by M. Leighton
“I don’t want to do that to you, Mercy. You—”
“That’s the only way I’m leaving. It’s either that or we’re staying.”
Billie looked at me, exasperated, but I could tell that she really wanted to stay with Matt. “Alright. Give me five minutes and I’ll be right back, ok?”
“Ok.”
Could this really be happening to me? Was I somehow able to influence people with my thoughts? How? Why now? Did it have something to do with my visions? Or, worse, did it have something to do with my dreams?
I looked over at one of the small groups of guys that still littered the lawn. Two of them were smoking and one had just thrown his cigarette butt onto the ground. I thought he looked like an easy enough target for a harmless experiment.
With all my energy, I focused on him and thought that he should really pick up his cigarette butt. Over and over in my head I thought about it until finally the guy turned to look at the still-smoking butt.
He watched it for several seconds before he backed away from the group, walked to the butt, bent down and picked it up. He stood holding it, looking a little confused. I’m sure he was wondering what he was supposed to do with it now. I saw a tiny frown crease his brow before he threw it down again and went back to the group.
It was then that I admitted to myself that, to some extent, I could influence other people’s thoughts with my own.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Not long after she’d left, Billie returned with Matt in tow. We all walked to her car and she drove me home.
“Are you sure about this?” she asked. We’d arrived at my house and she pushed the gear shift into park.
“I’m positive. You guys go have fun. I’m going to bed. It’s been a long week.”
I could see the indecision in Billie’s eyes. She wanted so badly to be with Matt, but she felt an obligation to me. I got out of the car, leaned down to her window and smiled the biggest smile I could manage. “You two get out of here. You haven’t seen each other in ages. Go catch up and just call me tomorrow, k?”
That seemed to sway her a little, but when she still hesitated, I concentrated as hard as I could on how much I wanted her to go and have fun with Matt. Within a few seconds, Billie’s face relaxed and a happy smile spread across her lips. I was a little surprised and a little thrilled that it worked. It seemed almost ridiculous to even consider that I could do that to people, but I was really starting to believe it.
She winked at me and shifted into drive. “Alright. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
I watched as she pulled out of the driveway. When I could no longer see the lights from her car, I made my way into the house and collapsed on my bed.
********
I spent the majority of Sunday with Billie. We got a coffee, did a little shopping then got some lunch at Panera Bread. After a detailed account of her conversations (and other activities) with Matt, she spent the rest of the day regaling me with tales of her college life. It sounded in no way similar to mine. And I knew it had nothing to do with the school or the fact that she was away from home. It was simply the difference between me and Billie. She’d probably have similar stories if she’d stayed and gone to University East with me.
She left at 3:30, having to cart all the stuff her parents got her back to her dorm and put it away. Plus there was some kind of party she wanted to attend after that. That’s Billie. Always the social butterfly.
I slept fairly well Sunday night and awoke Monday morning feeling nearly ready for the day.
As soon as I walked out the front door, I started thinking to myself how I hoped that Jake wouldn’t be jogging today and how he wouldn’t want to walk me to class anymore. I didn’t know how my influence worked really, whether I had to be within a certain distance or what, but I was willing to try anyway.
The incident at the party had been a shocking reality check for me. Though Jake was good looking, athletic, popular and probably had a bright future, he’d lost any appeal for me. I required a man with depth and it was depressingly apparent that he had none. He was a typical college guy and that was something I could do without.
I was relieved when I reached the sidewalk and he was nowhere to be found. I hurried along toward class and was pleased when I found myself safely seated in Dr. Bradbury’s room and there was still no sign of Jake. Maybe my trick had worked.
After class, I was crossing the quad in the direction of my next class when I saw a terrible commotion in front of another building. There was a huge horde of people hovering around what looked like several cops at the center of their group. I only had to change my course a tiny bit to get close enough to the crowd to see what was going on, so I did. I was no busy body, but I was just as curious as the next person. I planned just to get a quick glimpse of whatever was going on and then be on my way.
Shortly after I’d gotten to the edge of the crowd, the police began to move, making a path through the onlookers. I stepped back to allow people to shift, which put me near the end of what ended up being a line. I leaned forward to look and see what they were doing and when I did, I was stunned.
Jake Wheeler was handcuffed and flanked by two of the three cops that had apparently come for him. The third walked in front of him, clearing the way. Jake’s face was blood red and his hair was tousled. He looked either furious beyond description or like he was about to cry. I couldn’t tell which.
I could hear him saying through gritted teeth that they had the wrong guy. He kept saying it over and over and over, but the policemen ignored him. The one in front just called something quietly into the radio at his shoulder and they continued on their path to arresting Jake.
When the cops had led Jake away, a couple of guys in front were whispering to one another and I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “What happened?”
The one with glasses and terrible acne answered me first. “They just arrested Jake Wheeler.”
I wanted to say Duh!, but I didn’t. Instead, I turned my attention to the other guy, a fresh-faced boy who looked like he wasn’t a day over fifteen. “What did they arrest him for?”
“Killing his girlfriend, Lisa Bauer,” he said in his pre-pubescent voice.
I tried Jake’s image against the one that I had of Lisa’s killer and I just couldn’t get it to jibe. The hands I remembered from the vision just weren’t…Jake’s. Or maybe any man’s unless he was a small guy with particularly fine bones. And what about the wig? The girl at the party hadn’t mentioned Jake as one of the masqueraders wearing a red wig.
For the rest of the day, amid the buzz of speculation about Jake, I replayed the images I’d seen of Lisa’s murder. The more I tried to visualize what I’d seen, the more confused I got. It’s amazing how you can talk yourself into or out of things if you think about them long enough. It did, however, serve as an incredibly effective motivator to call Detective Grayson. I might not be onto anything at all and he might not tell me even if I was, but I had to at least try.
In a flash of devilish insight, I thought to myself that maybe I ought to try to work my “magic” on Detective Grayson. A stab of conscience reared its ugly head, telling me that doing something like that was hardly ethical, but I quickly buried it.
Later, on my way home, I focused all my energy on Grayson, concentrating on how I wished he would tell me everything about the case, on how he wanted to tell me everything about the case.
Walking through the kitchen and dialing his number at the same time, I couldn’t help thinking how handy a nifty little ability like this could be if it worked.
As the phone rang, I thought of all the benefits of being able to bend people to my will. The thrill of it, the pleasure of it, the high of it! When my conscience rose to the surface again, it barely made a peep before I easily squashed it back down into silence.
My stomach fluttered nervously when Grayson answered his phone. I introduced myself much as I had each time I’d talked to him.
He sighed, one of the sounds that gav
e the impression he felt incredibly put-upon. “What is it, Ms. Holloway?”
Though his reaction irritated me, I kept myself in check, not wanting to blow my chance to learn something. “I saw that they arrested Jake Wheeler today and I just wanted to see if anything I told you was helpful.”
That sounded weak, but it was the best I could come up with. I hadn’t given much thought as to how I’d start the conversation. I almost expected him to just start gushing details as soon as he heard my voice. Obviously, Detective Grayson wasn’t an easy target.
“Yes, you’ve been very helpful,” he said, answering my question, but not in the way I wanted.
“But you must’ve found something else then, something concrete that gave you enough to arrest him, right?”
“Yes, that’s usually the way it works.”
“So, you must’ve determined that Jake was one of the ones wearing a wig.”
“We did.”
“And you must’ve found it then.”
“We did. And it was an exact match to the hair we found on Lisa and beside the rock. They went to the party dressed as Tony Stark and Black Widow, only with a twist because she was Tony and he was Black Widow.”
I thought about what he was saying. Evidently they had enough proof to arrest Jake, which was pretty compelling. But something just wasn’t quite right. I still couldn’t picture Jake as the person I’d glimpsed choking Lisa.
“That’s great, Detective Grayson, but—”
“Just Grayson,” he interrupted.
“That’s great, Grayson, but I just don’t think it was Jake Wheeler that killed Lisa. His hands are too big. The killer’s were just…I don’t know. Finer, I guess.”
“Well, we have evidence that says otherwise.”
“Did you find the gloves with the rest of his costume?”
There was a tiny pause, one that I took as a bit of uncertainty. “No, no gloves were recovered from Wheeler’s apartment. Why?”
“It’s just that the killer’s gloves would probably have had some scratches from Lisa’s fingernails. She was really clawing at them to break free of the choke.”
“He could’ve ditched them.”
“But not the wig? That makes no sense. Why would he do that?”
“I don’t know. Who knows why homicidal maniacs do the things they do. They just do.”
“I- I still don’t believe it was Jake.”
“Look, Ms. Holloway, I know you have an…interest in him, but—”
I interrupted him, surprised. “He just walked me to class a few times. He said it wasn’t safe for me to be walking through the woods alone after what had happened. It was nothing more than that.” And, though that hadn’t always been entirely true, it certainly was now. My feelings for Jake were truly nothing more than friendly at this point.
“Right,” Grayson said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
I don’t know why, but suddenly I was desperate to convince Grayson that I didn’t have feelings for Jake.
“I’m telling you the truth. I might’ve thought he was handsome and nice, but after—” I stopped myself, not wanting to admit that my feelings for him had changed after he’d blown me off at a party.
“After what?”
“I just saw him at a party and he’s not my type. That’s all.”
“Right,” Grayson said again.
“Look, I just don’t want for you to imprison the wrong person and let the real killer go free. Are you absolutely certain that Jake Wheeler is the killer?”
“If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t have arrested him. You have to keep in mind, Ms. Holloway, that anyone, and I mean anyone, is capable of murder under the right circumstances.”
With a sigh, I thought maybe I’d better leave well enough alone for now. “Alright,” I acquiesced. It was obviously harder than that to plant a seed of doubt in this cop’s head. I’d have to think of something else later. “So, any progress on Ashton Webber?”
“Nothing I can discuss,” he said sharply.
“Oh, I understand,” I fibbed, irritated. “Thanks for your time, Detective Grayson.” And with that childish dig, I hung up.
I stayed in my room most of the evening, coming out only for dinner. For some reason, my mother’s happy chatter was grating on my nerves like it never had before. I thought it best to just hide and keep to myself until my mood wore off.
Only it didn’t. It seemed that my temper was getting pricklier and pricklier, becoming easier and easier to tap into.
I read chapter after chapter of my abnormal psychology book to keep my mind occupied. Finally I fell asleep, fully clothed and on top of the covers.
If I had been dreaming, I couldn’t remember what it was about. I just remember that strange flickering like bad reception and then I was standing in front of another motel window, just like I had dreamed before.
This window was covered with material patterned in a wavy blue and red stripe. The curtains were closed, but not completely. Through the tiny gap, I could see part of a tacky green neon sign. The letters HAR were visible and below that HO. The last of each word was cut off by the curtains. I tried to lift my hand to further part the panels, but my limbs weren’t obeying my commands.
I turned toward the bed. There were two small lights mounted to the wall on either side of the headboard. Both were shining brightly down upon the girl that lay upon the stained white sheets.
She was hooded, just like the last girl had been, only this one had dark hair peeking out from beneath. She wore running shorts and a women’s athletic tank top both in royal blue. She was petite, much like the other girl had been, and her wrists and ankles were bound with duct tape as well.
I walked to the side of the bed to stand above her. I could see her chest heaving as she breathed. It was hard to tell if she was panting in fear or crying. I couldn’t hear anything.
My arm, wrapped just as it had been before, rose to shoulder height and my hand hovered over her body, fingers splayed. Something washed over me, like warm ocean waves, causing the hairs on my arms and legs to stand up. The girl started shaking her head frantically back and forth and then her body started to buck against the bed as if she was having a seizure. She arched her back and beat at her head with her bound hands. I could see the tendons straining in her neck and chest. She flailed and thrashed so hard the lights above the headboard shook. And then she went still.
My arm dropped out of view and the girl’s head lolled to one side. As I watched, blood appeared at the bottom of the hood, running down her chin and dripping off onto the pillow.
I bent over and reached across her with my right hand. It held the same curved knife I’d used on the other girl. I counted down her ribs again and dipped my fingers between the fifth and sixth ribs. Placing the tip at an angle, I slid the knife in with one quick jab. She didn’t even react. Whatever I’d done to her, she was dead long before that knife entered her heart.
The rest of the dream played out the same. The same finger was severed and used to write a short message on the sheets beside her head. Only this time the words read FOR YOU.
With another short flicker, the scene was replaced by my bedroom ceiling. I was awake, lying flat on my back in bed and staring heavenward. My heart was racing and I felt on the verge of tears, despite the intense waves of pleasure that were still flooding my body.
Fighting the nausea that made my stomach lurch when I stood, I got up and dug my phone out of my bag and punched in Grayson’s number. I didn’t even glance at the clock; I didn’t care what time it was.
Though I knew it had to be the middle of the night, Grayson sounded alert when he answered. “Grayson.”
“It’s Mercy Holloway. I had another dream and- and—” My voice broke on a sob, but I quickly buried my emotions. “Another girl has been killed.”
I took big calming breaths in the silence that hung over the open line. I thought maybe the connection had been lost, but then I heard Grayson’s deep quiet voice. “Meet me outside.
I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
He hung up and I fell to my knees on the floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to block out the image of blood dripping from the girl’s chin onto the pillow, but it wouldn’t go away. And, when I thought of it, the pleasure returned. How could I feel pleasure at having killed someone? Even if it was a dream, if someone else was doing it, how could I find pleasure in that?
After several minutes I got up and brushed my teeth then crept outside to await Grayson. When I saw headlights coming down the street, I ducked behind the Jeep until I heard the vehicle slow. I peeked up to make sure it was Grayson and when I could make out the dark blue Charger, I walked to the road. He stopped and said quietly, “Get in.”
I walked around the hood and got in on the passenger side then he quietly accelerated down the street. He drove to a park that was only a mile or so from my house. He pulled into a spot near a dusk-to-dawn light and cut the engine.
