teenager she’d sneaked into Lafayette Cemetery with some of her friends. The others had gotten spooked and ran for their lives, but she’d been enthralled with the City of the Dead. It had seemed mystical, healing. She hadn’t felt the least bit frightened. Maybe because she understood the ambience there. She sensed the energy left behind by those who’d come before her. It wasn’t good or evil spirits, as her friends had assumed. No ghosts. Just the essence left behind by all those souls who’d once walked this same earth. People had nothing to fear from the dead; it was the living who committed crimes.
Clairvoyance was vastly misunderstood, to Darby’s way of thinking. Though she hadn’t precisely studied it and definitely hadn’t spoken to anyone about it, she understood her particular talent. Perhaps it was different for others. She possessed no ability to speak with the dead or even the living, other than by the usual means. She merely felt things on a much more heightened level than other humans. Sometimes she wondered if she actually was…human. The dreams she experienced at times reminded her of things that she’d seen in the movies. She wondered on those occasions just what they had done to her at that place…Center.
She shook off the silly notion. Yes, she was human. Her personal physician would vouch for that. Though she’d never been sick, she had had the required physicals throughout her life. When she thought about it, the idea that she’d never had the first virus or typical childhood illness could be seen as odd. Dr. Tygart simply chalked it up to good genes.
The memory of the one accident she’d had as a kid followed on the heels of that. She’d broken her arm falling from a tree. It had hurt for a day or two. Dr. Tygart had been amazed at how quickly she healed. Practically overnight. Again, he’d raved about how lucky she was to have inherited such excellent genetic traits.
She’d read about genetic manipulation, had heard about designer babies. Who hadn’t? But she was twenty-six years old. Scientists hadn’t had the technology to do such things that many years ago.
Frowning, Darby dismissed that line of thinking as well. Obsessing about her murky past was not the kind of distraction she’d had in mind this morning when she’d taken this longer route.
Directing her attention back to the lovely historic homes, she admired the craftsmanship and felt blessed that those with the money and wherewithal had chosen to maintain the beauty of the Old South. She’d even thought at one time of going into the antiques business with her mother. But after the accident, she just hadn’t been able to bring herself to set foot back in that shop. Nor had she been able to sell it. So she leased the elegant Jackson Square shop and someone else made his living in antiques there. She’d closed up the big old house outside of town, promising herself she’d move there one day and have a large enough family to fill it. Every summer, she
spent a couple of weeks in her parents’ home, airing the place out and removing a year’s worth of dust.
Even after five long years, she could still feel their presence there. Too strongly. Unlike the cemeteries, where the lingering essence of so many pressed in around her without disturbing her, this was different. It was deeply personal, more than she could bear. Maybe in time.
Darby stopped for a coffee and beignet. The powdered sugar melted in her mouth; the beignet tasted so good she had to lick her fingers. Feeling energized by the caffeine and sugar fix, she covered the rest of the journey in record time. The usual fortune-tellers, street charlatans and tourists had already gotten thick on the sidewalk.
She parked her bike and merged with a group of children to climb the massive stone steps to the school’s front entrance. A smile moved across her face and she realized then and there that going back on the medication had been the right thing to do. She loved her work, loved her life; she didn’t need the unnatural interference of the dreams. It would serve no purpose, since she had never once been able to harness the power she possessed and focus it precisely enough to make any sense of what she experienced.
Her so-called “gift” was useless.
Had she had any real talent, she might have prevented her parents from taking that weekend trip that took their lives. An unexpected college project was all that had prevented her from boarding that fishing boat with them. What good was a gift if you couldn’t help those you cared about?
The moment Darby entered the school’s enormous main hall, a heavy weight settled upon her like a casket covered with shovelful after shovelful of graveyard dirt. Sadness. Desperation. Or a combination of the two. The halls and rooms were oddly quiet. Even the children seemed to rush to their rooms as if they’d felt the same dark weight as she.
