A Secondhand Life (The Killer Thriller Series Book 2)

by Pamela Crane

  Nestled on the outskirts of the town of Hillsborough, North Carolina, the park attracted hikers and cyclists to its miles of wooded trails traversing its 300-plus acres. My favorite amenity was the butterfly garden whose colorful flowers were normally matched by the fluttering beauty of butterflies of every description, relishing the banquet of nectar, though today’s April chill sadly deterred them from making an appearance.

  I wiped trickling sweat from my forehead as I trudged up the hill heading back toward the parking lot. Streaks of sunlight speared through the burgeoning leaves, as branches laden with blossoms hung low. I stopped and closed my eyes, savoring their sweet fragrance. A bench, cleverly crafted from two tree stumps, emerged up ahead. After hiking the dirt trail up to the bench, I sat down. As I looked around, sunlight caught something on the ground. Glass. A nudge from my sneakered foot turned it over. A Budweiser bottle.

  In an instant I felt my heart spasm, and I clutched my chest, praying for the pain to subside. Tears surfaced, and I squeezed my eyes shut to block out the world, helping me to concentrate against the wrenching within me. An image flashed in my head. A girl. Black pigtails. Green eyes—a brighter version of my own hazel color.

  Although the chest pain seemed to diminish, the mental picture grew more vivid … transitioning from a series of images—a beer bottle, a television, a green blanket—into a moving scene. The television flickered to life, and the beer bottle hit the floor with a clunk. During the first few seconds I felt distanced, foreign, but then it started to feel more intimate, as if I was in it. I was watching myself, only it wasn’t me …

  **

  His hand held my mouth closed, blocking any chance of air through my mouth or nose. I clawed above me, aiming to scratch his eyes, but I only found empty air. My fingers attempted to pry his fingers loose, but he was too strong. I felt my head growing heavy with blackness seeping in. I was on the verge of passing out.

  Then something flashed in the corner of my vision. My shriek was smothered by the palm as my flesh tore open. The side of my torso was being ripped apart by a blade as he plunged a knife in, then ripped it out. I hunched over, holding my side. If the lack of oxygen didn’t cause my blackout, the excruciating pain in my abdomen would. I felt the side of my shirt dampen, and an apprehensive glance downward confirmed my fears. Blood was oozing out by the gallon, it seemed, soaking my favorite shirt. An odd, fleeting thought went through my head: Mom would never buy me another Bart Simpson shirt, and I doubted I could wash the bloodstain out.

  “Shhh …” I heard him say in my ear. A familiar voice. “You must remain quiet, Alexis. If you don’t stay quiet, I’m going to have to hurt you more.”

  I nodded as best as I could beneath his firm grip. I couldn’t imagine any worse pain, but I couldn’t risk finding out what that would be. If being quiet meant not suffocating, I would do anything. His palm went lax, and he tentatively removed his hand, though always maintaining contact with my skin, and slid it downward. He rested it on my neck, rubbing gently.

  “It’s okay,” he soothed. Again, a voice I recognized. I knew this person.

  Despite his spine-chilling nurturing gesture, I knew worse was to come. He was either going to rape me or mutilate me … maybe both. I had watched enough movies to know what psychos did to their victims. My mom exhibited little supervision when it came to what I watched, leaving it to my discretion.

  So the moment his fingers tightened around my throat, I screamed as loud as I could, hoping the sound would reach the neighbors. My first mistake. This caused him to grip my neck like he was going to snap it in half. Any chance at survival was now gone.

  I began kicking wildly, knocking several beer bottles to the floor. I heard glass split and shatter across the hardwood. My fingers pried at his to loosen them just enough to breathe … but I wasn’t strong enough. Searching the space around me for any kind of weapon, I noticed a few bottles remained on the coffee table. I reached forward to grab one. My fingertip brushed against the closest one, but I needed another inch. One measly inch.

  Before I could gain that inch, I was thrust against the back of the chair. He must have seen where my reach was heading.

  My adrenaline was running out. Time and air were running out.

  Numbness in my side eventually allowed me to focus my efforts away from the pain and, instead, on breaking free. But no matter how much I scratched and scraped at his wrists, his grip was steadfast, and my strength was waning at the rate my blood was letting. The room was fading … then no more.

  **

  A phone chirped.

  I bolted upright to a throbbing, cramping pain in my side. Scanning my surroundings, I saw that I was still in the park, sitting on the same bench, but in a lot of pain—throbbing that I knew wasn’t from my workout but from the daydream.

  My cell rang again, tugging me out of my confusion. The caller ID showed it was Brad.

  “What do you want?” I answered, more gruffly than I had intended.

  “Wow, nice to hear your voice too. I just wanted to check in on you. I guess you just answered my question if we’re done fighting,” he said.

  “Are you done being a jerk?” I retorted.

  “Mia, I know you’re angry with me, but please understand that I’m only concerned about you. Look, I don’t want to break up with you. I love you. But I don’t want to stand by while you chase a murderer. If something were to happen to you—”

  “Nothing is going to happen to me, Brad. But if you can’t stand by me through this, then get out of the way.”

  Silence. I knew I had hurt his feelings, but my adrenaline was rushing too fast for me to care right now.

  The rustle of leaves pulled my attention upward toward a man approaching along the path holding a walking stick. I smiled tightly as he passed, his eyes and grin warm with friendliness. Yet in the back of my mind I didn’t trust what lurked behind that façade. No one could be trusted these days.

  I waited until his back was lost amid the sprouting foliage before I spoke again.

  “How about we talk this over later?” I suggested. “I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”

  Brad muttered an “okay” and hung up. I’d deal with him later. Right now I had something more pressing on my mind. The vision.

  The daydream was too similar to my previous nightmare to be coincidence. The events had felt so real, so much so that I had to double-check for blood on my torso. Satisfied that there was none, I began to pick apart the events, searching for clues. There had to be a message in there somewhere. But what was it?

  My mental inventory began with a name: Alexis. It wasn’t much to go on without a last name, but it held meaning of some kind. It had to.

  I wanted to talk to someone, but Brad didn’t want anything to do with it, and I had no one else I could entrust this kind of secret to. Mom would freak out if I told her. And in the girl friends department I was lacking. But it was a secret that had to be told. Now more than ever I was convinced that lives depended on it.

  **

  An hour later I sat in front of my computer with my Google search box waiting for me to type. My fingers keyed the first thing that came to mind:

  meaning of dreams

  A long list of websites about dream interpretation popped up. I scanned the list of sites, pausing on the website of a local dream analyst: Dr. Avella Weaver. I clicked on the link, which took me to a professional-looking site.

  Skimming through each page, her credentials seemed sound. Certified psychologist, impressive academia, and she utilized alternative medicine methods like acupuncture, hypnotism, and dream analysis. It was worth a shot, though I doubted my insurance would cover it.

  On the contact page it listed her work hours. Surprisingly enough in the Bible Belt, where even some gas stations were closed for the Sabbath, she was open on Sundays from one to six. I checked the clock. It was only 4:30, so I dialed the office number.

  After two rings I heard an elderly woman’s voice o
n the other end. “Hello, this is Dr. Avella Weaver’s office. How can I help you?”

  “Uh, hi. My name is Mia Germaine and I wanted to make an appointment … today, if possible.”

  “Hmm, yes, I think we can fit you in before we close, Mia. Are you seeking dream analysis or psychological care or something else?”

  To be honest, I had no idea what I was seeking.

  Answers. So I said, “Dream analysis, I think.”

  “Okay. You sound unsure, so when you get here we can figure out what you need. Each session is usually an hour long, and I take my last appointment at five, so if you can make it here by then, we can squeeze a full session in today. Would that work for you?”

  “Yes, thank you! I’ll be leaving now. Thank you again for taking me on such short notice.”

  “That’s what I’m here for, my dear. I look forward to meeting you.”

  As I hung up, I wondered if I was on the verge of going bat-crap crazy. Meeting with a dream interpreter? Should I follow it up with a palm reading? It sounded like something super-spiritual, like from the book of Daniel in the Bible when Daniel had the crazy prophetic dreams about Babylon. Prophecy was certainly not something that I was into.

  I had a nagging feeling that I was beginning to lose myself to whatever had taken hold of me.

  Chapter 6

  Dr. Avella Weaver’s office was as strange as her first name.

  Nestled between an adorable antique store and an upscale restaurant in downtown Hillsborough, I nearly passed by the nondescript front door, adorned only with a simple brass plaque bearing the doctor’s name. Almost all of the shops were closed as I walked from the parking lot behind a row of random businesses—an old-fashioned ice cream parlor, a handful of upper-scale restaurants, an insurance company. Catching my reflection in the large, streak-free storefront windows, I couldn’t help but admire the jewelry and art on display, while potted pink azaleas and purple pansies framed their entrances.

  A wrought-iron bench marked Dr. Weaver’s.

  Past the plain door whose old-fashioned bell jingled as I entered was an office full of unusual knickknacks, and heady with the mingled perfume of fragrant oils, incense, and greenery. Sculptures of various exotic animals—a Bengal cat, a squirrel monkey, a giraffe—littered every table, and the walls were adorned with images of bonsai trees. The décor created a mystic-meets-rainforest atmosphere.

  Several chairs in vibrant fuchsia and teal fabrics lined three walls, and since I didn’t see a reception desk, I picked a chair and sat. I had barely planted my rear down when a woman in a tie-dyed tunic and matching loose linen pants appeared around the corner. Her gray hair was close-cropped with a hint of curl to it.

  “You must be Mia?” She extended her hand, and I accepted it and shook. I felt her bones jutting out from beneath the wrinkles and loosened my grip.

  “Yes, and you’re Dr. Weaver?”

  “Call me Avella. Please follow me.” She gestured for me to follow her down a hallway with carved tribal masks hanging on the walls. I felt a particularly penetrating Hopi Indian mask bore into my soul with its dead eyes as I passed.

  At the end of the hallway was a large, open room, much simpler and less cluttered than the waiting room. A red sofa sat to one side, with two beige chairs in front of it. Two end tables held exquisitely carved wild animal figures—wildebeest, zebras, gazelles, a Serengeti tableau—and colorful coasters with the same exotic motif. Incredibly prolific potted plants decorated a rough-hewn table beneath a windowsill upon which marched a family of miniature elephants. Several degrees hung on the wall—bachelors, masters, doctorate, all in psychology. And from prestigious universities. Perhaps she wasn’t a quack after all.

  She gestured to the sofa. “Have a seat, dear.”

  The cordiality of her words made me feel like this was a visit with my grandma.

  “Coffee, tea, water, juice?” she offered.

  “Tea, please,” I answered. She held a tray out for me, which displayed a wide variety of bagged teas. I picked a chai and she took it.

  “Sugar and cream?” she asked.

  “Yes, both, thank you.”

  Avella busied herself at a quaint refreshment nook. A moment later she handed me a steaming cup and, holding her own mug, sat across from me.

  “So,” she began after a sip, “tell me a little about yourself. Why you’re here today.”

  I was stumped at where to begin and fell mute. It was hard to explain without sounding insane. When the hush lasted for more than a moment, she prodded, “Why don’t you start by telling me what happened before you called me. Something prompted you today. What was it?”

  “I guess you could say I’ve been having trouble sleeping.”

  Avella set her teacup down and folded her hands on her lap. “That’s a good start. But don’t be afraid to speak your mind, Mia. This is a safe place. Anything we discuss is confidential. Can you share why you’ve had trouble sleeping? Is something on your mind?”

  “Okay, well, I had a dream. One that I’ve had before. And it kind of scares me.”

  “Why does it scare you?”

  “It involves … a girl being murdered.”

  Avella nodded in understanding.

  “Do you wish to know the significance of the dreams?”

  “I guess, although I think they are more than dreams. I think they’ve actually happened and are perhaps unsolved murders. Cold cases. Does it make me crazy to think that?”

  I wondered how much lower I could go—I was a patient asking my psychiatrist if I was crazy. Of course she wouldn’t tell me if she thought I was.

  “No, not at all. Dreams aren’t always figments of our imagination. They can be glimpses into reality. We’ve had quite a few unsolved murders at the hands of the Triangle Terror lately, Mia. Perhaps your dreams are related to what’s happening in the news?”

  The thought hadn’t escaped my attention, though I sensed it was more than just that.

  “That’s what I was wondering. You see, the dreams didn’t start until just recently, right after I saw the news coverage of that girl Gina Martinez’s death. But my dreams aren’t about Gina. They’re about some other girl, someone named Alexis. And the dream events seemed to have happened a long time ago.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the details of the dream are from the ’90s, I think. That’s when I was a teenager, and everything in the dream—the furnishings in Alexis’s house, the Pog collection—points to that era. And she’s watching Beverly Hills, 90210 on TV—the biggest giveaway.”

  Avella leaned forward, placing her chin on her hands, intent on my words. “Very interesting, Mia. Do you feel a connection to the girl—Alexis—in your dreams?”

  “Definitely. More than a connection, though. It’s like I am her.”

  I paused, not sure where to go from there. In the ensuing lull, Avella examined me with sincere eyes. “Tell me about your childhood, Mia. I’d like to know more about your life so that we can dissect this dream’s bond to you.”

  I heaved a sigh. “For the most part it was pretty normal. Middle-class family. Raised well by loving parents. A happy home until I lost my father in a car accident, which happened when I was twelve. Even after that, though, my mom held it together for the both of us and helped me move past it. Sure, I was broken by the loss, but we healed together. I don’t think I’m messed up by my dad’s death.”

  “So you don’t feel any lingering emotional scars from that loss?” Avella asked. Her eyes penetrated me, and I realized how very blue they were. Not dark aqua, but almost translucent. They were quite striking.

  “Not so much emotional as physical scars.” I tugged the neckline of my shirt down past my tattoo, just enough to show a faint white line running down my chest.

  “I had a heart transplant as a result of the accident.”

  Avella’s jaw dropped slightly. “You say you were twelve when that happened?”

  I nodded.

  “And
I assume your donor was roughly your age?”

  “I believe so, though I never found out who she was. It bugged me for a long time, and part of me thinks that has something to do with what’s happening to me right now.”

  “Happening to you?” Avella’s eyes explored mine.

  “I’m not sure how to explain it, but I’ve been having chest pain right before or after those flashback episodes. It’s weird.”

  “Hmm, yes, odd. But not unheard of.”

  “What do you mean? This kind of thing has happened before?”

  Avella rose from her chair and went to a large bookshelf along the far wall. Her finger traced the spine of several books until she found what she was looking for and pulled the book down. She returned and showed me the cover:

  A Change of Heart

  “This book,” she explained while flipping through several pages, “discusses organ memory. Organ memory is a theory positing that cells retain traits exclusive to the individual. Thus, each person’s organs preserve a part of them, not merely blood type but actual personality characteristics. This particular book shares Claire Sylvia’s experience with an organ transplant back in 1988. She recounts distinctive personality changes after her transplant.”

  “Wow,” I said. So I wasn’t the only one? Hope surged through me that I wasn’t crazy after all.

  “Yes, wow is appropriate,” Avella said with a chuckle. “Additional research since then has shown that it’s common among organ transplant patients to experience the onset of particular changes presumably brought about by the donated organs. For example, in one case study, patients noticed a change in preferred tastes. Before the transplant they might have liked the taste of white chocolate, then afterward they hated it. Or even changes in entertainment—movies, music, for instance—or recreational preferences. Before they liked swimming, afterward they couldn’t remember how to swim. It’s quite fascinating. Further studies revealed that in most of these cases the new preferences aligned with that of the donor.”