Forty-Four Box Set, Books 1-10 (44) (143 page)

He was raving, his hair drenched in sweat, his eyes bouncing off the walls like racquet balls. I knew that the Church had a problem, a huge problem, with child molestation, but Charles Modine’s accusations that they ordered a hit on his wife sounded like bad Oliver Stone. Or something out of
The Da Vinci Code
.

It made me a little sad.

And it made me doubt his whole story.

CHAPTER 16

“I’m sorry,” he said, closing his eyes. “It’s just that…”

“Let’s get back to the dreams,” I said. “When did they start?”

“Hell, I don’t know. It’s hard to gauge time.”

Jesse had told me the same thing after he died about time, that it wasn’t the same on the other side.

I looked at Modine.

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking it’s just a dream. But it’s not like that. It’s not just a dream. I’m having it for a reason. Someone… something’s reaching out to me so that I can bring this guy to justice. So I can move on.”

He was shouting again, his eyes watery and black.

“You can help me if you want. But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going to stop. I don’t care how many Hail Marys he says in that church. I don’t care how long it takes. There’s no forgiving what he did. How he snuffed her out like that. What kind of God would forgive that? I tell you, I’m not going to stop.”

The bells hanging off the front door rang and I turned around. A couple walked in and headed to the counter where Mo was standing, her head rocking to the music.

“Tell me what happens in the dream,” I said, lowering my voice. “With as many details as you can remember.”

“It’s always the same. She’s there, coming out of the park, you know, Central Park. I’m behind her, but she can’t see or hear me. I know the route because sometimes I would run it with her. I can tell she’s headed back home. She crosses Park Avenue and then Lexington. And then the car appears. It’s one of those muscle cars, from the 60s. A Pontiac GTO.”

“What happens next?” I said.

“The GTO, it comes closer, slows down. The driver, he’s watching Sarah, and I’m watching it like it’s a movie. It’s my own personal
Groundhog Day
, except this ain’t no comedy, Abby. It’s the saddest movie ever made. And I’m forced to watch it over and over and over again.”

He put out the ashy stub on the tabletop and flicked it in the direction of the window. I heard Mo hit the foam wand. Modine put fire to another stick and continued.

“In the beginning, when I first started having the dream, I used to run up to her and try to get her to see me or hear me. But it was no use. I am as much a ghost in the dream as I am here.”

He took a long draw, holding it in.

“Now I just follow her. Even if I don’t want to any more. I don’t try to talk or touch her. I don’t do anything. I just follow her down the street. She turns on 86
^th
and I can see our building up ahead. She’s almost home. But she never makes it.”

The couple left and Mo sighed loudly above the music.

“It just keeps building. This feeling in the pit of my stomach. I know what’s coming. But I can’t do anything about it. I can’t change it. I can’t save her. I can’t puke. I can’t even close my eyes.

“For a moment the car appears to be going straight. It’s in its lane and everything’s going along fine. At that point time just stops, like when you hit pause on the remote. And then it starts again. I see his hands on the wheel. I see them jerk to the side. I see the terrible look in her bulging eyes, right before. Then I hear the thud of bone against metal and glass. I can almost feel the impact. I see her fly through the air and land down the street, in a heap of twisted flesh and blood. I hear the car speed away.”

He closed his eyes.

“What about the driver?” I said. “What does he look like?”

“You can see for yourself. He’ll probably be at that church tomorrow morning.”

I started to say something, but he kept going.

“I hope you get close enough to see his eyes. There’s no emotion behind them. I tell you, they’re ice cold. Like he’s dead inside.”

I looked away, thinking about how I had known someone with eyes like that. Nathaniel Mortimer killed people when it suited his purposes, not caring one way or the other about the lives he destroyed. He had the same kind of eyes.

He sat back in the chair and sighed.

“So that’s my
proof
,” he said. “I know it’s worth nothing in the eyes of the cops, let alone in a court of law, but I don’t need them to believe me right now. Just you, Abby. If you help me, together we’ll figure out the next step.”

I nodded, took in a deep breath.

“Let me think about this,” I finally said.

And after he left, as I finished cleaning up, that’s what I did.

On the one hand, I wanted to help Charles Modine. It was what I did, help people, dead or alive, if they asked me for it. But on the other hand, I still wasn’t sure that I could believe him.

Not that I thought he was lying. But what I had in front of me was a ghost with a recurring dream and a crazy conspiracy theory. He would have known some of the facts about what had happened to his wife from the police reports. Maybe that influenced the dream. And maybe he inserted the face of the driver from somewhere else, somebody he had seen on the street. I needed more.

But then again, maybe I was asking too much. Lawyers didn’t take cases because they believed their clients. They took them because they believed that they could make money or believed that everyone deserved representation. The truth usually didn’t matter or factor into the equation. Maybe that’s how it was here.

Maybe Charles Modine just needed representation. I didn’t need to believe he was right about this guy. Perhaps just looking into things would be enough.

CHAPTER 17

Miguel came back from the fridge with the carrots while I grabbed the potatoes off the pantry shelf and then we headed over to the peeling station in the back of the kitchen. It was hectic on the line and by the stoves, but we were situated in a quiet place, off to the side, and out of the drama and tension. I felt lucky that I had been assigned to these pressure-free duties where I could acclimate to the high energy of the kitchen as the night went on.

The second-year students did all the main cooking in the culinary institute’s restaurant, making the appetizers and salads and manning the grilling and sauté stations. On a busy night we might be asked to plate some dishes, but for the most part we newbies slaved behind the scenes, doing the grunt work, peeling and chopping and prepping and cleaning.

The Chef de Cuisine, selected from among the highest ranked students, oversaw all the stations and I was happy to see that it was Chad Barker this week. He was all business and hardly smiled, but he never seemed stressed or yelled like some of the others. He was good at his job, checking in with the stations and telling people what was needed before they ran out. Chad Barker kept the kitchen running smoothly.

There was an event on campus that night and we were especially busy. But the restaurant had been doing good business all winter. Its reputation was growing and there was a buzz surrounding the seasonal, Pacific Northwest-based menu. The meals were heavy on salmon, beef from local ranches, Columbia River crawfish, hazelnuts, mushrooms foraged from the Willamette Valley, and regional wines.

“She’s going to pick a girl,” Miguel said, his hand a blur as he reached for another carrot to peel. “I know it.”

Chef Dubois had announced right as class ended that she would be selecting a student to work at her restaurant in Napa this summer.

“The only way that could happen is if you dropped out. Or had a sex change,” I said. “That internship has your name all over it, Miguel.”

He smiled as he pushed up his glasses, which kept running down his nose because of the sweat.

“Well, it would be an honor to intern at her restaurant, but I still have a feeling that she is going to choose a woman. She’s always talking about inequality and the struggles she’s gone through. Plus, I think she likes how serious you are. I don’t think you should downplay your chances, Abby. Something like that on your résumé would be huge.”

“I don’t think she likes me too much,” I said. “I feel like I annoy her most of the time.”

“That’s just her being French. But I do think she would like to see more confidence from you.”

“Yeah, well, me and school and confidence don’t mix easily.”

He stopped peeling for a moment and took out a handkerchief and wiped down his face. He was sweating profusely now and the thick double-breasted coats and hats we were required to wear didn’t help any.

“Has it always been that way?” he asked.

His question reminded me that although we spent a lot of time together at the school and the restaurant, he didn’t know everything about me. I had never told him about my accident or my subsequent ability to see ghosts. And I liked it that way. It was kind of refreshing to have a friend who didn’t know all my dark secrets.

“No, it wasn’t always that way, but high school changed that,” I said. “After I graduated I never wanted to go back.”

He nodded.

“I think high school has that effect on a lot of people. It did with me too. You know, being large… Well, I didn’t fit in anywhere easily, both literally and figuratively. At least you graduated.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yeah, I was bored out of my mind. Besides, I already knew what I wanted to do. So when I turned 16 I got out of there as fast as these tree trunks would carry me and I started working in a restaurant. It was the best.”

As we talked Miguel continued peeling at breakneck speed, having already gone through at least 100 carrots, compared to my 11 potatoes.

“You knew what you wanted to do back when you were 16?”

“Way before that even. Being a chef has been my dream since I was little. When I was nine I asked my parents for an All-Clad sauté pan for Christmas. My dad freaked out, but I told him if they got it for me, I’d cook him the best meal of his life. So they did and then the pressure was on. Anyway, my dad still talks about that meal.”

“Man, when I was in elementary school, I played video games,” I said. “Sometimes I rode my skateboard.”

“So when did you catch the cooking bug?”

I took a moment before answering, thinking back to the one silver lining in a very dark moment in my life. It was Simon, the chef at the house where Nathaniel Mortimer was holding me prisoner, who really showed me what cooking could be.

“When I was a teenager someone taught me how to make risotto. It was a really difficult time, but that dish, I think, changed my life. I know it sounds silly but it’s the thing that eventually led me here.”

“It doesn’t sound silly at all,” Miguel said. “I remember every detail of the first meal I had that blew my mind. It started with a simple cheese plate. But it was incredible. I still can taste that 25-year-old balsamic vinegar, paired perfectly with the Manchego.”

“Hey, guys,” Chad Barker said as he walked up. “We need you two up front in five minutes to go over the evening schedule.”

I smiled and nodded.

“You got it, Chef,” Miguel said.

It was nice finding someone like Miguel, someone who loved food as much as I did. I reached for another potato and tried to pick up my pace a little.

CHAPTER 18

I am back in the alley, behind a large garbage bin.

Though the sky above is starting to lighten into washed out shades of gray, it’s still night down here.

The place is silent again, as if the car had been a dream within a dream. But I see it now, parked just a few feet away. It looks abandoned.

I gather my courage and slowly walk up to get a better look. I see that it’s an older model with tinted windows and a sleekness that seems to shine even in the darkness. It’s the kind of car David would like.

Then I trace my fingers along three raised letters.

G-T-O.

I try to look inside, but the dark glass holds me back.

Coming toward the front, I place my hand on the hood. It’s still warm to the touch.

A chill brushes through me, and those fingers of fear dig harder into my chest.

I study the car again. The windshield is cracked, jagged lines pulling away from the damaged middle like the silk in a spider’s web. And then my eyes catch something splattered across the hood. I dip my finger in the liquid. It feels like melted chocolate.

The hairs on my arms suddenly stand up as the atmosphere in the alley changes into something heavy and metallic. 

I sense him before I even see the silhouette.

The driver is near, standing close by, hiding in the shadow of the buildings.

The fingers tighten their grip.

CHAPTER 19

“This is the third time this week, Abby Craig! Why not just bring your bed out to the living room and be done with it?”

I sat on the sofa, rubbing my face and trying to catch my breath as David stood over me.

“What time is it?”

“Just past 10,” he said, taking off his coat and throwing it in the vague direction of the chair. “It’s like a sauna in here.”

“Really? I’m freezing.”

My heart was still pounding as I thought back to the dream. Was that the car that killed Charlie Modine’s wife?

I shuffled over to the fire like a frozen zombie and stood there for a moment trying to warm up as I held out my hands over the flames. It was going strong, the three logs I had put on before falling asleep were still popping and shooting off embers. I couldn’t have been out for that long.

“You heard me apologize, right? I’m sorry I startled you and I didn’t mean to make you yelp like that.”

David giggled as I found the remote and muted the television. An episode of
Restaurant Impossible
was playing. I hated that show.