As I sat on the plane I anxiously bobbed my knee up and down, staring out the window and pondering what to do to pass the time. I looked at the magazine I'd purchased for the flight and thought about reading it, but I was too wound up. The gentleman next to me was diligently making notes on a legal pad, and an idea occurred to me. When I asked if I could trouble him for a clean sheet of paper, he kindly paused in his scribbling and tore off several sheets, handing them to me with a smile. I thanked him and pulled a pen from my purse, then closed my eyes and concentrated for a moment.
When I opened them, I drew a circle in the middle of the blank page and labeled it "Allison's killer." I began drawing lines stemming from the circle and labeling these with whatever free associative thought I had. I had lines for "man," then branches off that line for "dark hair," "short," "big clothes," "Ohio," "Robin Hood," "Merry Men," "baseball," and "bat." I drew another branch off the circle and wrote out "Alyssa," "revenge," and "sins of the past."
This technique, which I'd learned years before, is called "mind-mapping" and it allows random streams of thought and information to be dumped out onto a sheet of paper in whatever order they tumble. It is a bit like emptying out the clutter held captive by both the right and the left sides of the brain, allowing for intuition to creep in as well. Later, after the clutter has been emptied, the thoughts can be organized into a more linear order.
When I'd finished with my map I stared down at the lines and labels on my web of information. I was looking for patterns or clues. Something new had appeared under the "man" branch—I'd drawn a line that said, "sports car." Interesting. I looked at other branches but couldn't find any discernible patterns.
Leaning back in my chair, I thought long and hard for a few minutes. I felt like I wasn't approaching this from the right angle, but what was the right angle?
A flash of insight occurred to me, so I took out another blank piece of paper and repeated the exercise, this time with "Alyssa's killer" written in the center. At this point, I was absolutely convinced that Alyssa did not commit suicide, so I thought it best to call a spade a spade. From the first circle I drew several branches in rapid succession: "wedding," "Marco," "open window," "heart-husband," "jealousy," "revenge," and "sins of the past." A sub-branch formed from here, and the same information from Allison's map appeared, including "baseball," and "sports car," "Robin Hood," "Merry Men," but without the word "bat." I continued to write for another few minutes and was sitting back to survey my handiwork when the flight attendant announced that we would be landing soon and asked us to please put all cell phones, computers and electrical equipment away. As I heard the term "cell phone," something flashed through my head, and I nearly ignored the stewardess's instructions and reached into my purse for my cell phone. I needed to call Dutch. I didn't know why, and I didn't know for what, but I had to call him.
I put my mind-map away, intent on studying it later, and tried to calm down. The thought, Call Dutch, call Dutch, call Dutch repeated itself over and over in my head, and the closer we got to landing the more I felt I needed to contact him immediately.
Finally the plane touched down and the moment I deplaned, I whipped out my cell phone and pressed the on switch. The phone bleeped on for a moment, flashed "low battery" on the display and promptly clicked off. Then I remembered I'd forgotten to charge it before I left Cat's. "Shit!" I said and snapped the phone closed, causing an elderly couple standing nearby to shuffle away from me. I looked around for a pay phone, but all I saw was a sea of faces, all happily talking on their cell phones and not a pay phone in sight. "Son-of-a …" I mumbled, as I hurried through the terminal.
I had gotten my luggage and was about to board onto the shuttle when the driver stepped in front of me and said, "Sorry, ma'am, we're all full."
"What?" I looked at him, my anxiety rising by the moment. I didn't know why I was so anxious, but I needed to get home and call Dutch as soon as I could. "Well, when will the next one come?"
"Ten minutes or so," he said. Liar, liar, pants on fire…
Twenty minutes later the next shuttle arrived and I quickly shoved my luggage on it and took my seat. I gave the driver my address and let my knee bounce out my impatience. I was hoping to be one of the first stops along the shuttle's route, and silently cursed when the other passengers verbally gave their addresses to the driver and I knew I'd be closer to the tail end of the drop off sequence. Finally we entered my neighborhood and I took in a deep breath, thankful that I was almost home. As we rounded the corner and turned down my street, several passengers gave a gasp of surprise. The end of my street was lined with police cars, fire trucks and an ambulance. I felt my stomach drop to the floor.
"That's not your house, is it, ma'am?" the driver asked, pointing ahead and glancing sideways at me.
"Oh my God! Stop the bus! Stop the bus!" I shouted, jumping out of my seat and scrambling over several passengers. The driver halted abruptly and I pitched forward, nearly stumbling out of the bus in my anxiety to get to my house. I ran through the line of spectators and stopped on the sidewalk in front of my home. I saw my front door open, and a policeman walk out, then trip over something and stumble, nearly losing his footing. After catching himself, he turned and looked back, then picked up the thing he had tripped over. It was a small gardening shovel. I followed his line of sight with open mouth and saw the array of other tools and dried-up flowers on my front step.
My mind had slowed to some foggy speed, and I couldn't really make sense of what I was seeing. The officer picked up the tools and carried them around my house to the backyard. I followed him.
When I came through the back gate I saw official-looking people all over my backyard. Most of them were wearing rubber gloves and carrying paper bags. They were combing my yard and parting bushes lining my back fence, poking at the ground with pencils, and depositing stray items into their bags. In the center of my yard a cluster of men stood in a semicircle, staring at the ground with grim looks on their faces.
Dutch and Milo were there, and Dutch looked particularly upset. I noticed he was wearing plastic gloves and holding a manila envelope. What the heck was going on?
I followed their gaze and saw something poking beyond the semicircle of men about 8-10 yards away that I couldn't quite recognize. The object in the grass was thin and clawlike, gray blue in color and surrounded by flats of dried, wilted flowers. At that moment I became aware of a buzzing noise, and as a slight breeze blew I noticed a horrible, suffocating scent that caused my stomach to bunch and roil. A gagging cough escaped from my throat, and the officer I'd been following turned and saw me standing there.
"You can't be here, lady. This is a crime scene," he said, angry at my trespass.
"No, you don't understand," I choked out, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Come on, you need to leave right now," he said as he grabbed my arm and began pulling me away.
"But—but—" I stammered to no avail—he wasn't listening to me. Then I saw my handyman, Dave, sitting on a chair near the back porch. Even from a distance of ten yards I could tell he was very upset. He looked pale as a ghost, and I could make out a wetness on his cheeks that gleamed in the afternoon sun. He seemed to stare listlessly at the ground in front of him as a flurry of activity scurried around him. My breath caught at the sight of him so distraught, and for a moment I forgot the officer pushing me back and called out to him, "Dave!"
In an instant Dave sat up rigid in his chair, looking around as if he'd been awakened from a sound sleep. I called to him again and this time he turned to look at me but it was a full ten seconds before he seemed to recognize me.
"Abby?! Oh my God, Abby?!" he cried, jumping out of the chair and running to me. The officer had stopped tugging on my arm and was looking from Dave to me. Dave reached me then and picked me up, crushing me to him. "Abby, I can't believe it! You're alive…you're alive!"
I couldn't say much because Dave was squeezing me so tight, but I did manage to look over his shoulder at
the rest of the people in my yard. Everyone had grown silent, and both Dutch and Milo were staring at me as if they couldn't believe their eyes. They looked from me to the ground, then back again. I followed their gaze, and had a better view now that several people had moved slightly to one side. That was when I saw it.
I walked forward now unchecked, Dave following me as I edged closer to the group of men encircling a body that lay stretched out facedown on the grass, its skin gray-blue slightly bloated and horrid. I stopped just five feet from the figure and took in the claw-like object in the grass that I could now see so clearly was an arm, reaching its dead fingers forward to grip at small blades of grass.
The figure was a woman. She wore blue shorts and a pink T-shirt, her long hair wound up in a tight bun at the back of her head and a length of cruel rope knotted tightly around her neck making one visible cheek bulge outward to distort her features.
I took in the scene for all of twenty seconds, my breath coming in short ragged bursts as I felt my knees grow weak and my stomach border on the verge of emptying itself. Quickly I turned away stumbling back across the grass, away from the horror in my backyard. I made it just ten steps and my knees gave out. Dave caught me just before I collapsed and with care he lowered me the rest of the way to the ground. He then stepped back with sad eyes to look at me, aware that I now understood what everyone else there knew. Someone had been murdered in my backyard. The difference was that I knew the woman's name, where she lived and why she'd been killed. My neighbor and friend Mary Lou had been murdered because, from behind, she resembled me.
I felt clammy and light-headed, unable to focus. Dave was next to me and I remember him helping me up, but the details of what happened after that are a complete blur.
The next thing I knew I was sitting in a big caramel leather chair with an afghan over my shoulders, a bowl of fruit on my lap, and Dutch, who was sitting across from me, encouraging me to eat.
"Where am I?" I asked dully.
"You're at my house. Now eat," he said kindly.
As I looked down at the bowl of fruit, the realization that May Lou was dead came rushing back at me. "It's my fault," I said as tears spilled unchecked down my cheeks.
"Abby…"
"It should have been me, not her," I blubbered, reality finding cruel purchase in my guilty mind.
Dutch moved off his seat, and crouched in front of me. Holding my chin up, he looked directly into my eyes. "It's no one's fault but the son of a bitch that killed her," he said. "You had nothing to do with it. She was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. It's not your fault."
I looked into his eyes, feeling helpless and lost. I wanted to crawl under the afghan around my shoulders and shut out the world. Like how I used to watch scary movies when I was a kid, peeking through the tiny holes in a blanket, feeling safe from the horror underneath my fabric tent.
Dutch let go of my chin and reached behind him for a tissue, which he used to dab my eyes. He pulled the afghan closer, and I suddenly realized I was shivering. "Abby," he said gently, "you're in shock, and if you don't eat some of that fruit it's only going to get worse. If that happens I'll have to take you to the hospital and I really don't want to. Now, please eat. For me."
I looked dully at the bowl, and because I had nothing left in me to resist, I obediently began spooning the fruit mixture into my mouth, eating without tasting.
Dutch sat back again and watched me carefully, taking the bowl from me when I was done. Soon the shivering subsided and I did feel better, but I was also very tired, and my eyelids drooped heavily.
"Come on," Dutch said, and patted the sofa next to him. I shuffled over to him, holding the afghan close about me and taking a seat on the couch next to him. He wrapped an arm around me rubbing my shoulder, grabbed a small pillow next to him and placed it in his lap, then gently lowered my head .to the pillow and stroked my cheek. I pulled my feet up into fetal position and closed my eyes as I listened to him say, "It's okay Abby. You're going to be all right."
I was sound asleep in seconds.
Chapter Eleven
When I awoke the room was dim, the last strands of dusk poking through the buttery sheers Dutch had hanging at the large window. I sat up, hearing voices, and turning my head, I saw that Dutch and Milo were in the kitchen, keeping their voices low.
I blinked several times. I'd slept with my contacts in, and my eyes felt like sandpaper. Finally, I got enough moisture circulating and stood up to take in my surroundings. Dutch's house was a total surprise.
I wasn't sure what I'd imagined his taste was like. I probably would have guessed he'd have lots of black leather, matching black lacquer, ratty tabletops with sports magazines, and a stack of remotes for every kind of electronic gizmo there was. Instead, as I looked around, I was astonished to discover the man had taste, and good taste at that.
His furnishings were leather, but a warm camel brown color, not black. Two end tables held a pair of auburn-colored Tiffany-style lamps. On the far wall was a large, flat-screen TV, but I could find no remote for it. I wandered into the dining room and discovered a long oak table with a cranberry runner and six high-back chairs. A buffet ran the length of one wall, and an antique cranberry beaded chandelier dangled delicately from the ceiling. The walls were painted a soft mocha, the trim a buttery cream, and everywhere soft accents of cranberry gave just enough color. The stairs to the second floor were on the far left, just behind the front entrance. I resisted the urge to explore there, but went around them and found a hidden study with a large wooden desk. The room was neatly arranged and set against a backdrop of shelf upon shelf of books, organized by Dewey Decimal. A desktop computer and a smaller laptop sat connected to each other by a power cord, and a used coffee cup still held its leftover contents. The large leather swivel chair behind the desk begged to be sat in, and I gave in, wanting to see the world through Dutch's eyes.
As I sat in the chair I noticed two reference texts on his desk, both marked in several places. Curious, I pulled one to me, scanning the title, and was surprised to find it was The Life of Edgar Cayce, the Greatest Psychic of Our Time. I had figured Dutch had a fairly closed mind about me, but the fact that he was doing a little research indicated he thought there was something to learn. The second text was called Psychic Sleuths: Police Psychics and the Famous Crimes They've Solved. "Go figure," I said to myself, as I pushed the books back in place.
" 'Go figure' what?" Dutch asked from the doorway.
I jumped in the chair, my hand coming quickly to my heart as I felt it begin to pound in my ears. "You should know better than to sneak up on people," I said tartly when I regained my composure.
"And you should know better than to snoop around in people's private business," he shot back.
My cheeks colored. "Sorry. You're right. I apologize. I didn't mean to snoop, I was just curious."
"It's fine. I was only playing with you," he said, his eyes kind again. "Are you hungry?"
"Not really, but I guess I should eat, huh?"
"You like pasta?"
"Love it," I said, relieved that he wasn't angry at me.
"Then follow me to the kitchen and you can sample my specialty, spaghetti alla carbonara."
"Sounds complicated," I said, getting up.
"You don't have to cook it, babe, you just get to enjoy."
We moved into the kitchen and I brought the afghan with me, only now noticing how soft and delicate it was. I looked at it appraisingly and remarked, "This afghan is gorgeous. The yarn feels like angora."
"My mother made it. She's a crochet queen, and every year I get something new from her. So far that's my favorite."
For a moment I envied him. His mother took the time to crochet something unique, just for him. My mother took a minute and a half to order something two sizes too small from a catalog. Then again, at least I got something for Christmas. I should just count my blessings.
I smiled at Milo, who was already seated. "How you feeling?" he asked.<
br />
"Better. I just—I don't know. It's just so hard to comprehend, you know? I can't believe she's dead."
"Sit," Dutch ordered as he brought over a heaping bowlful of pasta, filling the kitchen with a mouthwatering aroma. Dutch scooped a huge amount of pasta onto my plate, then handed the bowl to Milo, who took an even larger portion. Dutch shoveled what remained onto his plate.
The food was delicious. I ate quietly as Dutch and Milo talked about sports and cases they were working on, noticeably avoiding the one involving me. Finally we were finished and Dutch, a conscientious host, picked up our plates and deposited them in the sink, coming back with two fresh beers for Milo and himself. The two of them continued to make idle small talk, until I got sick of it. "So are we going to talk about it? Or just dance around it all night?" I said.
"We wanted to give you some time, Abby," Dutch explained.
"I don't need time, I need this psycho caught. I need to stop looking over my shoulder and get back to my life." For some reason this confession brought tears to my eyes, and I swiped at them, annoyed.
"All right, then, what can you tell us about Mary Lou?"
"What do you know so far?" I asked.
Milo said, "You told us she was your neighbor, and I found where she lived. According to the woman who lives in the other half of the duplex, she saw Mary Lou walking to your house with a bunch of flowers on Saturday afternoon."