by Becky Durfee
A wave hit. Jenny closed her eyes, suddenly finding herself seated on a train, looking out the window. A couple stood there—Jacqueline Crespi and a dark-haired man who was trying to convince her to accept a present. She looked as if she didn’t want it, but he persisted, and she eventually wrapped her arms around the gift with a roll of her eyes. The man kissed her cheek; the expression on Jacqueline’s face indicated that it, too, was an unwelcome gesture. She got on the train without so much as a glance back in his direction, the gift tucked clumsily under her arm.
She took her seat next to Jenny, setting the large and awkward gift on the ground in front of her. The young woman flashed a quick, insincere smile in Jenny’s direction before sinking back into her chair and allowing the look of irritation to once again take over her face. The train started to move, and Jenny noticed the woman didn’t look out the window to return the overzealous wave of the man standing on the platform.
The vision subsided; Jenny opened her eyes to look over at Zack. “You said the youngest person to die in the train explosion was forty-four?”
“Yes,” he replied, “that’s what the article said.”
“And you wondered which one of those people had an oxygen tank?”
“Uh-huh.” He sounded curious about what Jenny was going to say next.
She stepped back onto the platform. “I don’t think any of them were on oxygen.” Squinting to keep the sun out of her eyes, she looked up at Zack. “I think that tank may have been part of a homemade bomb that was disguised as a present.”
“You know, I was thinking there may have been a bomb, but I didn’t say anything. I figured the investigators would have known what they were talking about when they declared it an accident.”
“I can’t imagine they had a whole lot to work with,” she replied. “Remember, it took the fire crews a long time to get to the scene—the train was in the middle of nowhere when it exploded. It probably burned so long that it destroyed most of the evidence in the process.”
“But what makes you think it was a bomb in a present? Did you see it in a vision?”
“I did…sort of. Matthew made a point of showing me that Jacqueline had a gift with her. It was big and bulky—large enough to hold a bomb, I would assume. But I also thought of something else. Do you remember when we first went out to lunch with Devon, and I asked him about the fire? This was before we knew it was an explosion.”
“I remember.”
“Well, at one point I was asking Devon something about how the fire started. He was playing with his tablet, and his response to me was, ‘It’s a present.’ Then he said, ‘Click.’ At the time I thought it was just his short attention span kicking in and he was focusing more on his tablet than the conversation, but now that I’ve seen Matthew’s vision, I get the impression that the present really may have gone click.”
“Oh, shit,” Zack replied. “Do you think she was a suicide bomber?”
Jenny shook her head. “A man on the platform insisted she take it, even though she looked reluctant to bring it on board.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I think that man just wanted her dead.”
“Who was he, do you know?”
“I assume it was her husband, but I don’t want to jump to any conclusions. I will say that if it was her husband, she didn’t look like she was all that happily married. He did, but she didn’t.”
Zack raised an eyebrow. “That may be a motive.”
Sadness crept into Jenny’s bones as she reached for her phone to call Kyle. “Indeed it may.”
Jenny was all too happy to put her suitcase down in the hotel room and plop onto the bed. “It feels so good to lie down,” she announced. “I don’t know how riding in a car can be so tiring, but it is.”
“Well,” Zack reasoned as checked out the view, “you did get a confession out of a mass murderer and have a vision that may unlock a sixty-year-old mystery about a train explosion… perhaps that’s contributing to your fatigue.”
She responded with just a grunt, which was all she had the energy to muster.
Zack found the remote and turned on the television, getting comfortable on the other queen bed in the room. He scanned the channels as he propped the pillows behind his head.
Jenny could hear the brief snippets of programs as he surfed. “…in what is perhaps the largest mass murder in American history.”
She sat up in bed like a shot, all the exhaustion instantly gone from her body.
The announcer continued, “Paul Thomas confessed earlier this morning to being the mastermind behind what was previously assumed to be a mass suicide in the small town of Bedford, Georgia. On June seventeenth, 1968, forty-five members of a hippie commune were found dead inside their home in what had appeared to be an intentional overdose; however, Paul Thomas has just admitted to poisoning their water supply in retaliation of a drug deal gone bad. Mr. Thomas is currently serving a twenty-year jail sentence for drug charges, which sources say is surely a life sentence due to his rapidly declining health. Under the circumstances, prosecutors have decided not to pursue charges in this newest case, stating Mr. Thomas will likely not live long enough to make it worth the taxpayers’ money. Reporting live from Axworth Prison, this is Allison Kierney.”
“He did it,” Jenny said with awe. “He actually confessed.”
The reporter from the desk asked a question. “Allison, do you think this may be a publicity stunt? People have been known to confess to crimes they didn’t commit for a variety of reasons; could this be an instance of a man looking to get a little fame before he dies?”
“Kurt, that has been speculated,” Allison replied. “The police are going to look into his claim to see how likely or unlikely he was to have done it, just to give the families of the deceased some answers. However, like I said, they will refrain from pressing charges even if they do find enough evidence against him. Paul Thomas is in very poor health, and he is not expected to live more than a few weeks.”
“I’ve got to call Troy,” Jenny said as she hopped out of bed. “He needs to contact the police.”
“Doesn’t he need to be made aware of this first?” Zack asked.
“That, too,” she replied. “Unless he’s watching the news.” She dialed his number, pleased to hear his gruff voice on the other end. “Troy,” she began, “are you watching the news by any chance?”
“The news? Naahhhh. It’s always full murder and death and tragedy. I choose to stay away from that depressing stuff.”
Jenny drew in and released a short breath. “Well, they’ve had a little break in the investigation in the Eden case.” She looked over at Zack, who was making a face at her word choice. “Paul Thomas, the Bringer of Happiness, confessed to poisoning the water supply.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. What the hell would he have done that for?”
Another breath. “It seems Sabrina refused to sleep with him when it was her turn.”
Troy remained uncharacteristically quiet for a while; Jenny imagined she had struck a nerve. “She told me that,” he eventually said, “but I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just saying that to make me feel better. I hated the thought of her doing anything with that ugly bastard. She was my girlfriend. She was pregnant with my kid. But we were so brainwashed at the time, I actually felt like it was her duty to sleep with him. It was right after that when she told me we needed to leave. She didn’t want to go through any more of that shit.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you left, because he apparently started plotting his revenge at that point.”
More silence indicated he was once again considering just how close he and his family had come to death.
“Would you be willing to contact the police and tell them what you know? They’re trying to determine if Paul Thomas is actually guilty or if he’s just confessing for attention. I bet you can give them some valuable information.”
“I don’t know about value, but I can tell them some stuff.”
Jenny sm
iled. “It would be great if you could.”
She finished her call and placed the phone next to the television. She turned toward Zack, who said, “Do you think maybe you should contact the police?”
“And say what?” Jenny asked as she sat back down on the bed. “I’m a psychic and I was temporarily overcome by one of the deceased?”
“Well, you knew they didn’t take any pills, which would substantiate Paul Thomas’s claim.”
“I’m not sure they would believe me. Troy, on the other hand, was there.”
“But you’re a world-renowned psychic,” Zack said with a smile. “Of course they’ll believe you.”
Jenny rolled her eyes. “I’d prefer to not be world-renowned, if you don’t mind. Remember, there’s a lunatic out there who has a bone to pick with me. I’d rather keep my whereabouts under wraps, if possible.”
“They still haven’t caught him yet, huh?”
“Not last I checked. Besides, Ed and Renee told me they’d let me know if he ever got arrested. They know I’d sleep a little more soundly at night if he was behind bars, and I haven’t heard a thing from them.”
“I doubt he’s going to come after you. He’s too busy hiding from the police.”
“I hope so,” Jenny added as the excitement of the moment began to wear off and fatigue crept back in. She slid sideways into a laying position, cradling her head in her bent arm. Enjoying the comfort and silence, a sense of dread filled her body when her phone chirped, signaling a text message. “Zack, can you be the greatest guy in the world and check my phone?”
“I suppose I can, for a small fee.” He got up off his bed and looked at the screen. “It’s from Kyle,” he announced. “He says he found Jacqueline Crespi’s sister.”
Chapter 21
The morning brought a renewed sense of vigor; Jenny felt much more equipped to search for a killer than she had the previous evening. She called Kyle, who gave her the number of Amy LaRoussa, Jacqueline Crespi’s surviving sister. They had been close in age, apparently, so Kyle was optimistic that Amy could provide some information about who might have wanted Jacqueline dead.
Jenny had snuck out to a local craft store while Zack slept in, purchasing some painting supplies and a canvas. She had set up shop in the bathroom, where she was able to turn on the lights without disturbing her husband. Periodically closing her eyes to retrieve the image in her mind, she sat on the closed toilet lid and recreated the face of the man who had given Jacqueline the present. She figured this would be useful information to pass along to Jacqueline’s sister; hopefully Amy would be able to conclusively identify the person in the picture, and this mystery would be solved.
She was halfway through painting the picture when her phone screen lit up, displaying Kayla’s name. “Hello?” she said softly. She hoped the echo in the room didn’t give away her location.
“Hi, Jenny. I just wanted to check in and see if you had gotten anywhere.”
“I have, actually. I’m sorry I haven’t called; I fell asleep pretty early last night, and I’ve been busy this morning trying to work on a lead.”
“A lead…that sounds promising.”
“I hope it turns out that way,” Jenny explained. “I got a vision last night of Jacqueline Crespi, the woman that Devon had recognized from the picture. She was boarding the train with a big, bulky present that a man had given her on the platform; Devon had mentioned a present way back in the beginning, and my guess is that it might have actually contained a bomb.”
“A bomb?” Kayla’s shock was easily detected through the phone.
“That’s just my theory at this point; I really have no evidence to support it. But I once asked Devon who started the fire, and he said ‘it was a present,’ or something to that effect. I’m thinking that he was being honest with that reply—that a present really did start the fire.”
“I’d love to ask him about that,” Kayla said, “but I’m always afraid to bring it up. When he’s acting like a normal five-year-old, I don’t want to do anything to ruin those moments.”
“I understand,” Jenny said compassionately. “You might not need to ask him if my lead pans out the way I hope it does. I’m currently sketching a picture of the man who gave Jacqueline the present, and I have her sister’s contact information. I’m hoping the sister can tell me who that man was and if he had a reason to want Jacqueline dead. Then maybe we can figure out who did this, which might be what Matthew wants from us at this point.”
Kayla’s voice was incredulous. “I just can’t imagine hating someone so much that I’d be willing to kill a train full of innocent people to get back at them.”
Jenny thought about the drastic measures that Paul Thomas had taken in order to exact his revenge against Sabrina. “There are indeed some sick people in the world.”
“Well, if we can figure out who was responsible for this explosion, maybe Matthew will go away once and for all. Jenny, can I just tell you…I was absolutely devastated when I heard Devon talking about that train again. I thought for sure he’d be rid of all this after he met Mary. My heart absolutely sank when he mentioned that blond woman.”
“I’m sure it did,” Jenny said emphatically. “I know mine did when I heard your message.”
Kayla let out an exaggerated sigh. “I guess I should let you go, then, so you can get working on that picture. The sooner you get it done, the sooner we can figure out who that man was and, hopefully, the sooner Matthew will go away. God knows that moment can’t come quickly enough for me.”
Jenny smiled. “I won’t stop until I’m done.”
Jenny had lied. Her backside was so numb from the uncomfortable toilet seat that she had to take a break. She walked out of the room, closing the metal lock mechanism into the path of the door to keep it from shutting all the way. Taking the elevator to the lobby, she walked over to the large windows in the front of the building, looking outside as she dialed Amy LaRoussa’s number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak with Amy please?”
“This is.”
Jenny rubbed her forehead as she spoke. “Hi, Amy, my name is Jenny Larrabee; I know you don’t know me, but I have been looking into the train explosion that claimed your sister’s life back in 1961. I am under the impression that it wasn’t an accident, and I’m trying to get to the bottom of who might have wanted to sabotage the train.”
“Wait a minute…you think somebody blew up the train on purpose?”
This was not going to be an easy conversation to have, on many levels. “I do,” Jenny replied. “Do you have a minute so I can tell you the whole story?”
After a detailed explanation that started with Devon and ended with the half-finished painting in the bathroom, Jenny asked, “Was Jacqueline’s husband dark-haired, by any chance?”
“The man’s name was Salvatore Crespi.” Amy spoke in a tone that indicated she was not being condescending. “Yes, he was dark-haired.”
“Did they have a good relationship, Jacqueline and Salvatore?”
“They did. He was devastated when she died; it nearly killed him, too.”
Jenny couldn’t discount the fact that Salvatore may have been a good actor. “So, you don’t think he would have done this?”
“I—I mean,” Amy began, “I would be very surprised to find out it was him. He does sound like the man you’re describing, but I can’t think of any reason that he would want to hurt Jackie.” Her voice grew softer. “They were happy.”
“Were you close with your sister?” Jenny thought that perhaps there could have been marital trouble that Amy just didn’t know about.
“Very. We told each other everything.”
Feeling stumped, Jenny remarked, “Well, I can honestly say that Jacqueline didn’t seem happy to be with the man on the platform. The look on her face spoke volumes.”
“Wow,” Amy said in a whisper. “You can really see her face?”
Jenny hadn’t considered that she was just able to do someth
ing that Amy hadn’t done in decades. “Yes,” she replied, keeping sensitivity in her tone, “she seemed lovely.”
“She was lovely.” Amy sounded distant. “I can’t imagine anybody wanting to hurt her—especially not Sal.” Her change in demeanor indicated she snapped into the present when she added, “Are you sure there was a bomb in that package?”
“No,” Jenny admitted with a slight laugh. “It’s just a hunch.”
“Well, I certainly don’t mean to discredit you—it’s just that I have a really hard time believing she was an intended target.”
“Believe me, I understand.” Once again, Jenny was reminded of Paul Thomas’s retaliation against Sabrina. “The problem is that when you’re dealing with a lunatic, the victim has nothing to do with it.”
Jenny couldn’t help but feel a twinge of jealousy when she returned to the room and found Zack still sleeping. He was sprawled out face down on the bed, lying in a position that she hadn’t been able to achieve in months. She found it a bit unfair that they had both conceived the baby, and they were both going to get to be parents after all of this, but she was the only one to make the physical sacrifices.
Although, she was the only one who could feel the baby’s every move.
With that thought, she returned to the bathroom and continued her painting. It wasn’t until she was almost done that Zack came staggering in, bleary-eyed, pointing to the toilet. “Are you using that?” His hair stood up in every direction.
“Only as a chair,” Jenny replied as she got up. “It’s all yours.”
He noticed the painting and squinted at it. “Just how long have you been up?”
“A while. It’s almost noon, sleepyhead.”
“Noon,” he grunted. “How did that happen?” Running a hand aimlessly through his hair, he lifted the lid to the toilet and went about his business—initially missing the target until he caught on and shifted his aim.
