Deadly Visions Boxset

by Alexandria Clarke

  I yanked on the new pair of jeans one-handed. “Autumn, this is really important. What did she say?”

  “I told you. Very little. She said she had a message for you, left her name, and then recited some sort of children’s poem.”

  Chills wracked my body, causing the hair on my arms to stand on end. “What was the poem?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Autumn!”

  “God, what is your problem?” she demanded. “I saved the message for you. Come listen to it yourself, and in the future, it’d be really great if you didn’t give my number to complete strangers.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the store.”

  “I’m coming over.”

  I hung up before she could reply then finished dressing without looking in the mirror, rinsed my mouth out with tap water instead of actually brushing my teeth, and slipped my shoes into my sneakers without tying the laces. Then I tucked the green paper crane into Holly’s novel like a bookmark and left, slamming the motel door on the way out.

  12

  No Future in the Past

  The door to Oak and Autumn slammed against the frame and sent the collection of wind chimes ringing like angry birds. A few customers gave me dirty looks, but I ignored them, making a beeline for the back of the store where Autumn’s office was. As I fought through the bead curtain made of bamboo that separated the shop from the stockroom, Autumn emerged from her office. She reached above me, splitting the bead curtain in two to free me from its inhuman grasp, then drew me into her office, where her customers were no longer privy to my wild antics.

  “Give me your phone,” I demanded.

  “Bridget, this is ridiculous.” She pushed me into the rolling chair behind her desk. Were it not for the fact that she was pregnant, I would’ve fought to remain standing. “You can’t blow through here like this.”

  “Autumn, I would not be acting like this if I didn’t think something was seriously wrong,” I told her. “Please, just play the message for me.”

  She took her phone from her pocket, scrolled through her messages, and played the one in question on speakerphone. As soon as the familiar voice—a lilting tone with a heavy French accent—permeated the room, I felt as though I had been doused with a bucket of ice water.

  “Brigitte.” The voice crackled through a raw, damaged throat.. “This is Noemie Laurent from Paris. I hope you remember me. I have a message for you.” She coughed and began to sing a hoarse, wavering tune. “I am a bumble bee, I like to dance and fly, but if I were to sting someone, I would not be alive.”

  The line clicked and went dead. My stomach bucked, threatening to empty itself, and I positioned myself over the wastebasket in preparation, but there was nothing inside to come up.

  Autumn immediately swept my hair away from my face and held it at the top of my head. “Jesus, Bee. How hungover are you?”

  I dry-heaved, spit out a mouthful of foul-tasting stomach bile, and gasped, “It’s not that.”

  She offered me a bottle of water from her mini fridge as I leaned back in the chair to wipe the cold sweat from my temples. “You’re really starting to worry me. Who was that woman? What’s with the creepy nursery rhyme?”

  I held the frigid water bottle to my flushed forehead. “I used to know her. We traveled together a few years ago.”

  “In Paris.”

  The name of the city alone was enough to turn my stomach again. I clenched my teeth together. “Yes.”

  Autumn sat on the edge of the desk and took my hands in hers, massaging them with her thumbs in slow, comforting circles. “Bee, what happened in Paris?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I know when you’re lying.” She caught my chin and lifted it so that I would look her in the eyes. “You might not have been around for the last ten years, but your tells are all still the same. You lied yesterday at lunch when Christian asked you about Paris, and I know that you’ve been to the catacombs. Something happened there. Just tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”

  I pulled free of her grip, wiping my streaming eyes on the back of my hand. Autumn, ever prepared, pulled a box of tissues from her desk drawer.

  “That song,” I said, my voice thick. “I made it up. Holly was scared of bees when she was little. I used to sing it to her to remind her that they wouldn’t hurt her. Then it became one of our things. She used to call me Bumblebee instead of Bridget, and she sang that song whenever she felt scared or lonely.”

  Autumn’s face fell as I finally let myself cry, my shoulders shaking with silent sobs. She brushed my oily hair away from my face, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

  “After Mom and Dad died, she sung it all the time,” I went on. “All night long, I could hear her little voice floating up to the top bunk. I never slept. Why do you think I snuck out all the time? I couldn’t take it. I couldn’t listen to her anymore. I was selfish, and she kept singing that damn song.”

  She let me collect myself, rubbing my back in soothing patterns as I rested my forehead on her knee. I came down from the high of emotions, and my shoulders relaxed against Autumn, hitching every so often as my breath worked to even itself out.

  “So why is this Noemie Laurent singing Holly’s song to you?” Autumn asked.

  I lifted my head to look at her. “That’s the thing. They’ve never met, and I never sang that song to anyone but Holly.”

  Realization dawned on Autumn’s face. “You think Noemie knows where Holly is.”

  I nodded. “It doesn’t make any sense though. I haven’t seen Noemie in years. And if this means what I think it means…”

  “Then what?” Autumn prompted. “What does it mean?”

  “I need your phone,” I told her. “To trace the number.”

  She held the device to her chest. “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  I wiped my face and stood up, bracing myself against the desk. “This isn’t a game, Autumn.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” she challenged. “Bee, I’m serious. Tell me what happened in Paris or I walk out of here right now.”

  “Even if Holly’s life is on the line?” The phone slipped out of her grip and skittered across the desk. We reached out for it at the same time, but I was faster. I snatched it up, tucking it into my pocket, then caught Autumn’s hand in mine. “Listen to me. I know you’re sick and tired of hearing me apologize, but I’m sorry. I can’t tell you anything. Please believe me when I tell you that it’s for your own safety. If these people—”

  I stopped myself, choking on my own words.

  “Who?” Autumn asked softly, drawing me closer. “Who is it?”

  I dislodged myself from her grip and took a step away, toward the door of the office. “I’m not sure yet. Please, Autumn. For your own sake—and your baby’s—stay out of it.”

  The bamboo bead curtain rattled again as I slipped through it, Autumn’s phone securely locked in the pocket of my jeans. To my best friend’s credit, she didn’t follow me.

  My next stop was the cop shop, where the air conditioning was still broken. For once, Officer Scott wasn’t there to greet me, a welcome change considering that my impending request probably did not fall within the realm of legality. I spotted Mac at her desk, her hair just visible over the top of her computer monitor, and crossed the bullpen as if I worked there too, ignoring stares from the other deputies.

  She looked up as I pulled a chair up next to hers and plunked Autumn’s phone on the desk. Unlike her co-workers, who sweated in their long-sleeved polyester uniforms, Mac had opted for a short-sleeved polo shirt with the Belle Dame PD logo embroidered on the chest. She’d left the buttons undone, and the other officers tracked the airflow across her collarbone with jealous stares.

  “Morning,” she said, clicking out of several windows on her desktop so that I wouldn’t see the contents. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of waiting at the front desk?”

  “I don’t have time for pleasant
ries. I need you to track an unknown phone number.”

  “Is this about Holly?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I tell Officer Scott?”

  “No,” I answered. “Not yet. Keep it to yourself for now. If this is what I think it is, I don’t want to get the cops involved until I know what’s going on. It could make everything worse.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You know that’s bullshit, right? Seriously, do you know how much crap we could avoid if people just told us what we needed to know?”

  “I don’t even know what’s going on right now,” I admitted. “It’s just a hunch.”

  “Hunches are important too.”

  “Please, just find the number.”

  She picked up Autumn’s phone and pressed the home button. “Password?”

  I silently typed it in for her then navigated to the voicemail tab and pointed out the message. “It’s that one. Can you do it by the end of today?”

  “I can do it within the hour. Sound good?”

  I breathed a sigh of relief and stood up. “You’re amazing. Thank you so much. You’ll let me know?”

  “As soon as possible.” She took in my haggard appearance. “Just so you know, if you have any more errands to run, you might want to take a shower first. You look like shit.”

  “At this point, I don’t think anyone expects anything else.”

  The cover of Holly’s book was slick with sweat by the time I arrived at the assisted living facility. I wiped it off with the hem of my shirt as I approached the front desk. I signed the visitor’s clipboard in illegible handwriting, waived the nurse’s officer to escort me to Ani’s room, and rode the elevator up to the third floor beside an old man who smelled as if he’d just sneaked off for an illegal cigarette outside.

  He winked at me. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”

  I mustered a dry grin. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

  We parted in the hallway, and I flashed the visitor’s badge against the keypad at Ani’s door to let myself in. I knocked softly before pushing the door all the way open. “Aunt Ani?”

  But it was Maisy Marks, stooped and wrinkled, who hobbled across the room on slippered feet to greet me first. “My dear girl! It’s good to see you again so soon.”

  I hunched to meet her obligatory hug, careful not to crush her delicate frame. Over her shoulder, I checked on my aunt, who sat in her chair by the window. It was as though she hadn’t moved since the last time I’d seen her. “Hi, Maisy. How are you?”

  “Still alive,” she answered. She chuckled at her own morbid joke. “Have you seen my grandson yet?”

  My pulse spiked at the reminder. “I saw him last night actually, but I’m afraid I didn’t have the time to stop and chat. Would you excuse me though? I have something important to talk about with my aunt.”

  “Good luck,” she muttered as I disengaged from her.

  At the window, I pulled the vacant armchair as close to Ani’s as possible, forming a barrier between us and the rest of the room. I sat down, glanced over my shoulder to make sure that Maisy was ensconced in her knitting, and placed Holly’s book in Ani’s lap.

  “Aunt Ani,” I muttered, keeping my volume as low as possible. “I need your help.”

  Her gray eyes stared out at the green yard, unmoving.

  “Please.” I adjusted the book so that her fingers rested against the pages. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

  Like before, her gaze faltered ever-so-slightly, flickering to the side as if to check on something behind her. I looked over the back of our conjoined armchairs again. Maisy hummed to herself, her knobbly fingers working at a pair of knitting needles. I turned back to my aunt.

  “She’s not listening,” I whispered.

  But Aunt Ani’s eyes remained fixed on some unknown point.

  “Maisy?” I asked, raising my voice to register on the older woman’s hearing aids.

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude on your knitting, but do you mind if I have a word with my aunt alone?”

  Maisy paused in her needlework. “Well, I suppose I might like to visit the courtyard, but I’ll have to call one of those handsome young men that work here to help me into my wheelchair to go down the elevator.”

  I stood up and crossed the room. “I can help you.”

  After a few agonizing minutes, I got Maisy situated and rolled her out into the hallway, where I caught the sleeve of a passing nurse’s aid. “Excuse me, do you mind taking my friend here down to the courtyard?”

  “Sure thing, ma’am.”

  I passed Maisy off, watched as she chatted the nurse’s aid ear off as they got in the elevator, then ducked back into the room. I sat in the armchair once more, opening the book to the last page.

  “She’s gone,” I told Ani. “No one else is listening. Can you tell me about the book now?”

  When her eyes shifted toward me without warning, suddenly aware of her surroundings, a shiver rocked through me. Her index finger moved, resting against the pages of the book, until it pointed toward her bedside table. I leaned across her to open the drawer. Inside, there was another copy of the same novel and two red pens. I took everything out.

  I laid the books side-by-side and opened them to the same page. Ani’s copy was similarly marked, but the circled letters didn’t match up to the ones in Holly’s book. Ani’s fingers shifted. She pointed to her book, then to Holly’s, then back to hers, and again to Holly’s. I got the gist.

  “You were talking to each other,” I breathed. Ani’s fingers rested against the back of my hand. I looked up at her, and she raised a finger to her lips. “I won’t tell anyone,” I promised. “I just want to find Holly.”

  She pushed one of the pens toward me, keeping the other for herself. Then she took both books and set to circling, alternating between her copy and Holly’s. When she was finished, she waited for me to take the novels.

  I set the pages next to each other, my eyes bouncing back and forth between the circled letters, putting the words together. We switch off, Ani’s note read.

  “That’s why I couldn’t figure it out on my own,” I muttered. “You had the other half of the conversation.”

  Ani nodded.

  “But why the secrecy?” I asked her. “Why couldn’t you just talk to Holly out loud?”

  She furiously shook her head, pressing her lips together, and tapped the cover of the novels.

  “Okay.” I covered her hand to stop the nerve-wracking tick of her fingernails against the book cover. “It’s okay. I get it. I need to read this though. Is that okay?”

  A brief nod.

  With Holly’s red pen in hand, I unfolded the crane and set to piecing together the conversation between my aunt and sister on the blank side of the green paper. It was easy but tedious work. There was no code to break. They hadn’t written in tongues, but switching back and forth between the novels for pages on end for mere sentences was more of a feat than I had bargained for. It took several minutes to mark out an entire page of dialogue, and I did it all while keeping an ear trained on the door in case of Maisy’s return. When I had finished, I smoothed out the flyer to read the transmission. Right away, Holly’s words disturbed me.

  I think I’m hearing voices, she wrote. Is this how you felt after Mom and Dad died?

  What sort of voices? Ani wrote back.

  Bridget’s mostly, and the people around her, I think. I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like we’re connected. I hear what she’s doing. I can feel what she feels.

  How do you know it’s real? Ani asked.

  I don’t. It comes and goes.

  When did this start?

  Holly’s reply of circles were shakily drawn. Years ago. When she was in Paris. Something went wrong there. She was in a bad place.

  When do you notice it most? The connection?

  When Bridget’s in trouble.

  A tear dropped from my eyelashes and splattered against the flyer, causing th
e red ink to bleed and spread. I blew lightly on the paper, coaxing the moisture away from the lettering, and continued to read.

  I think something bad’s going to happen, Holly wrote. It felt like this last time too. I keep hearing the same things. The same name.

  What name?

  My throat closed off. In my chest, my heart stopped. My fingers trembled as I traced the name on the page, unable to look away from Holly’s reply.

  Fox.

  The flyer crumpled under my grip, threatening to tear until Aunt Ani pried it out of my grasp with an unnatural strength for a woman that sat stagnant in a chair each and every day. She took the books and circled out another question.

  Who is Fox?

  I circled back, the tip of Holly’s pen shaking against the page.

  No one good.

  “I have to go,” I said out loud. I returned the pens to the table drawer but kept both books. “I need this. I’m sorry, Ani. I’ll come back as soon as I can. I love you.”

  I stood up and dragged my armchair back to its original position, but before I could rush away, Aunt Ani caught my hand and pulled me toward her.

  “What?”

  I looked into her eyes, which were alight with a worried comprehension. She wasn’t empty inside—catatonic—as the medical reports had described her for all these years. There was something there. A shadow of the person that she used to be, fighting to get free.

  “I know,” I told her. “I see you. And I’m going to find Holly.”

  In the elevator on the way back down to the lobby, my new cell phone rang. I fought with the touch screen, trying to figure out the precise swiping motion to answer the call, and pressed the phone to my ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s Mac.”

  “Did you find the number already?”

  “Sure did,” she replied. “It came from a burner phone, bought at the corner store on Main and Third. Looks like someone dumped it already though. The number’s no longer in service.”

  I’d fallen silent, the blood in my veins sluggish and cold. “Mac.”

  “Yeah?”