Trance The sound of the dull, crunching thud as she hit the parked car snapped her out of the trance. It took a moment to get her bearings. Where was she? The realization of what had happened slowly sunk in. This was just great. The fourth accident in less than a month. If Ross found out, as he had promised, he would take the car away. Leslie checked the rear-view mirror. No one in sight. She carefully backed up and parked. The night air was chilly for mid-September. The far-off barking of a dog seemed surreal, the moon a fuzzy halo in the light covering of clouds. Why was this happening to her? As she inspected the damage, the vision she had experienced just moments before flooded her mind with images and she steadied herself against the hood of the car. A knife, a tall, brutish man, a darkened alley with rubble piled high. Brooding, dangerous. It was as she had seen the last time. Fear rushed through her and a shiver raised gooseflesh on her arms. She shook off the sensation and ran her hand over the grill, partially obscured in darkness. Added to the old dings was a fresh gouge where the metal was pushed in. Thin slivers curled backwards. One slit her finger and she jerked her hand back. Blood dripped in black droplets that disappeared into the gloom at her feet. A sigh slipped from her as she retrieved a tissue from her jacket and wrapped it around the injury. The other car had been struck on the back bumper corner. Being an old Lincoln, the heavy metal showed nothing more than a couple scratches. There wasn't even a dent. She looked around again. Well past midnight, the neighborhood was still and silent, only that lonely dog seemed awake. It wasn't like her to leave, she knew it was against the law, but what else could she do? The real damage was hers, anyway. Better to just go home and try to hide this from Ross. He probably wouldn't notice. There were so many dings and dents on her old Caprice, what difference would one more make? She got back in and ran a trembling hand over her face. Her finger had almost stopped bleeding and she carefully inspected it in the weak illumination of the dome light. A deep slice yawned like an open mouth from middle knuckle to the first joint. Another trophy. Why was it she always hurt herself after one of these episodes? Three other wounds in various stages of healing marred her hands. Ross would notice this for sure. Well, she could make up a story to cover, maybe say she cut herself making a sandwich. Another picture flashed of the man holding the knife. The blade glistened like black oil. She knew there was blood on it. Shuddering, she got into the car and slowly drove the last two miles home. Nearly one o'clock, Ross would be sound asleep. Working swing shift had its advantages. At least he wouldn't confront her right away; she had time to think. The house was dark, but Ross's BMW wasn't in the carport. Where was he? She parked on her side and went in. A note was stuck on the refrigerator with a Pizza King magnet. "Went to Jim's for a beer," was all it said. That was the third time this week. Irritation gripped her. For the past two months, he had taken to going out while she was at work. It wouldn't bother her so much, but their marriage was suffering enough with her new work schedule. Ross had become sullen and cold when she did see him, even with her efforts to be attentive when she was bone tired. Fatigue ebbed away the annoyance. She went into the bathroom and cleaned the cut with peroxide, then placed a wide bandage around her finger. Actually, it wasn't too conspicuous, and with his growing lack of interest, Ross probably wouldn't notice at all. Sleep came quickly, almost the instant her head touched the pillow. It only seemed like seconds had passed when the rustling of Ross getting into bed awakened her. Eyes blurry with slumber, she glanced at the alarm clock. Its glowing display read three-thirty. What was he thinking coming in so late? Although annoyed, she wouldn't say anything to him now. He had to be up at seven for work. Three and a half hours sleep with his busy work schedule seemed irresponsible, if not stupid. As he settled into the blankets, she tried to snuggle against him. He scooted closer to the edge of the bed. Tears stung her eyes. Why was he being like this? She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Their relationship had become lopsided, her giving, him taking. Even his job, head of advertising for the business that her father built over forty years, was given to him. She knew that it was actually an honorary position without much real power. Maybe Ross realized it, too, and resented it. But, Daddy wanted to help her out, and his offer had been generous. She felt a twinge of resentment herself. Ross didn't apply himself to anything that required work. That was unthinkable to her. Values her father had instilled allowed her to make a good life for herself as a nurse. For seven years, she had managed well by herself. Then she met Ross, a patient suffering from appendicitis. In what seemed a blur, he wooed then married her. Far too in love, she hadn't thought to inquire about his work history or motivations. Only two years had passed, and now the questions seemed very relevant, although belated. His devotion to Damon Construction was sporadic, and her father had spoken to her on more than one occasion about his displeasure. The biggest concern seemed to center around Ross actually providing for her. This was laughable. Ross spent nearly every penny of his one hundred thousand dollar salary on himself, paying cash outright for his car. Perhaps that was why her father protested. She continued to drive the old Caprice she bought used while Ross zipped around in his sporty, and expensive, little car. She paid the bills, mortgage, food, everything with her salary. Not that she was poor, nurses made a decent living, but until Ross came into her life, she was comfortable. His extravagance was beginning to wear that away. He bet on football, baseball, basketball, most any sport, invested in risky ventures and always lost. At least that was what he told her. Then, two months ago, his idea of having a separate bank account backfired. His previous rational had been to keep one, her account, for the household budget. The account in his name would be for "expenses" related to the business. He had a fit when she refused to give him five thousand dollars to put on a "sure thing" commodity trade. Maybe that was when the trouble started between them. "I will not, in good conscience, contribute to something I feel is not only morally wrong and financially risky, but certainly not my obligation," she told him. "If you wouldn't throw your money away on get rich quick schemes or gambling, you'd have the money." He glared at her for a moment, then nearly shouted, "Oh, poor little rich girl. You could ask your father for the money, he's rolling in dough." "How cliche'," she said. "Can't you think of a more imaginative way of expressing yourself? My father pays you a good salary, money that I never see a cent of, and you have the nerve to try to make me feel guilty for not giving you more?" The situation deteriorated from there, and he started going out late for beers and ignoring her. That was when she found out he had taken draws against his salary for the next six months. Somehow he squandered nearly seventy-five thousand dollars and didn't have a thing to show for it. Daddy was not pleased. "What do you really know about Ross?" He asked. "Not nearly enough, I'm afraid." "I've warned him that his attitude at work is affecting the office. If his work doesn't pick up soon, I may have to fire him." She wasn't shocked, or surprised, and had seen this coming. Daddy reached over and patted her hand. "Honey, I can't be paying anyone that much with nothing to show for it, even my son-in-law." "I understand, and don't worry about me. I'm just puzzled that he hasn't mentioned this to me." Actually, nothing surprised her anymore when it came to Ross. A month later, his performance must have picked up, because he boasted about two ad campaigns that were working. It was about that time when the strange "trances" began. Ross's soft snoring carried from beside her. She glanced over and wondered how the stress of her marriage had created such a bizarre change in her life. The first had occurred while driving home late on a Sunday night. She had turned down Beaumont, a short cut across the subdivision, when the scent of evergreen filled the car. Puzzled, she reached down to check the vent. It was closed. A strange, floaty feeling engulfed her and next thing she knew, she hit a median and blew both front tires. While checking the damage, she cut her palm on a twisted piece of metal peeled back from the wheel well. At first, Ross was angry, but when she mentioned that she might have had a seizure, his demeanor changed. Seemingly worried, he rushed her to the hospital where she worked. Tests were performed, but nothing abnormal showed up. His anger returned shortly after he learned that she was fine. "It's this damn late shift you're working. You probably fell asleep at the wheel." About that time, she realized she hadn't been asleep, but experienced something so strange, so inexplicable, that she didn't know how to tell him without sounding like she had lost her mind. Images, some violent, some mundane, were somehow affixed in memory, almost as if she had watched a movie during those brief seconds before the accident. All was fine until exactly one week later. Driving down the same street at nearly the same time, it happened again. Evergreen, fresh as a just-cut Christmas tree filled her nostrils and seemed to expand her head. A scene of butchery appeared. Lying on the ground was a person so horribly mangled that it was impossible to tell the sex, let alone the identity. While her mind was preoccupied, she struck a fence. The damage to the car was minimal, but the wooden pickets were in ruins. A nail raked the back of her hand leaving a jagged cut when she tried to remove a section of the white-washed slats from the hood of the car. Ross was less understanding, although happy the insurance paid the claim. Terrified of what was happening to her, she kept the true reason for the accident, the strange trance, to herself. Another week passed, and when Sunday night arrived, she was worse than anxious. The feeling of doom pressed her as she got into the car, and she fought the idea that she was confined in a rolling coffin. She almost made it all the way home this time, but on the last street, the sweet, Christmasy odor seized her with such force that time seemed to stand still. A scene rolled in slow motion across the windshield. An alley, rubbish piled high in an alcove, a tall wood privacy fence, and a man. Tall, muscular, and deadly looking, he kept to the shadows by the fence, waiting. Sensing extreme danger, she could only watch as the scene played out. Footsteps of someone approaching, yet hidden by the deep shadows in the alley, made the man crouch low. The click-clack of leather soled shoes drew closer and she held her breath. The man leaped just as she struck another car that tried to swerve out of the way. Clipping bumpers, her car careened onto a lawn, mowed over a rosebush and came to rest halfway through a thick hedge. She had to force the door open to get out, and a broken branch gouged the heel of her hand. Ross argued with the insurance company for nearly an hour, and although the accident was really her fault, he convinced them that the other driver had been reckless. The claim was paid, but the agent warned them there would be a rate increase if she had any more accidents in the next three years. "If this happens again," he scolded, "I'm taking your keys and you can just ride the bus." "Ross, the bus doesn't run that late." "Then you'll just have to walk home. I certainly won't be picking you up." "Five miles? At night? You can't be serious." "Then you'll just have to be more careful." Not only was his lack of concern troublesome, but he also didn't seem to care about her safety. Her eyes grew heavy. She had a week to figure this out. Tomorrow she would call her father, explain to him what was happening to her. Maybe talking to him would help. She let herself drift off to sleep. The next morning, Ross woke her at eight just before he had to leave. "Meet me at the office this afternoon at two. We have some paperwork to take care of." Paperwork? Still groggy, she pushed up on her elbow. "What?" "Just meet me at two." He bent and kissed her cheek. "If you like we can go out to lunch afterwards." Surprised, she touched his arm. "Okay, that's a date." He smiled and closed the door as he left. Resting on the pillow, she thought he might have reconsidered his actions of late, maybe even realized how difficult he had been. Heartened, it was easier to fall back to sleep knowing things were better. Damon Construction was a tall, brick, two-story building. Ross's office was on the second floor, down the hall from her father. His door was closed, so she decided to talk to him later. She had to be at work by four, but she had enough time, even with lunch. When she went into Ross's office, she noticed another man with him. Ross stood and escorted her to a chair by his desk. "Leslie, this is Walter Bancroft, my insurance agent. We've been discussing financial planning for our future. One of the things Walter here has pointed out, is that you, or actually we, are underinsured for life insurance." Puzzled by Ross's sudden interest in their future, she looked at him, then to Walter. A small, weasel of a man, Walter looked like an insurance salesman, shifty eyes and all. "My life is insured for one hundred thousand through the hospital, surely that is sufficient." Walter shook his head emphatically and withdrew a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. With practiced deliberateness, he carefully placed them across the desk in front of her. "Mrs. Carson, look at these figures. Taking into consideration your present 401K plan, savings, stocks, et cetera, the bottom line is, you need a whole life policy that will assure a balanced income for the both of you when you arrive at retirement and want to live your Golden Years in comfort..." His nasal voice droned on, her ears buzzing with his double-talking coercion. She looked at Ross and raised her eyebrows. He nodded his head as if to assure her this was the best. "Of course, to cover you until the policy matures, an additional Term Life policy for five hundred thousand will assure financial safety should, God forbid, either one of you die prematurely. There is a double indemnity clause, as well, which would net you a million should anything other than natural causes take you. It's all standard procedure..." "Honey, just sign, we're both getting the same coverage, and I'll take care of the premiums." Ross glanced at his watch." I'm hungry. You?" His nonchalance at such a big decision bothered her, but she signed. Later, at the restaurant, Ross was back to his flattering ways and even held her hand. Relieved that his sour moodiness had passed, perhaps now they could get back to a normal marriage. After the pleasant meal, she had enough time for a short talk with her father. His door was open and he gave her a hug. "How's my girl?" The question seemed so simple, yet so complicated to answer, tears stung her eyes. "Daddy, I don't know where to start." His brow furrowed and he put his arm around her shoulders then sat her down. In a gush of released tension, she told him about the strange trances and accidents. "Honey, you said the hospital ran tests and nothing was found?" "Yes. The best neurologist at General checked me out and said I was fine. So, why am I having these lapses? Could I be going crazy?" "Stress can do strange things to us. It might just be a form of daydreaming, a way of venting your frustrations. How are you and Ross getting along?" "Better, had lunch with him today after signing some life insurance papers." As she explained, that dark look came over his face that she knew so well. "What's wrong?" "Seems a bit convenient, don't you think? You having so many accidents, and then him taking out a big policy on you." She hadn't thought of it that way. "Maybe just coincidence?" He leaned forward and took her hands. "Honey, I haven't said anything before, but now, I feel it's imperative you know. Ross has gotten himself into trouble. When leaving here about a month ago, I happened to see Ross having a rather heated discussion with a very disagreeable fellow in the parking lot. I asked Kevin who he was and he said the guy worked for a loan shark downtown." Kevin had worked as his foreman for nearly twenty-five years and knew everything going on at the shop. She trusted Kevin almost as much as she trusted her father, but how could this be the truth. She twisted her hands in her lap as she accepted the facts. Kevin had never lied to either one of them. "I checked it out," he continued. "Seems he owes around two hundred thousand to this guy. God knows how he got into such a mess." When she explained Ross's gambling problem and risky stock trades, his face darkened. "I knew there was more to your unhappiness than just post-newlywed blues. I don't know how Ross plans on paying all that back, but if I were you, I'd watch myself." His implication was clear. Ross wouldn't have her killed to collect, would he? An odd thought struck her. "What did that man look like?" The description was nearly identical to the man she saw in her visions. Feeling a bit dizzy, she placed a hand over her eyes. "You okay, honey?" "No." How could she explain what she didn't understand herself? "I have seen this man, too, during my trances." "Good Lord!" He looked down at his desk and shook his head. After a moment he spoke softly, as if reluctant to divulge what he had on his mind. "Your mother, God rest her soul, had "spells" as she called them. She knew things. I can't say how, or why, but her intuition was uncanny. Maybe you inherited that ability." Her father didn't like to talk about Mom. She had died suddenly in her sleep when only forty-two. Being her "late child", Leslie was only seven at the time. She remembered her mother mostly as a good-natured, loving woman that was quiet and supportive. Strangely, the week before she died, she began organizing the house, completing things as if she knew she wouldn't be around. Daddy never got over her passing, and never remarried. Her picture still adorned his desk. She had no idea she mother was "special". Was it possible she, too, had some sort of second sight, the ability to foresee events? "Be careful, honey. Trust what you know, what you see. It might save your life." When she got home, Ross was still up. She decided to talk to him about what her father had told her. Maybe if they discussed his financial problems, somehow it might change what she had foreseen. "I know about your money problems, Ross," she started, "what can I do to help." He looked shocked, then relieved. "Leslie, I'm so sorry for putting you through such a terrible time lately. It's just that I've been so worried." He grabbed her hand and held it. "But, don't concern yourself. I've worked it all out. I've taken a job at Jim's bartending. That's why I've been out so much. The money I earn from there will go to pay off my debt." A part-time bartender certainly couldn't net two hundred thousand dollars in a reasonable amount of time. She felt he was holding something back, deceiving her. "But, won't that take you years to pay off? Would they wait that long to get their money?" "I've made arrangements and it's agreeable to them." He didn't look her in the eye and that disturbed her. To think he might have her murdered to cash in on the insurance seemed impossible. Didn't it? Could it have been her murder she witnessed during the trance? He made love to her for the first time in nearly a month. Instead of making her feel better, the eerie perception of it being obligatory frightened her. Was he just trying to soothe any uncertainties she had? As the week wore on, Ross seemed more attentive, almost expectant. She found herself counting down the hours until Sunday. The happier Ross got, the more frightened she became. Could she really believe he would have her killed? If she went to the police, they would think she was a kook. No one, not even her father, could help her. It saddened her to think her mother knew of her own death. The inevitability seemed unchangeable. On Thursday, a bizarre event occurred. Called to back up the staff in the Emergency Room, she assisted with easing the chaos a multiple car accident created. Twenty patients, all in different stages of severity lined the hallway waiting their turn with the doctor. Assigned to triage and administer first aid to those least injured, she quickly went to work. When she went to help the last of the three she was given, a small boy of five, she nearly screamed. The boy's father was the tall man from her trances. After composing herself, she inspected the child's injury. His arm was cut and bruised, and he needed a few butterflies on a gash above his eyebrow. Other than that, he was fine. The boy's blue eyes seemed terribly frightened, and she patted his hand. "Don't worry, sweetie, I'll have you all better in a jiffy." Trembling, the poor child looked up at his father and a tear rolled down his cheek. The man's face hardened as he read her nametag, then he gazed at her, unreadable, and stony. She tried to appear professionally interested and glanced over the E.R. report. The child's name was Tyler, the parent's John Smith. Not very reassuring. She took the boy's hand and gave it a light squeeze to reassure him. "I know, Tyler. Car accidents sure are scary and I've had my share. Check this out." Holding out her damaged hand for him to see, she watched as he gazed over the scars with rapt appreciation. "You won't hurt me or stick me with any needles, will you?" "No, sweetie, I'll be very careful. I don't want you to have any more pain or be frightened. You can trust me." The boy nodded his head solemnly. "Hold still for the nurse, Tyler, she won't hurt you." The man's voice was strangely pleasant and soft, which was unnerving, but the fatherly concern in his voice was unmistakable. Swallowing her fear, she spoke to the man that was potentially her murderer. "I understand your concern and will be very gentle. Before I start, though I have a couple questions they didn't note here on his chart. Did he hit his head?" "Yes, ma'am, on the dashboard." "Did he lose consciousness?" "No, ma'am." "How about you? Were you injured?" A surprised expression crossed his craggy face. "No, ma'am. I had my seatbelt on. But, you know kids, he didn't have his on." She looked at the boy. "Guess you learned an important lesson. Are you going to wear your seatbelt from now on?" He nodded emphatically and glanced at his father. She looked at him, too. Maybe he just looked like her nightmare man. Summoning all her courage, she touched his arm. "Why don't you sit here beside your son." She turned her attention to the boy. "Well, looks like you just got a couple nasty cuts and bounced around a bit. I'll fix that right up so you can be on your way. Your daddy's going to be right there to hang onto if you like." "Okay," the boy said and slipped his hand around his father's arm. "Thank you, ma'am, you're very kind." His eyes never left her as went to work, and she got the feeling he was sizing her up. His smile seemed coarse, but genuine. She told a couple old elephant jokes while gently bandaging the boy, which got some laughs. Being considerate came naturally for her, as was her compassion for all her patients. Under the stress of being in the same room with her potential killer didn't change that. It was hard to believe she scored points with the man, but she seemed to. When she finished, he flashed his flinty grin and shook her hand. "Thank you, ma'am. You didn't hurt my boy one bit, and I appreciate that more than you know." He helped the boy down and they left. "How very weird," she said to herself. Since this was not a trance, she had no idea what to think of the odd event. Her Sunday shift started at four. The hours ticked by as she busied herself with the patients, all the while doom pressing her with its unrelenting finality. It was clear that Ross meant to have her murdered. He hadn't gone to Jim's once all week. How else could she take that? Just before her shift ended, she wrote a short letter to her father. "Daddy, if you get this letter, I am dead, murdered by someone Ross hired to kill me. I "saw" this once a week for a month, but didn't realize until now I was seeing my own death. You know about Ross's money problems, the loan shark. I am certain he plans to use the insurance money to pay it off. Talk to the police. Tell them what you know. Love always, Leslie." She addressed the envelope and stuck it in her mailbox. The Charge Nurse would find it when they cleared out her things. She left the building, the sound of her shoes a soft click-clack on the tile. That noise was so familiar, so forewarning, she had to fight to keep from tip-toeing. During the drive, she prayed the odor of evergreen would visit her, give her a reprieve, but it didn't. It would happen now. As she pulled into the drive, Ross's BMW seemed a mockery, the lights in the bedroom a sham. Who was Ross, really? A con man? Maybe he had done this to other women. Somehow, she knew this was true. That second sight, again. This was how he made his living, leeching off women, then killing them when their usefulness was expended. Trembling, she walked to the kitchen to get a knife to defend herself but stopped before she got to the counter. The back door was wide open. She stepped out and looked around the yard. The gate was also ajar, opened onto the alley as if expecting her. Nerves strung tight, she stepped into the alley where the garbage trucks collected the trash. It wouldn't be until Wednesday before they arrived, and already a large amount of rubbish had piled in the alcove diagonally across from her. The eerie feeling that this was part of her visions stole her breath. She took two steps further down the alley and stopped by the tall, privacy fence of her neighbors. Heart pounding, she took a slow, deep breath. Evergreen filled her nostrils. A glance to her right showed where the boughs of a fir tree had been trimmed and neatly bundled for collection. To her horror, there was an undercurrent of the thick, coppery scent of blood. Was she in a trance again? Was there more to experience. Her eyes focussed on the nearly cloudless night sky. Diamond chips of starlight sprinkled the heavens. The soft rustle of the breeze as it slithered down the darkened alley drew gooseflesh on her arms. Another fifteen feet and she would be at the corner of the fence. She knew who was waiting there. Maybe Ross was with the man to make sure the job was done. Although certain she was not in a trance, her feet began to move as if on their own accord. Feeling compelled, she advanced, dread an icy rock in her chest. A vague sound, almost like a heavy stick being struck against muddy ground carried from beyond the corner. Terrified, but unable to stop herself, she stepped past the angle of the fence. What she saw made her freeze in the deep shadow of the niche, fearful of being discovered. The tall, brutish man of her visions and the hospital was viciously butchering someone. With long swings of the blade, he hacked and slashed a motionless form that lay on the pavement. A dark pool of what she knew had to be blood surrounded the body and the man's feet. As if satisfied with his deed, the man spit on the body, then withdrew something white from his pocket and dropped it on the body. Suddenly, his eyes turned her way and he stared for a moment, then turned his back to her. Had he seen her? It wasn't that dark where she stood, and since she was dressed in her white nurse's uniform, it was highly probable that he did. Her heart pounded so hard, she was afraid he could hear it. Strangely, after another brief glance around, this time not in her direction, the man turned and headed for the far end of the alley, whistling softly. When the man was out of sight, she stepped from the shadows and slowly crept toward the body. It was as she had seen during the trances, a human so mangled identification was impossible. A gag caught in her throat when she noticed the bloodstained shoes. They were the wingtips that Ross took such pride in polishing. Ross had been murdered instead of her. Why? Steeling herself, she leaned closer, trying to make out what the man had dropped. It was the bandage she had carefully wrapped around the arm of John Smith's son, Tyler. --end- © 2000 Sharen Nehoda Back to FMTM
Trance
The sound of the dull, crunching thud as she hit the parked car snapped her out of the trance. It took a moment to get her bearings. Where was she? The realization of what had happened slowly sunk in. This was just great. The fourth accident in less than a month. If Ross found out, as he had promised, he would take the car away.
Leslie checked the rear-view mirror. No one in sight. She carefully backed up and parked. The night air was chilly for mid-September. The far-off barking of a dog seemed surreal, the moon a fuzzy halo in the light covering of clouds. Why was this happening to her?
As she inspected the damage, the vision she had experienced just moments before flooded her mind with images and she steadied herself against the hood of the car. A knife, a tall, brutish man, a darkened alley with rubble piled high. Brooding, dangerous. It was as she had seen the last time. Fear rushed through her and a shiver raised gooseflesh on her arms.
She shook off the sensation and ran her hand over the grill, partially obscured in darkness. Added to the old dings was a fresh gouge where the metal was pushed in. Thin slivers curled backwards. One slit her finger and she jerked her hand back. Blood dripped in black droplets that disappeared into the gloom at her feet. A sigh slipped from her as she retrieved a tissue from her jacket and wrapped it around the injury.
The other car had been struck on the back bumper corner. Being an old Lincoln, the heavy metal showed nothing more than a couple scratches. There wasn't even a dent. She looked around again. Well past midnight, the neighborhood was still and silent, only that lonely dog seemed awake. It wasn't like her to leave, she knew it was against the law, but what else could she do? The real damage was hers, anyway. Better to just go home and try to hide this from Ross. He probably wouldn't notice. There were so many dings and dents on her old Caprice, what difference would one more make? She got back in and ran a trembling hand over her face.
Her finger had almost stopped bleeding and she carefully inspected it in the weak illumination of the dome light. A deep slice yawned like an open mouth from middle knuckle to the first joint. Another trophy. Why was it she always hurt herself after one of these episodes? Three other wounds in various stages of healing marred her hands. Ross would notice this for sure. Well, she could make up a story to cover, maybe say she cut herself making a sandwich.
Another picture flashed of the man holding the knife. The blade glistened like black oil. She knew there was blood on it. Shuddering, she got into the car and slowly drove the last two miles home. Nearly one o'clock, Ross would be sound asleep. Working swing shift had its advantages. At least he wouldn't confront her right away; she had time to think.
The house was dark, but Ross's BMW wasn't in the carport. Where was he? She parked on her side and went in. A note was stuck on the refrigerator with a Pizza King magnet.
"Went to Jim's for a beer," was all it said. That was the third time this week. Irritation gripped her. For the past two months, he had taken to going out while she was at work. It wouldn't bother her so much, but their marriage was suffering enough with her new work schedule. Ross had become sullen and cold when she did see him, even with her efforts to be attentive when she was bone tired.
Fatigue ebbed away the annoyance. She went into the bathroom and cleaned the cut with peroxide, then placed a wide bandage around her finger. Actually, it wasn't too conspicuous, and with his growing lack of interest, Ross probably wouldn't notice at all.
Sleep came quickly, almost the instant her head touched the pillow. It only seemed like seconds had passed when the rustling of Ross getting into bed awakened her. Eyes blurry with slumber, she glanced at the alarm clock. Its glowing display read three-thirty. What was he thinking coming in so late? Although annoyed, she wouldn't say anything to him now. He had to be up at seven for work. Three and a half hours sleep with his busy work schedule seemed irresponsible, if not stupid.
As he settled into the blankets, she tried to snuggle against him. He scooted closer to the edge of the bed. Tears stung her eyes. Why was he being like this? She rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Their relationship had become lopsided, her giving, him taking. Even his job, head of advertising for the business that her father built over forty years, was given to him. She knew that it was actually an honorary position without much real power. Maybe Ross realized it, too, and resented it. But, Daddy wanted to help her out, and his offer had been generous.
She felt a twinge of resentment herself. Ross didn't apply himself to anything that required work. That was unthinkable to her. Values her father had instilled allowed her to make a good life for herself as a nurse. For seven years, she had managed well by herself. Then she met Ross, a patient suffering from appendicitis. In what seemed a blur, he wooed then married her. Far too in love, she hadn't thought to inquire about his work history or motivations. Only two years had passed, and now the questions seemed very relevant, although belated.
His devotion to Damon Construction was sporadic, and her father had spoken to her on more than one occasion about his displeasure. The biggest concern seemed to center around Ross actually providing for her. This was laughable. Ross spent nearly every penny of his one hundred thousand dollar salary on himself, paying cash outright for his car. Perhaps that was why her father protested. She continued to drive the old Caprice she bought used while Ross zipped around in his sporty, and expensive, little car.
She paid the bills, mortgage, food, everything with her salary. Not that she was poor, nurses made a decent living, but until Ross came into her life, she was comfortable. His extravagance was beginning to wear that away. He bet on football, baseball, basketball, most any sport, invested in risky ventures and always lost. At least that was what he told her. Then, two months ago, his idea of having a separate bank account backfired. His previous rational had been to keep one, her account, for the household budget. The account in his name would be for "expenses" related to the business. He had a fit when she refused to give him five thousand dollars to put on a "sure thing" commodity trade.
Maybe that was when the trouble started between them. "I will not, in good conscience, contribute to something I feel is not only morally wrong and financially risky, but certainly not my obligation," she told him. "If you wouldn't throw your money away on get rich quick schemes or gambling, you'd have the money."
He glared at her for a moment, then nearly shouted, "Oh, poor little rich girl. You could ask your father for the money, he's rolling in dough."
"How cliche'," she said. "Can't you think of a more imaginative way of expressing yourself? My father pays you a good salary, money that I never see a cent of, and you have the nerve to try to make me feel guilty for not giving you more?"
The situation deteriorated from there, and he started going out late for beers and ignoring her. That was when she found out he had taken draws against his salary for the next six months. Somehow he squandered nearly seventy-five thousand dollars and didn't have a thing to show for it. Daddy was not pleased.
"What do you really know about Ross?" He asked.
"Not nearly enough, I'm afraid."
"I've warned him that his attitude at work is affecting the office. If his work doesn't pick up soon, I may have to fire him."
She wasn't shocked, or surprised, and had seen this coming. Daddy reached over and patted her hand.
"Honey, I can't be paying anyone that much with nothing to show for it, even my son-in-law."
"I understand, and don't worry about me. I'm just puzzled that he hasn't mentioned this to me." Actually, nothing surprised her anymore when it came to Ross.
A month later, his performance must have picked up, because he boasted about two ad campaigns that were working. It was about that time when the strange "trances" began. Ross's soft snoring carried from beside her. She glanced over and wondered how the stress of her marriage had created such a bizarre change in her life.
The first had occurred while driving home late on a Sunday night. She had turned down Beaumont, a short cut across the subdivision, when the scent of evergreen filled the car. Puzzled, she reached down to check the vent. It was closed. A strange, floaty feeling engulfed her and next thing she knew, she hit a median and blew both front tires. While checking the damage, she cut her palm on a twisted piece of metal peeled back from the wheel well. At first, Ross was angry, but when she mentioned that she might have had a seizure, his demeanor changed. Seemingly worried, he rushed her to the hospital where she worked. Tests were performed, but nothing abnormal showed up. His anger returned shortly after he learned that she was fine.
"It's this damn late shift you're working. You probably fell asleep at the wheel."
About that time, she realized she hadn't been asleep, but experienced something so strange, so inexplicable, that she didn't know how to tell him without sounding like she had lost her mind. Images, some violent, some mundane, were somehow affixed in memory, almost as if she had watched a movie during those brief seconds before the accident.
All was fine until exactly one week later. Driving down the same street at nearly the same time, it happened again. Evergreen, fresh as a just-cut Christmas tree filled her nostrils and seemed to expand her head. A scene of butchery appeared. Lying on the ground was a person so horribly mangled that it was impossible to tell the sex, let alone the identity. While her mind was preoccupied, she struck a fence. The damage to the car was minimal, but the wooden pickets were in ruins. A nail raked the back of her hand leaving a jagged cut when she tried to remove a section of the white-washed slats from the hood of the car. Ross was less understanding, although happy the insurance paid the claim. Terrified of what was happening to her, she kept the true reason for the accident, the strange trance, to herself.
Another week passed, and when Sunday night arrived, she was worse than anxious. The feeling of doom pressed her as she got into the car, and she fought the idea that she was confined in a rolling coffin. She almost made it all the way home this time, but on the last street, the sweet, Christmasy odor seized her with such force that time seemed to stand still. A scene rolled in slow motion across the windshield. An alley, rubbish piled high in an alcove, a tall wood privacy fence, and a man. Tall, muscular, and deadly looking, he kept to the shadows by the fence, waiting. Sensing extreme danger, she could only watch as the scene played out. Footsteps of someone approaching, yet hidden by the deep shadows in the alley, made the man crouch low. The click-clack of leather soled shoes drew closer and she held her breath. The man leaped just as she struck another car that tried to swerve out of the way. Clipping bumpers, her car careened onto a lawn, mowed over a rosebush and came to rest halfway through a thick hedge. She had to force the door open to get out, and a broken branch gouged the heel of her hand.
Ross argued with the insurance company for nearly an hour, and although the accident was really her fault, he convinced them that the other driver had been reckless. The claim was paid, but the agent warned them there would be a rate increase if she had any more accidents in the next three years.
"If this happens again," he scolded, "I'm taking your keys and you can just ride the bus."
"Ross, the bus doesn't run that late."
"Then you'll just have to walk home. I certainly won't be picking you up."
"Five miles? At night? You can't be serious."
"Then you'll just have to be more careful."
Not only was his lack of concern troublesome, but he also didn't seem to care about her safety.
Her eyes grew heavy. She had a week to figure this out. Tomorrow she would call her father, explain to him what was happening to her. Maybe talking to him would help. She let herself drift off to sleep.
The next morning, Ross woke her at eight just before he had to leave.
"Meet me at the office this afternoon at two. We have some paperwork to take care of."
Paperwork? Still groggy, she pushed up on her elbow. "What?"
"Just meet me at two." He bent and kissed her cheek. "If you like we can go out to lunch afterwards."
Surprised, she touched his arm. "Okay, that's a date."
He smiled and closed the door as he left. Resting on the pillow, she thought he might have reconsidered his actions of late, maybe even realized how difficult he had been. Heartened, it was easier to fall back to sleep knowing things were better.
Damon Construction was a tall, brick, two-story building. Ross's office was on the second floor, down the hall from her father. His door was closed, so she decided to talk to him later. She had to be at work by four, but she had enough time, even with lunch. When she went into Ross's office, she noticed another man with him.
Ross stood and escorted her to a chair by his desk. "Leslie, this is Walter Bancroft, my insurance agent. We've been discussing financial planning for our future. One of the things Walter here has pointed out, is that you, or actually we, are underinsured for life insurance."
Puzzled by Ross's sudden interest in their future, she looked at him, then to Walter. A small, weasel of a man, Walter looked like an insurance salesman, shifty eyes and all.
"My life is insured for one hundred thousand through the hospital, surely that is sufficient."
Walter shook his head emphatically and withdrew a sheaf of papers from his briefcase. With practiced deliberateness, he carefully placed them across the desk in front of her.
"Mrs. Carson, look at these figures. Taking into consideration your present 401K plan, savings, stocks, et cetera, the bottom line is, you need a whole life policy that will assure a balanced income for the both of you when you arrive at retirement and want to live your Golden Years in comfort..."
His nasal voice droned on, her ears buzzing with his double-talking coercion. She looked at Ross and raised her eyebrows. He nodded his head as if to assure her this was the best.
"Of course, to cover you until the policy matures, an additional Term Life policy for five hundred thousand will assure financial safety should, God forbid, either one of you die prematurely. There is a double indemnity clause, as well, which would net you a million should anything other than natural causes take you. It's all standard procedure..."
"Honey, just sign, we're both getting the same coverage, and I'll take care of the premiums." Ross glanced at his watch." I'm hungry. You?"
His nonchalance at such a big decision bothered her, but she signed. Later, at the restaurant, Ross was back to his flattering ways and even held her hand. Relieved that his sour moodiness had passed, perhaps now they could get back to a normal marriage. After the pleasant meal, she had enough time for a short talk with her father. His door was open and he gave her a hug.
"How's my girl?"
The question seemed so simple, yet so complicated to answer, tears stung her eyes. "Daddy, I don't know where to start."
His brow furrowed and he put his arm around her shoulders then sat her down. In a gush of released tension, she told him about the strange trances and accidents.
"Honey, you said the hospital ran tests and nothing was found?"
"Yes. The best neurologist at General checked me out and said I was fine. So, why am I having these lapses? Could I be going crazy?"
"Stress can do strange things to us. It might just be a form of daydreaming, a way of venting your frustrations. How are you and Ross getting along?"
"Better, had lunch with him today after signing some life insurance papers." As she explained, that dark look came over his face that she knew so well. "What's wrong?"
"Seems a bit convenient, don't you think? You having so many accidents, and then him taking out a big policy on you."
She hadn't thought of it that way. "Maybe just coincidence?"
He leaned forward and took her hands. "Honey, I haven't said anything before, but now, I feel it's imperative you know. Ross has gotten himself into trouble. When leaving here about a month ago, I happened to see Ross having a rather heated discussion with a very disagreeable fellow in the parking lot. I asked Kevin who he was and he said the guy worked for a loan shark downtown."
Kevin had worked as his foreman for nearly twenty-five years and knew everything going on at the shop. She trusted Kevin almost as much as she trusted her father, but how could this be the truth. She twisted her hands in her lap as she accepted the facts. Kevin had never lied to either one of them.
"I checked it out," he continued. "Seems he owes around two hundred thousand to this guy. God knows how he got into such a mess."
When she explained Ross's gambling problem and risky stock trades, his face darkened.
"I knew there was more to your unhappiness than just post-newlywed blues. I don't know how Ross plans on paying all that back, but if I were you, I'd watch myself."
His implication was clear. Ross wouldn't have her killed to collect, would he? An odd thought struck her. "What did that man look like?"
The description was nearly identical to the man she saw in her visions. Feeling a bit dizzy, she placed a hand over her eyes.
"You okay, honey?"
"No." How could she explain what she didn't understand herself? "I have seen this man, too, during my trances."
"Good Lord!"
He looked down at his desk and shook his head. After a moment he spoke softly, as if reluctant to divulge what he had on his mind.
"Your mother, God rest her soul, had "spells" as she called them. She knew things. I can't say how, or why, but her intuition was uncanny. Maybe you inherited that ability."
Her father didn't like to talk about Mom. She had died suddenly in her sleep when only forty-two. Being her "late child", Leslie was only seven at the time. She remembered her mother mostly as a good-natured, loving woman that was quiet and supportive. Strangely, the week before she died, she began organizing the house, completing things as if she knew she wouldn't be around. Daddy never got over her passing, and never remarried. Her picture still adorned his desk.
She had no idea she mother was "special". Was it possible she, too, had some sort of second sight, the ability to foresee events?
"Be careful, honey. Trust what you know, what you see. It might save your life."
When she got home, Ross was still up. She decided to talk to him about what her father had told her. Maybe if they discussed his financial problems, somehow it might change what she had foreseen.
"I know about your money problems, Ross," she started, "what can I do to help."
He looked shocked, then relieved. "Leslie, I'm so sorry for putting you through such a terrible time lately. It's just that I've been so worried." He grabbed her hand and held it. "But, don't concern yourself. I've worked it all out. I've taken a job at Jim's bartending. That's why I've been out so much. The money I earn from there will go to pay off my debt."
A part-time bartender certainly couldn't net two hundred thousand dollars in a reasonable amount of time. She felt he was holding something back, deceiving her. "But, won't that take you years to pay off? Would they wait that long to get their money?"
"I've made arrangements and it's agreeable to them."
He didn't look her in the eye and that disturbed her. To think he might have her murdered to cash in on the insurance seemed impossible. Didn't it? Could it have been her murder she witnessed during the trance?
He made love to her for the first time in nearly a month. Instead of making her feel better, the eerie perception of it being obligatory frightened her. Was he just trying to soothe any uncertainties she had?
As the week wore on, Ross seemed more attentive, almost expectant. She found herself counting down the hours until Sunday. The happier Ross got, the more frightened she became. Could she really believe he would have her killed? If she went to the police, they would think she was a kook. No one, not even her father, could help her. It saddened her to think her mother knew of her own death. The inevitability seemed unchangeable.
On Thursday, a bizarre event occurred. Called to back up the staff in the Emergency Room, she assisted with easing the chaos a multiple car accident created. Twenty patients, all in different stages of severity lined the hallway waiting their turn with the doctor. Assigned to triage and administer first aid to those least injured, she quickly went to work. When she went to help the last of the three she was given, a small boy of five, she nearly screamed. The boy's father was the tall man from her trances.
After composing herself, she inspected the child's injury. His arm was cut and bruised, and he needed a few butterflies on a gash above his eyebrow. Other than that, he was fine. The boy's blue eyes seemed terribly frightened, and she patted his hand. "Don't worry, sweetie, I'll have you all better in a jiffy."
Trembling, the poor child looked up at his father and a tear rolled down his cheek. The man's face hardened as he read her nametag, then he gazed at her, unreadable, and stony. She tried to appear professionally interested and glanced over the E.R. report. The child's name was Tyler, the parent's John Smith. Not very reassuring.
She took the boy's hand and gave it a light squeeze to reassure him. "I know, Tyler. Car accidents sure are scary and I've had my share. Check this out."
Holding out her damaged hand for him to see, she watched as he gazed over the scars with rapt appreciation.
"You won't hurt me or stick me with any needles, will you?"
"No, sweetie, I'll be very careful. I don't want you to have any more pain or be frightened. You can trust me."
The boy nodded his head solemnly.
"Hold still for the nurse, Tyler, she won't hurt you."
The man's voice was strangely pleasant and soft, which was unnerving, but the fatherly concern in his voice was unmistakable. Swallowing her fear, she spoke to the man that was potentially her murderer.
"I understand your concern and will be very gentle. Before I start, though I have a couple questions they didn't note here on his chart. Did he hit his head?"
"Yes, ma'am, on the dashboard."
"Did he lose consciousness?"
"No, ma'am."
"How about you? Were you injured?" A surprised expression crossed his craggy face.
"No, ma'am. I had my seatbelt on. But, you know kids, he didn't have his on."
She looked at the boy. "Guess you learned an important lesson. Are you going to wear your seatbelt from now on?"
He nodded emphatically and glanced at his father. She looked at him, too. Maybe he just looked like her nightmare man. Summoning all her courage, she touched his arm. "Why don't you sit here beside your son."
She turned her attention to the boy. "Well, looks like you just got a couple nasty cuts and bounced around a bit. I'll fix that right up so you can be on your way. Your daddy's going to be right there to hang onto if you like."
"Okay," the boy said and slipped his hand around his father's arm.
"Thank you, ma'am, you're very kind."
His eyes never left her as went to work, and she got the feeling he was sizing her up. His smile seemed coarse, but genuine. She told a couple old elephant jokes while gently bandaging the boy, which got some laughs. Being considerate came naturally for her, as was her compassion for all her patients. Under the stress of being in the same room with her potential killer didn't change that. It was hard to believe she scored points with the man, but she seemed to. When she finished, he flashed his flinty grin and shook her hand.
"Thank you, ma'am. You didn't hurt my boy one bit, and I appreciate that more than you know."
He helped the boy down and they left.
"How very weird," she said to herself. Since this was not a trance, she had no idea what to think of the odd event.
Her Sunday shift started at four. The hours ticked by as she busied herself with the patients, all the while doom pressing her with its unrelenting finality. It was clear that Ross meant to have her murdered. He hadn't gone to Jim's once all week. How else could she take that? Just before her shift ended, she wrote a short letter to her father.
"Daddy, if you get this letter, I am dead, murdered by someone Ross hired to kill me. I "saw" this once a week for a month, but didn't realize until now I was seeing my own death. You know about Ross's money problems, the loan shark. I am certain he plans to use the insurance money to pay it off. Talk to the police. Tell them what you know. Love always, Leslie."
She addressed the envelope and stuck it in her mailbox. The Charge Nurse would find it when they cleared out her things. She left the building, the sound of her shoes a soft click-clack on the tile. That noise was so familiar, so forewarning, she had to fight to keep from tip-toeing.
During the drive, she prayed the odor of evergreen would visit her, give her a reprieve, but it didn't. It would happen now. As she pulled into the drive, Ross's BMW seemed a mockery, the lights in the bedroom a sham. Who was Ross, really? A con man? Maybe he had done this to other women. Somehow, she knew this was true. That second sight, again. This was how he made his living, leeching off women, then killing them when their usefulness was expended.
Trembling, she walked to the kitchen to get a knife to defend herself but stopped before she got to the counter. The back door was wide open. She stepped out and looked around the yard. The gate was also ajar, opened onto the alley as if expecting her.
Nerves strung tight, she stepped into the alley where the garbage trucks collected the trash. It wouldn't be until Wednesday before they arrived, and already a large amount of rubbish had piled in the alcove diagonally across from her. The eerie feeling that this was part of her visions stole her breath. She took two steps further down the alley and stopped by the tall, privacy fence of her neighbors. Heart pounding, she took a slow, deep breath. Evergreen filled her nostrils. A glance to her right showed where the boughs of a fir tree had been trimmed and neatly bundled for collection.
To her horror, there was an undercurrent of the thick, coppery scent of blood. Was she in a trance again? Was there more to experience. Her eyes focussed on the nearly cloudless night sky. Diamond chips of starlight sprinkled the heavens. The soft rustle of the breeze as it slithered down the darkened alley drew gooseflesh on her arms.
Another fifteen feet and she would be at the corner of the fence. She knew who was waiting there. Maybe Ross was with the man to make sure the job was done. Although certain she was not in a trance, her feet began to move as if on their own accord. Feeling compelled, she advanced, dread an icy rock in her chest.
A vague sound, almost like a heavy stick being struck against muddy ground carried from beyond the corner. Terrified, but unable to stop herself, she stepped past the angle of the fence. What she saw made her freeze in the deep shadow of the niche, fearful of being discovered.
The tall, brutish man of her visions and the hospital was viciously butchering someone. With long swings of the blade, he hacked and slashed a motionless form that lay on the pavement. A dark pool of what she knew had to be blood surrounded the body and the man's feet. As if satisfied with his deed, the man spit on the body, then withdrew something white from his pocket and dropped it on the body.
Suddenly, his eyes turned her way and he stared for a moment, then turned his back to her. Had he seen her? It wasn't that dark where she stood, and since she was dressed in her white nurse's uniform, it was highly probable that he did. Her heart pounded so hard, she was afraid he could hear it. Strangely, after another brief glance around, this time not in her direction, the man turned and headed for the far end of the alley, whistling softly.
When the man was out of sight, she stepped from the shadows and slowly crept toward the body. It was as she had seen during the trances, a human so mangled identification was impossible. A gag caught in her throat when she noticed the bloodstained shoes. They were the wingtips that Ross took such pride in polishing. Ross had been murdered instead of her. Why? Steeling herself, she leaned closer, trying to make out what the man had dropped.
It was the bandage she had carefully wrapped around the arm of John Smith's son, Tyler.
--end-
© 2000 Sharen Nehoda
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