“Yeah, but in my vision, I remember running through woods. Isn’t it possible he was going to dispose of her like the rest of the other women, and she found a chance to escape? She may have run off, he chased her and...”
He shook his head. “We’ll know more results when the lab has them, but I’m guessing Winston raped and killed those women
in
his cab. Besides, like I said, this victim’s cause of death was different.”
“How so?”
He looked away. While he’d known he’d eventually have to tell her in order to jog her memory, he still didn’t want her to face the same image he’d witnessed today. An image he knew he’d carry for a lifetime.
“John,” she prompted.
“The other victims’ had been asphyxiated, likely with a thin cord. The woman from the bog was...stabbed.”
“Stabbed,” she echoed. “You mean repeatedly?”
“No, I mean...” He rose from the chair, paced for a moment, then leaned against the kitchen counter trying to figure out a way to sugarcoat the murder, but came up blank. “He cut her...deep, from the pelvis up to the breast bone.”
She gasped. “Oh my God, that’s...that’s, oh my God.”
Moving quickly, he knelt next to her. “Listen to me. I didn’t get any of that from your notes, but in the car, you’d...” He closed his eyes as the memory emerged.
“Gone through her final moments,” she whispered, her eyes widening with alarm and astonishment. “I had no idea I was capable of that sort of power.”
She stood and took their plates to the sink, then turned. Wiping her palms on her jeans, she drew in a deep breath. “I want to go under another trance.”
“No,” he stated firmly. Standing quickly, he nearly knocked the chair to the tile floor. “There is no way I want you doing
that.
” Reining in the fear of witnessing her become another victim, he moved to the counter and reached for her.
She flinched, and her eyes immediately sought his. “You’re worried about me.”
He looked away. “It’s not that.”
She laid her palm along his hand. “Don’t lie to me.”
Worry didn’t cover even an iota of what had his stomach coiling. He couldn’t shake the girl from the bog’s image, or the trance Celeste had undergone in his car. The two mingled and meshed. There had been times today when he’d broken into a sweat picturing Celeste, her body jerking, tensing as if a knife were slicing through her. He’d seen the final result of that trance, and he didn’t want to witness the death of another victim through another one. Hell, he just wanted Celeste to be Celeste, not some sort of vessel to victims.
“You have to understand.” He cupped her face and searched her eyes. “What if you do remember the trance this time? These images could be worse than the ones you already have locked in your mind.”
Smiling into his palms, she lightly grasped his wrists. “Let’s worry about that if it happens, and considering I have no recollection of the first trance, I doubt I’ll remember the next.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Hunch?”
He narrowed his eyes.
“Okay, so I don’t know. But we have to try. I need this, John. Please. I need to make the visions still swirling in my mind go away. I’ll do whatever it takes. Besides, since we’ve been through one trance, you’ll now know what to expect, and maybe know the right questions to ask me.”
He knew she was right, even if every part of him wanted to deny it. He believed in her abilities, but selfishly didn’t want to subject her to anything more that had to do with the case. He liked her, cared for her, and wanted to protect her from not only the atrocities she’d witness during her visions, but from what could come from another trance. She could also shed additional light on the investigation. Firm up their case against Winston, and possibly lead them to the second killer.
Nodding, he moved his hands to her shoulders. “You’re relentless.”
“Does this mean...”
“Yes, I’ll go along with another trance. But this time we do it right. We’ll have a doctor present, along with Roy. I’ll want it recorded and—”
She pulled away and started heading for the living room. “Nope,” she called over her shoulder. “We do this here and now.”
With reluctance, he followed her, adding stubbornness to her list of traits he’d been cataloguing in his mind, along with brave. While he admired her courage, he was still concerned about her safety, about her mind remembering what it might witness during the trance.
As she glanced back at him with a small sexy smile curving her lips, he started to worry more about his heart. If he wasn’t careful, she just might end up owning it.
Chapter 11
Dr. Alex Trumane leaned into the leather sofa cushion and pushed a hand through his hair still damp from a recent shower. He’d run track in both high school and college, and after taking the plunge into sobriety, he’d reacquainted himself with running again. And tonight, he’d run hard and long.
Staying sober had meant changing his lifestyle. During the first few days of sobriety, rather than stopping off at one of his favorite watering holes after work for a drink, he’d gone home to pace his spacious condo. Sleep had eluded him. The night sweats had been beyond terrible. The shakes, the hallucinations, so unbearable, he’d had to cancel appointments for nearly a week until the alcohol had worked itself out of his system.
He’d warred with the need to drink, to alleviate the symptoms of delirium tremens with benzodiazepines, which, as a doctor, he had easy access to. But as a medical practitioner, he’d understood the disease, and knew the DTs would wan with time. And they did. The moment he’d finally broken free of them, alone, soaked in his own sweat and tears, he’d donned his running shoes and pulled a Forest Gump.
Although weak and tired, he had run out his front door, out of the posh condo community he lived in just outside of Jackson, Mississippi. For hours, he had run aimlessly until he collapsed at a school playground thirteen miles from his condo. The next night he’d attended his first AA meeting, and hours later, had met Kira.
Like a beacon, he’d been immediately drawn to her. She had been the light he hadn’t realized he’d sought. During the two months he’d visited her at the diner after his AA meetings, she’d managed to worm her way into his broken, beat-up heart and blackened soul. She had given him hope. When the need to fall off the wagon had pulled at him, she had been there. She had given him encouragement with a simple smile when he’d been ready to say “fuck it” and have a drink. He’d fallen in love with her. Whether she knew it or not, she’d never let on. Despite the fact most of his relationships were short lived and blurred from booze, he knew women. And he knew she liked him. But could she love him?
Leaning forward, he grabbed the paper place mat bearing Dudley’s Diner along the front, along with its simplistic menu, then flipped it over. He stared at the names he’d written last night. The names of every person he’d harmed while a full-blown alcoholic. Every person he’d needed to make amends with...number eight according to AA’s Twelve Step program.
Today he’d spent his day off on step number nine, making those amends. From the moment he’d woken this morning, he’d made painful, humiliating calls to people he’d loved and had ultimately disappointed. His mother had cried, and had forgiven him for everything, even his drunken debacle during his father’s funeral. His older sister had done the same, and he’d cried along with her. The tears had cleansed him, and had washed away so many years of guilt.
Carla, his ex-wife, who he’d at one time loved fiercely, and had wronged on so many inconceivable levels, had been the toughest call to make. She, too, had cried. But not out of pain, or the humiliation he’d caused her with his numerous infidelities or cruel words when he’d been intoxicated, but out of joy. She’d been happy for him, supportive, and had offered whatever help she could to rekindle his relationship with their two children. His kids, though, had not been quite as receptive.
Brendon was an eighteen-year-old who’d just started his freshman year at college. He didn’t mind that his drunk of a father paid for his ghastly tuition, but had made it clear he’d had no time to talk with him. Carla had said to take “baby steps” with Brendon because he’d witnessed the worst of his drunken tirades. That once he’d proven himself to his son, he’d eventually be able to reestablish a relationship with him.
He hoped so. He had loved the bond he’d shared with his father, even when he’d been drunk. He’d always been able to go to his dad, talk about anything, and wanted the same for his own son.
His daughter had given him a small sliver of hope. At sixteen, Tanya seemed somewhat willing to reestablish a relationship with him. Then again, he had given her a brand new Honda Accord for her sixteenth birthday. Maybe she looked at him as a cash cow, her personal Daddy Warbucks, he thought cynically. Or maybe she wanted her daddy back.
With a deep sigh, he reached for the bottle of water resting next to the place mat, his list of atonement. He stared at that list, all twenty-two names checked off, but one. That last one was what had made him run harder, farther tonight. Everyone on that list had been someone he’d known well, had loved in some way, shape or form.
Everyone except number twenty-two.
She’d merely been a pawn. He’d used her, had gone against his Hippocratic Oath to maintain his medical practice and stay out of prison. What would his peers think of him if they knew? What would Kira think? She respected him now, but would she after he’d made his final amends?
More importantly, what about the woman? Number twenty-two. He could handle her hatred. He could live with her disgust in him. He just hoped to God she was still alive, that she could still scream and shout. Accuse him of being the bastard he’d been those many years ago. If she had died because of him...
He shook his head. There was only one way to find out, and if he discovered that she had died, he’d go to the authorities. He might not have facilitated her death, but he’d played a part in it, and he knew her true killer’s name.
His stomach cramped. A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the cranked up AC.
After placing his laptop onto the coffee table, he powered it up and waited. Her last known residence was in his files. He’d call her, tell her what she would need to know, then he’d finally find atonement.
If
she was still alive.
*
“I’m not comfortable with this,” John said as he followed Celeste into the living room. After what had happened in his car during the first trance, he worried about her safety. While he did want her to go under another, he’d rather they were in a contained environment. He wanted a doctor present, Roy available to ask additional questions, and a camera rolling to catch every nuance of the trance. Believing in her abilities was one thing, but understanding them would take time, time he didn’t have considering they might have a second killer on the loose.
“C’mon John, we’ve been through this before. I have faith that you can do it again,” Celeste countered as she sat on the couch and folded her legs under her.
“Can you, though?” he asked. “You said you’ve never lapsed into a trance until yesterday. How can you be sure it will work today?”
Smiling, she tucked a curl behind her ear. “I’m not, which is why I’d rather do this now, instead of in front of a bunch of people. I’d hate to look like a fool if this doesn’t work. Do you understand what I mean?”
He did. Not everyone believed in psychics, and if they’d gone through the effort to film a trance and nothing happened, she’d be humiliated. While she came off as a confident woman, she had obvious insecurities when it came to her gift. He couldn’t blame her. After all, he hadn’t showed any faith in her, and had been the proverbial Doubting Thomas until he’d seen the proof of her visions.
Before the image of the girl in the bog could resurface, he tamped it down and focused on Celeste. “I do, but what if we wait and just have Carl—you seemed comfortable with him—and Roy in the room with us. I’d feel better if we—”
“No.” She leaned forward onto her knees and took his hands. “Please,” she said softly. “I want to help, but I can’t bear to do this in front of anyone but you. While Roy and Carl might believe in me, you...soothe me.”
He sucked in a deep breath as her trust filled parts of him he’d thought were long dead after Renee. In that moment something blossomed in his chest. Not the heartburn that had periodically tormented him for two years and had him addicted to antacids. The sensation was completely different and unlike anything he’d ever experienced. He welcomed it, loved it. For the first time,
he
mattered. Not the criminalist, but the man inside.
Staring into her eyes, which held so much trust, had him clearing his throat and kneeling on the carpet next to her. “I understand, baby,” he murmured, and caressed her cheek. “Just you and me.”
“I like the sound of that.”
So did he. He’d love to spend quality time alone with her, away from the prying eyes of her small town and without the murder investigation hanging over them. He’d considered them complete opposites at first. He’d needed facts to survive, and he’d needed those facts to fit securely into their logical places.
Celeste’s open mindedness, her belief in fate and otherworldly possibilities had not only changed his logical approach, but gave him a whole new approach on life. His heart burned, not with acid reflux, but with possibility. Was it possible he and Celeste could have something more than a few stolen kisses? More than the lust that he knew they both shared?
But how could they have more? Once the investigation ended, he’d leave. He had a life in Chicago. A job to do. And she was tied to Wissota Falls.
With that thought in mind, he eased her back to the couch. “We’ll do this together, but I’m going to record your trance. Are you okay with that?”
“Absolutely. Only you have to promise to let me listen to it afterward. I’d like to
finally
hear one of my trances,” she said, the teasing sarcasm not lost on him.
He nodded, but made no promises. If this trance ended up being like the first, there was no way in hell he’d allow her to listen to the recording. He wanted to protect her, not only from these violent murders, but from herself.
After setting the recording feature on his cell phone, he placed it on the coffee table. “Before we start though, I’d skimmed through your second vision, which was vague. Actually, it seemed as if you were being pulled in different directions.”
She frowned. “I had the same feeling. I’d woken up that morning in the basement. At first I’d felt safe, then I remembered.”
“You woke up in the basement?”
“Yeah. With the first vision, I’d woken up in the bathtub—no water—thankfully. The second, the basement. The third? That was weird. I was under the kitchen table, my legs and arms tangled in the legs of the table and chairs.” She drew in a deep breath. “Fortunately, I’d woken up in my bed after the fourth vision. I’d been starting to worry that I might get into my car or walk aimlessly into town.”
“Have you ever been prone to sleepwalking?”
“Just once. The night I realized I was psychic. A boy had gone missing that day. He was a couple of years younger than me, and I’d been so scared for him. He was on my mind as I drifted off to sleep. Apparently I walked into my parents’ bedroom and started rambling on about being cold and wet along with a bunch of other gibberish.” She drew in a deep breath and leaned back against the cushions.
“My mom woke me up with a hard shake. I remember being confused, wondering why I was in my parents’ bedroom, but just that quick, the memory of my dream hit me. I knew where the boy was because my dad liked to fly fish there. My mom called Roy, who had just been elected sheriff. They’d found the boy, unharmed, but with a bad case of hypothermia.”
She relaxed, stretched her legs along the couch, and curled her bare toes, painted pink. “You know what’s funny?” she asked, her voice sleepy as she closed her eyes. “Lloyd was the boy.”
The Viking?
“He’s a big badass now. Back then he was nothing but skin and bones. Some kids that used to pick on him had dared him to meet them at the river that night and he’d gotten lost.” She shrugged. “But I found him.”
That prick of jealousy was there again, but he tamped it down. He had no claims to Celeste. “Okay, so no other episodes of sleep walking until the first vision. Got it.” He blew out a deep breath. “Now, when the trance in my car happened, you started telling me about the first vision, how the night of the dream you felt groggy and tired, then bingo, you were under. Do you think you could go under a trance the same way?”
She covered her mouth as she yawned. “Don’t know, but I’ll try. Just let me get more comfortable.” She moved a bit until her body was deep into the cushions, then rested her forearm along her head. “That night I’d come home from the diner and had the same odd feeling as the night before. Deep exhaustion, as if I’d just worked back-to-back double shifts days in a row.” She closed her eyes and stayed silent for a few moments before curling on her side. “After a hot shower, I crawled into bed,” she said, her voice thick. “I felt so tired...sleep, I needed sleep.”
She grew quiet. Her breathing regulated, and her eyes remained closed.
He stayed on the carpet, kneeling next to the couch, and waited. Minutes passed, and he began to wonder if she’d gone under a trance or simply fell asleep.
“Celeste,” he whispered. “Are you with me, honey?”
She didn’t respond. He smiled and brushed a curl from cheek. Nope, not a trance, more like a much-needed cat nap. He started to rise when she suddenly grasped his wrist.
“Celeste?” he asked, and tried to calm his racing heart.
Her eyes flew open, but she stared past him. They’d turned that same eerie midnight gray just like during the first trance. Staring wide-eyed at the brick fireplace, she lifted her shoulders and whispered, “He’s over there. Shhh, don’t move. He thinks he knocked me out, but doesn’t know what I’m capable of handling. My mom has hit me worse, but at least I knew she’d eventually stop. Not him. Oh, man, not him. He’s not going to stop. Shh. He’s turning around...I...close your eyes. Close your eyes. Pretend. Just pretend.”