“No, it wouldn’t,” he agreed.
I picked up my pint of Stout and took a sip then set it back on the table. The murmur of the crowd was ramping up to a dull roar now, and I looked out of the booth, glancing around at the milling bodies.
Across the way, the bar itself was stacked two deep with people waiting for drinks or simply inhabiting their claimed bit of real estate at the polished, wooden counter. I knew it should be approaching eight, and the band would be playing soon. At that point, we would be unable to carry on any kind of worthwhile conversation, not to mention the fact that I was in no mood for singing along with drinking songs. I suspected that Felicity no longer was either.
I scanned the wall, looking for a clock, and my eyes came to rest on the television set perched on a shelf above the rows of liquor bottles. I watched as a news update filled the screen, absently taking note of the ever-changing price of gasoline.
When the tube flickered and displayed the picture of a twenty-something young woman inset over the shoulder of the anchor, my heart skipped a beat. Beneath the photo was the caption, Tamara Linwood.
Neurons fired in rapid succession, flooding my brain with a not-so-distant memory as I stared at the picture.
Gruesome discovery.
Badly decomposed human arm.
Shallow grave.
Body may be that of Tamara Linwood, the grade school teacher who disappeared from the parking lot of Westview Shopping Mall back in January…
The memory of the phantom metallic tang tickled the back of my tongue, and I closed my eyes. I definitely wasn’t going to call it easy, but there it was- the explanation for at least a part of my day.
And, I was absolutely certain that I didn’t like it.
CHAPTER 9:
“Tamara Linwood,” I said aloud, turning my attention back to Ben.
“Do what?” he asked with a puzzled look.
“Tamara Linwood,” I repeated, pointing at the screen across the room. “On the TV.”
He twisted in his seat and shot a quick glance over his shoulder. The news anchor had already moved on to the next story, but my friend managed to pick up on what I’d meant anyway. “What? You mean the missing teacher?” he asked. “So, what about ‘er?”
“That’s why the seizures. She’s got to be what this is all about.”
“How do you figure?”
“It adds up,” I offered. “She went missing in January, right?”
“Yeah.” He nodded.
I continued. “And they found her remains this morning.”
“That hasn’t been confirmed.”
“I’m confirming it for you, Ben. Those are Tamara Linwood’s remains.”
“You sure?”
“They’ve got to be.”
“Listen, Row.” He held up his hand and nodded quickly. “I know better than to not believe what you’re sayin’, but we’ve been down this road before. I can’t just march into my lieutenant’s office and announce something based on one of your feelings. Besides, that case belongs to the MCS… And well… you know that situation.”
I gave him a frustrated nod. “I know, but they ARE her remains. I’m sure of it.”
“How?” he asked.
“I just told you,” I replied. “The timing of the seizures. It makes sense.”
“To you.”
“I thought you believed me?”
“I do, white man,” he appealed. “Kinda. I mean I know you’re makin’ a connection with somethin’… or someone… or whatever the hell, but how do ya’ know it’s actually her? How do you know it’s not someone else who got murdered in January? I hate to say it, but we had a few cases runnin’ then besides hers.”
“It’s a gut feeling, Ben.”
“And I can respect that, believe me, but you still don’t have any proof. Listen, since we’re talkin’ about a schoolteacher, look at it this way. It’s just like homework from eighth grade math class. Just havin’ the answer ain’t good enough. You gotta show the work that gave ya’ the answer.”
“With the ethereal, that is easier said than done,” I replied.
“Yeah, I know. But lemme ask you this: So what? So what if they are her remains?”
“Then maybe we can figure out who killed her.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s the plan whether that’s what’s left of her or not.”
“You know what I mean, Ben. Maybe I can help.”
“How? I thought you said your little trips into the Twilight Zone hadn’t been real informative.”
“They haven’t,” I agreed and then added, “Yet.”
“Yeah, and there’s the catch. Yet may never happen.”
“Come on, Ben. You know how quickly these things can turn.”
“Yeah, I do, but which way is it gonna turn? This whole thing might just go away like it did back in January.”
I didn’t want to admit it, but he had a valid point. Still, for me, there was an overwhelming imperative. The psychic episodes were happening to Felicity now. I simply wasn’t willing to stand by and allow that to continue, be it a half dozen more times, or only one. Something had to be done.
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. This feels different,” I appealed.
“Hate to say it, Row, but…”
“…I’ve got to give you more than that,” I completed the sentence before he could. It was a lament that I’d heard from him more than once, so the lyrics were all too familiar. “Well then,” I switched tactics, “How long before they know for sure about the identity?”
“Not my department.” He shrugged. “Could be tomorrow, could be next week. Could be never, I guess. Dunno.”
“Rowan?” Felicity interjected.
“What’s up, honey?” I turned to her. “You okay?”
My wife was still lounged in her seat, arms folded across her chest. Her head was tilted back, and her eyes were closed. She actually looked relaxed for the first time in the past couple of hours.
“We’ll need to go before too long, then,” she murmured. “I have papers to grade for class tomorrow.”
I knew she wasn’t fully conscious of what she had just said. I had been in such a state before, myself. She was simply repeating a memory that wasn’t even her own. While it was a far cry from the ‘work’ Ben said I needed to show, in my mind her words served to verify the revelation I had just espoused.
I slowly turned my face back to Ben but didn’t utter a sound. I allowed my wife’s comment to stand alone as my personal vindication. He looked over at Felicity for a moment then back to me.
“She’s teachin’ a photography class somewhere, right?” he finally asked, but I could tell from the tone of his voice he already knew the answer.
I just shook my head.
My friend’s hand slipped up to his forehead, as if on automatic pilot, then slid slowly back, smoothing his hair. When his fingers came to rest on his neck he spoke. “Okay. Fine. I don’t know what good it’ll do, but I’ll make some calls.”
Felicity was still sleeping when the phone rang the next morning. I had just finished filling my coffee cup for the third time and was walking out of the kitchen when the device emitted its annoying demand for attention. I took a step back and plucked the receiver from the cradle without even looking at the caller ID box.
“Hello?”
“I wake you up?” Ben asked at the other end.
“Nope. Neither has the coffee,” I quipped.
“That’s ‘cause you don’t make it strong enough. You need some cop coffee.”
“I’ll pass. I think that cup I had yesterday is what kept me up last night.”
“See what I mean?”
“Because it was eating a hole in my stomach,” I added.
“Shoulda had another doughnut. They soak up all the bad shit.”
“Yeah, right. I’ll still take a pass on it.”
He chuckled. “Your loss.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, Ben,” I told him then took a sip of my java. “So what’s up?”
“You want the good news or the bad news first?” he queried.
“Depends. How bad is the bad?”