Hallowed (24 page)

The sound of my own scream awakened me, and I leapt up and threw a hand over my mouth.  Moments later, I saw shadows in the crack beneath my door and I realized I wasn’t the only one awakened by my scream.

“Paul?” Mom slowly opened the door and looked inside.  “Are you okay?”

I realized then that I had been holding my left hand up over my mouth and I let it fall.  “I’m fine. I just had…”

Mom’s eyes grew wide and she rushed forward to hover over me.  “God, Paul, you’re bleeding.”

That’s when I felt the sting in my palm and I saw the cut.

“You cut yourself.”

I could only stare at the cut with a sense of unreality.  For a moment, I didn’t know where I was.  Was I still dreaming?  Was this my mother or something I’d conjured in my subconscious sleep-state?

“C’mon, let’s get that cleaned.”

She led me into the bathroom and when the light went on, I saw myself in the mirror and realized what must have alarmed her.  A streak of blood covered my face.

That’s what ultimately brought me back to reality.  The sight of one’s own blood tends to have a sobering effect.

“What… How did you do this, Paul?”

“I don’t know,” I lied.  If truth be told, how
did
I do that?  Certainly, I cut myself in my bed, because the alternative was impossible.

After wiping my face, Mom cleaned and dressed the cut and, of course, gave it a mother’s kiss to speed the healing and sent me back off to bed.  I spent the next ten minutes running my good right hand over every straight edge within reach.  I didn’t find a trace of blood anywhere and nothing even remotely sharp enough to do the damage I had awoken with.

The clock on my nightstand said four-thirty and I could hear the whispered bedside conference of my parents through the ventilation ducts until around five.

By the time I got up at six, I was sure it had all been a dream, until I saw the gauze on my hand spotted with blood… and the smear on my pants leg where I had wiped my hand in another world.

As I sat on the edge of my bed debating whether I cared enough to go into school on Wednesday morning, the phone on my stand began to buzz and spin in circles.

“Come pick me up.”  By the time I registered that the voice belonged to Claudia, she had hung up.

For one bizarre moment, I thought I had fallen asleep in front of the TV watching “Ferris Bueller,” and this was all a dream.

When I attempted to call her back, her cell went straight to voice mail.

It had been debated by the city council to cancel classes for the day, maybe even on through the weekend, (hey it would give our varsity team more time to prepare for Friday’s game, right?), but in their infinite wisdom, our elected officials decided that the best thing for the delicate psyches of the students were to carry on as close to a normal routine as possible.

Classes would go on as scheduled.

Cursing Claudia under my breath, I dragged myself to the shower and less than thirty minutes later I was in her driveway.

She was sitting on the swing on the porch her legs pulled up beneath her and her head bowed.  She looked like a Goth Buddha.

A dagger of pain shot through my heart as I thought of the last conversation I’d had with Bridgette.

Claudia leapt into the car giving me the once over with those scalpels of hers.

“That was pretty lame, y’know,” I muttered as I put the car in drive and started for school.

“I knew it was the only way I could get your butt out of bed,” she returned lightning fast.  With a little more compassion, she asked, “How did you sleep?”

I put my left hand as casually as I could down by my side.  “Never better,” I grumbled.  “Look, Claudia, I’m not going to be able to meet you today.”

“I know what you’re going to say…”

“Then you know that I think what we’re doing is ridiculous,” I replied angrily.  “Here we are a couple of high school kids thinking we’re going to find something that trained professionals can’t?  We’re just spinning our wheels and worse than that, we’re being disrespectful of the dead!”

She was quiet for maybe a minute.  I thought maybe she’d actually heard me for the first time and going to take my position at face value, but I knew that wasn’t in her character.  “I’ll say one thing here, then I’m going to let it go.  I don’t look at what we’re doing as amateur vs. professional.  It’s just two different perspectives.  Personally, I think we’re closer to the truth because we’re the same ages as the victims, unlike your father and the Sheriff’s Department.  Besides, what does it matter if we’re just spinning our wheels?  If we can give just one small insight that might help catch this guy, it was worth all the effort.”

It pissed me off to no end that she was right again.

“If anything, we owe the victims that much. The more time that passes on this thing, the better chance this guy becomes a Zodiac--one of those unsolved cases that can only be speculated about today.  I mean, do you know how close they were to catching that guy?  He walked right down the sidewalk past a couple of cops because they thought their suspect was black.  Can you imagine how those two men must feel today?”

I remained stoically quiet.

“I’ll be up in the bleachers at lunch,” she concluded.  “With or without you.”

When we pulled up at the school, she told me, “Thanks for the ride,” and started to her locker.

I remained behind a few minutes longer, noticing the two Sheriff’s Department cruisers conspicuously parked in front of the main office.

“You get questioned?”

I had to give her credit.  When I arrived in the bleachers for lunch five minutes later than usual, she made not one snide remark, but instead
just started talking as if I’d been there sitting beside her all along.

“No, did you?

“They called a couple of the twirler girls out from Mrs. George’s class and took them up to Mr. Smalls’ office to talk to a couple of uniforms, though, I haven’t seen your dad.”

“He didn’t mention anything to me about all this.”

“Well, you had to expect it.  After all, a girl from our school was murdered,” she quipped, turning back to her notes. “Okay, our victims are three girls and one guy.”

We now return you to our normally scheduled program already in progress.

I made a queer chuckle in the back of my throat.

Claudia glanced at me indifferently.  “All of them were teenagers still in high school, except for the first victim who had just graduated a month or two before she was killed.  Who would have access to teenagers, besides other teenagers?”

I watched Claudia nibble on her Count Chocula cereal and thought about it.  “Other friends’ parents, teachers, counselors, job recruiters.”

“Military recruiters, too.”  Claudia saw me staring at her cereal, noticed that I had come empty-handed, and passed me the baggie (which I dutifully began to shovel into my mouth).  “How about extra-curricular activities?”

“Well, Martin told me that Grace was a hair-dresser.  She was attending a beauty school in Austin.”

“Which brings us to Sadie.”

“Sadie was on the debate team, right?”

Claudia was quiet.  I could almost see the tumblers in her head slowly clicking into place.  “Kalim was in the Honor Society and on the Student Council.  I know Bridgette was a twirler.”

“She was also in band.  Played the flute,” I muttered.

Claudia spared me a quick glance.  “She was on the track team and belonged to the Fellowship of Christian Athletes.”

“Christian,” I heard myself murmur, thinking back on the conversation I’d had with her about Buddhism.

After a moment, I caught Claudia searching my face.  “All different religions and all involved in extra-curricular activities.  I’m working from the assumption that the killer made contact with the victims through a common activity.  What sort of activity would link all four victims?”

We sat in silence and considered the question.

“Maybe none?”

Claudia looked up at me with raised brows.

“Well, if the killer specifically chose victims based on their different religious beliefs…”

“No, you’re assuming he chose the victims based on the specific activity.  He only came in contact with them based on the activity and through that, learned about their religious beliefs.”

“Still, they could all be different activities, couldn’t they?  After all, this guy could be consciously trying to misdirect whoever might be looking for a link.”

Claudia nibbled her lips.  “That’s possible.  He’d have to be a busy little bee and somehow manage not to look busy to any outside observer.”

Something in the words she’d used triggered a connection, but as I attempted to grasp the straw, it slipped away again.  I shook my head in frustration.  Something in the dream last night.  What was it?  I looked down at my left hand, wrapped in gauze.  I must have been unconsciously hiding it down by my side until now.

The way her eyes shifted away as I looked back at her, I could tell Claudia must have seen it and took note of it without actually acknowledging it aloud. “Either that or he has help.”

I looked up at Claudia.  “Tracy Tatum?”

She shrugged.  “I think you should talk to her again.”

“Not only do I have my mom and dad keeping tabs on me, but now my uncle too.  You’ve got to do it.”

“Me?” she said with surprise, then her eyes drifted inward and she gave a half-nod.  “Yeah, you’re right, but what if she won’t…”

“She told me herself.  She wanted to meet the son of the man who saved her life.  You’re your father’s daughter.  That’s all you need.”

“When are we going to do this?”

“Tonight.  Uncle Hank’ll be making the rounds at CCD class,” I announced.  “I’ll run interference.  If there’s a problem, I’ll call you and vice versa.”  I reached into my pocket and retrieved my cell phone.

She retrieved her own phone, staring down at it with a look of trepidation. I think that was the first time I saw fear in those fathomless eyes of hers.

On the ride home that afternoon, I winced making a left hand turn, dropped my hand from the steering wheel and nearly put us into the oncoming lane of traffic.

“So, are you going to tell me what happened to your hand or do I have to guess?”

What was I thinking trying to hide anything from Special Agent Wicke?

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Does it involve shaving a body part that you can only see with the help of a mirror?”

I just gave her a tolerant look and sighed.  “I cut it in my sleep.  Thing is, I can’t for the life of me figure out how.”

“What were you dreaming about?”

“Well, what does that have to do with anything?” I snapped.

“Easy, tiger,” she said evenly, her eyes narrowing into microscope lens.

I held my tongue.  Why
was
I getting so edgy?

“Are you still having the dreams of the House?”

“These are worse,” I managed.  “Much worse.”  Where to begin?  “Okay, isn’t it well established that if you hear a noise while you are sleeping, you can incorporate that sound into your dream?”

Claudia continued to scrutinize me.  She looked down at my hand cradled like a hurt animal in my lap and then back up at me with wild excited eyes.  “You have got to be shitting me?  You cut your hand in your dream?”

I withdrew my attention back to the road.  “I never said that.”

“Where were you?  What was happening? We’ve got to analyze this puppy!”  She opened her backpack and pulled out her spiral notebook.

“Y’see, I figured you would make a bigger deal out of this than it deserved.”

“Were you attacked?  Did you see a face?”

“No, for God’s sake I cut my hand on broken car window.  I was at the school.  It was destroyed.  There were mass graves in the marching field.”

“Of course that couldn’t possibly be interpreted as meaning anything,” she quipped.  “Was there someone in the dream with you?”

“No, I never saw another body, dead or alive.  Just the graves.”

“Any other unusual detail?”

“No. Well, other than someone blowing a trumpet.”

Claudia was scribbling like a madman.

“Oh, and the moon was breaking apart.”

Claudia stopped writing and just stared at me.  “And you weren’t going to tell me about this dream?  Are you missing a vital piece of your brain?”

I was a little alarmed by the expression on her face.  “Y’see, this is why my first instinct is not to tell you these things.”

“These are pretty vivid details, Paul.”

I shrugged, attempting to make light of it.  “It’s just the end of the world.  I’m pretty used to it by now.”

“But this is a different ending.  That’s got to be significant.”

Sitting in her driveway, we discussed the details about tonight and the “stories” that we would tell our respective mothers.  I would be back around six to pick her up if they bought that we would be studying at the library.  Until then, she told me that she would be busy analyzing my dream on the internet.