Deadly Awakening Page 8

  I kept staring up at the spires as we followed the priest around the church. It was a beautiful day and he suggested we talk outside instead of inside in the gloomy light. We walked on the outskirts of the cemetery as he led us to a bench. As he and Peter were chatting about pleasantries, I suddenly realized why I was so curious about the steeples. I had seen them before. When I woke up on the riverbank, over on the Harrow side of town. These narrow and tall towers could be seen far away. No wonder the name then.

  The cemetery itself seemed old, and I wondered as we walked by if it was still in use. There were many iron crosses and plates about. Not the modern gravestones that were preferred now. The observation made me halt a little. How did I know that? I had not been to a cemetery after waking up as Ben. I glanced at names, but nothing stuck out at me until a grave with a simple iron cross and a small iron wrought fence around it, stopped me completely. It read: William Stockton 1821 – 1858. Except for his age at death, there was nothing informative there. But I knew with certainty that he was connected to the spires. I looked up again, seeing that I was now standing under the northern one. I could see him doing repairs up there, the blow of his hammer reverberating above and around the church. It was happening to me again, just like with the old man by the river. I saw the workman as clear as if I was floating beside him. A gush of wind took hold as he reached for a nail on a small windowsill beside the narrow scaffolding he was kneeling on. After a moment’s flailing to regain balance, he fell. But not far. His vest caught on to some twisted and jagged metal. For a second he hung there, hoping against hope. Then came the ripping sound as the fabric tore. A true nightmare to his ears. And the inevitable fall. His scream of pure terror. He landed close to where he now lay. I was so certain of this. I could remember it almost as clearly as I remembered seeing Old Ben on the bridge.

  It made the body shiver, and I felt like sitting down. They must have buried the man there out of respect for his sacrifice. Then again… he was buried on the north side…

  “Ben?”

  The head whipped around to find Peter and Father Chester waiting for me. I hurried to catch up as they sat down on a bench that stood by the church wall. The sun warmed all of us now that we were out of the shades of large yew trees that were planted around the cemetery and by the church.

  “I hear you lost your memory,” Father Chester said to me as he got a better hold of the binders that threatened to fall off his lap.

  I nodded in response. “I’m grateful you could see us in such short time.”

  “Not a worry.” Father Chester waved it off.

  “He’s having difficulties remembering,” Peter began. I was having difficulties with the few things I did remember, but I didn’t tell them that.

  “What he seems to recall is the name I told you on the phone.”

  “Yes,” Father Chester nodded. “A Father Clement Moreau.”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m sorry to say that I haven’t heard of him.”

  “As in you don’t know who he is?” I specified. To my disappointment the priest nodded.

  “I don’t recall ever meeting anyone with that name, and I am sure he does not work here in Ashdale—”

  “What about outside the city?” Peter broke in.

  “No. Not in Ashport, and not in Charlotte Bay.”

  “Are you sure?” I pressed, burying any thought that I was asking because I didn’t want the answer he was giving.

  Father Chester smiled in understanding. “I’m sure. We might have spires that reach almost to the sky, but we don’t have an overflow of congregations here.”

  “Oh,” I blurted out, the disappointment as clear as could be.

  “How is it that you know this priest?”

  “I couldn’t tell you, Father. All I know is the name, and that I need to find him.”

  “I’m sorry for your situation,” Father Chester said, and I believed his sympathy. “Are you certain he’s here?”

  “Yes. I know he is here.” I was after all, and I was there for a reason. Granted, I didn’t know why, but since I was, then the answer to everything was certainly somewhere here as well. No, the answer was to be found in Ashdale – of that I was sure.

  “Well,” Father Chester continued. “I had our archivist, Sister Mary Angela, check the name against our records, but she didn’t find anything either.”

  “Which means…?” Peter prompted.

  “That there has never been a priest with that name in Ashdale.”

  I sighed and sank back on the bench. Where was I going to find a priest if not in a church?

  “That sister you mentioned?” Peter asked, sounding like he was in mid-thought.

  “Yes?”

  “Where exactly is she an archivist?”

  “In our archives?”

  “So not on the other side of the river?”

  Father Chester shook his head, as we all stood up. I couldn’t hide the disappointment at our failed attempt at information seeking, but as we walked halfway around the church again, curiosity got the best of me.

  “Why is the large rose window colored blue instead of red?”

  “Oh that… well, no one really knows for certain any longer. The theory though is that when the church was constructed they wanted the Ashdale River to be reflected in the glass. That didn’t work of course, so they cheated a little bit. It might not be the river that’s reflected, but at least the idea of it.”

  Chapter 16

  As Olivia looked down, seeing the dark waters of the river below Central Bridge, she felt a surge of unease run through her. A feeling she only sometimes felt in her dreams when she would fall from great heights. She was not exactly afraid of heights, but when confronted with it, one could always feel the uncertainty. She forced herself to keep looking though. No one could survive this fall. It was too far. A body would break on impact down there. She shuddered and zipped up her jacket, stuffing her hands into the pockets. It was not only the wind up there that made her freeze despite the sunny day. The drop in front of her gave her a few more shivers than the wind, but mostly it was the river itself. She didn’t know why, but she didn’t like it. Never had. Not in New York either. An irrational dislike, she knew that. She didn’t mind the ocean, but the thought of being trapped in dark murky rivers, forced downstream, trying to find her way back to no avail, gave her the creeps. She had dreams like that sometimes. She didn’t know why though. She had no trauma to cause that particular nightmare.

  “Excuse me, Miss? Are you alright?”

  How could Reed have survived the fall? Must have been some freak accident for him to get away unscathed. But he hadn’t, had he? He had looked as dead as Okanov—

  “Miss?”

  She turned around, realizing the person speaking was addressing her. A young man with a prominent man bun on the top of his head. He was accompanied by a woman and another man about his own age. Early-twenties maybe? All of them dressed in loose fitting comfortable clothes, probably much more suited for the weather than her own jeans, shirt, and jacket. At least when one got off the bridge.

  “Yeah?” Olivia said, a little annoyed at their interruption.

  “Do you need some help, Miss?” the woman of the group asked.

  “What?” Olivia looked at them in confusion, then she realized she herself had been staring down into the water for a long time. She knew who they were. They patrolled the bridge on their own initiative, volunteers giving their time when they could. They might actually help her she realized.

  “I do need help, but not the kind you’re offering,” Olivia said and showed them her badge. “I’m Detective Jones, and I am investigating a murder.”

  “There usually aren’t any murders here,” the first man said.

  “No, I know,” Olivia said. “How often do you come here?”

  “Couple of times a week?”

  “See much?”

  “Now and then.”

  Neither of them seemed happy about it. Likely the
y weren’t there for the drama. There were those who were. There were also calls about them sometimes, especially from women who felt chased when they crossed the bridge. Walking home at night and having a couple of strange men keeping close to you, was not something that inspired trust, despite the well-meaning incentive behind it.

  “In your experience, has anyone ever survived the fall?”

  All three of them instinctively glanced over the railing before shaking their heads.

  “Oh wait,” the woman said. “There was this one guy, last year, but he ended up paralyzed I think.”

  Olivia nodded in understanding. If nothing else, you didn’t walk away unscathed after a fall from Central Bridge.

  Her phone rang as she thanked them for their help, and she fished it out of her jacket pocket. Her eyes swiped over the area around her as one of the uniforms back in Harrow talked. Cars went past behind her, pedestrians and cyclist where she stood. The bridge was well accommodated for any means of transportation between the north and south side of the city.

  “We think we’ve found the murder weapon, Ma’am,” Officer Brown said.

  Olivia’s eyes scanned every part of the bridge overhead as she smiled. No cameras to be seen, but she’d known that already. Officer Brown’s news might be what she needed though.

  “I’ll be right there.”

  It was in an alley a block away from the alley behind the bar where the two figures could be seen fighting on the surveillance tape.

  “It’s on the way toward the bridge,” she said as she glanced back the way she’d come.

  “Yeah. He must have dumped it here after the fight with the victim,” Officer Brown said.

  They stood watching the crime techs as they retrieved a bloody hammer from a filthy and smelly Dumpster in a back-alley. The Dumpster had almost made Olivia gag, the smell of putrid meat and rotten food too strong. It was odd, she thought. Dead bodies did not make her react that way anymore. Maybe it was the fact that she needed food to live and her body, like anyone else’s, was constructed to stay away from rotten things that could be a danger for survival. It was likely the heat causing the smell, as well as the garbage truck not having passed through in a while. They must have forgotten it. It wouldn’t have mattered much to them though. She had checked the schedules – it was still less than a week since the last pickup, but there had been a slip-up in this area.

  “Kind of sloppy, don’t you think?” she commented. Brown was a levelheaded man. She did not know him well but didn’t mind him. For her, that was a compliment.

  “Might not have been an expert at this kind of thing.”

  “No, he wasn’t. Which is why it’s so weird that the guy that got killed was. Here, let me have a look,” she added to the tech coming toward them with the evidence bag containing the hammer. She did not take it from the man, just looked at the thing as it was held up for her. An ordinary hammer. Spots of blood on the head, and some visible drops spattered on the top of the handle.

  “If he didn’t wipe the blood, I doubt he had the wherewithal to wipe his prints,” Brown offered.

  Olivia nodded and let the tech take the evidence away. “You’re right about that. It’s all kind of amateurish. I don’t think he knows how lucky our killer really was considering his opponent.” It all spoke to someone not used to crimes at least. Reed was looking more and more guilty by the minute. She glanced at the van with the hammer being driven away from the alley and out onto the street. Not long now, she thought and went to get her own car.

  Chapter 17

  The incessant noise of people was almost matched by the roar and rumble from the cars passing by on the street. As Peter had made an appointment for us at the city archives, I followed along anyway, trying to push my annoyance away. I felt hungry and a little shaky, and this condition did not make the body cooperate in full, which meant I kept getting annoyed at the background noise despite my resolve. Weak. So weak this brain. So feeble the body. Anything could snuff out this short existence. I trailed behind Peter as he talked about the archives and what I could expect. His words faded though as I became aware of a brick building to my right. It looked worn, dirty and not at all like what I had seen a moment ago. It had been concrete, hadn’t it? I turned the head to see properly and found myself in a small apartment on the street level, just inside the outer wall. It was where I had been standing, but the street was now more narrow than when Peter and I walked by. The room I was in was dimly lit by a kerosene lamp placed on a rickety table where someone had left their dinner – a meager meal of dark bread and canned soup.

  It was a small apartment that consisted of the main room I stood in and an adjacent bedroom. The door leading into to it stood ajar, and I could hear whispered voices that were kept low with a desperate control. It lasted until a young woman appeared in the doorway. She glanced toward a small alcove behind me, before turning to whoever she had been whispering with.

  “He’s sleeping now. Be quiet,” she whispered and entered the room. She was dressed in a dark one-piece dress with the waistline around her hips and a skirt that reached just below her knees. The fabric looked to be somewhat coarse but of good quality. Her marcelled hair had been neatly put together some time ago, but now she paused to attempt at tidying the many loose strands by running her hands over it. After this, she began to clear the table with decisive and brisk, yet quiet movements.

  I walked toward the small alcove to find a narrow bed with a pale and skinny boy in it. He had three gray woolen blankets with him but had kicked them all off. He had to be warm, but the pallid complexion of his skin gave no sign of this. His breathing was shallow and rasping. I had no idea why this kept happening to me, but if the other visions were any indication I knew what was about to happen here.

  Sure enough, as the pressure returned in the back of the neck, the boy went into a coughing fit as his mother stood at the small kitchen counter on the other side of the room. She slammed the soup bowl down and walked to the bed with brisk paces across the uneven wooden floor.

  “It’s all right, Junior. Mama’s here.” She sat down at the bedside and checked the boy’s forehead as he kept coughing. He had rolled over on his side to ease the strain on the skinny body, but his little face was contorted from the pain in his lungs and chest. It would not stop. I could hear the wheezing as he desperately tried to draw breath in his half-conscious state, his body not managing. His mother didn’t know what to do. I could see her hand shaking as she withdrew it from her boy’s forehead. All she could do to comfort him was stroke his hair.

  A convulsive cough overtook the boy and a clot of blood landed on the pillow next to his mouth. His mother stiffened a moment at the sight before she glanced toward the door of the other bedroom.

  “Hugh,” she shouted, not caring about silence anymore. “Hugh.”

  A moment later a man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in pants and an unbuttoned shirt, with tousled dark hair that made it clear he’d been trying to sleep. He didn’t speak, only looked at his wife, terror emanating from his wide-open eyes.

  “He’s getting worse,” the woman said. “Fetch the doctor.”

  The man froze a moment, stared at his son, paralyzed by the pain his child was in.

  “Now, Hugh,” the woman shouted. It made him spring into action, as he returned to their bedroom to retrieve his jacket, a flat cap and a pair of worn brown shoes. He managed to get the clothing on before he reached the door.

  “Just fetch the doctor…” his wife muttered as she now focused solely on their son. The boy convulsed, his whole body jerking as the coughs took the last of him. The door slammed shut behind the father as he drew his last ragged breath, a rasping exhale following. The only sound in the cold and dark room.

  I looked up. There was something else here. Something that mattered to me. I was not aware of the wall vanishing before me as I was pulled toward the street outside. Not as much room as I was used to. Not a curb to speak of in this neighborhood, as well as build
ings that stood too close for comfort when it came to fires. The street was as usual filled with people bustling about. Big and bulky cars were present as well as horses pulling buggies. I wrinkled the spoiled nose as the smells of dirt, animals, people, smoke and tobacco smoke hit me. To my left, I saw the man from the apartment jumping around on one foot as he tried getting his last shoe on. When this was accomplished he started running while buttoning his shirt. The desperation on his face revealed what his focus was directed at. Find the doctor, save his son. Not at the approaching car.

  If he ever heard the bereaved scream from inside his home, he never had time to react to it. The prickling pressure in the head hadn’t left me, as the man ran right into the street. He glanced to his right, judging he could beat the oncoming cars and horses. The car from his left came as a surprise he would never have time to process. The Model T hit him square on, and pushed him with it as the driver hit the brakes to no avail. When the vehicle stopped, the man lay dead before it, his right leg hanging limp on the starting handle. Then the screams from passers-by started. They drowned out the heartbreaking keening from inside the apartment.

  The street widened as the houses were pushed back to reveal more cars and no horses. The animal and tobacco smells subsided as I took in the city I was used to seeing. It became clear to me, as the body became uncomfortable and weak again, that I had not felt like that as I saw the tragedy of that little family. In those moments it truly was nothing but a vessel. But a vessel for what? Were these memories? Visions? And why couldn’t I control it? It had to have something to do with the brain. I knew for certain it was something it couldn’t handle or control. If it could, I would stop this. At least I thought so.

  “Hey. Way to leave a friend hanging,” Peter said as he came to stand beside me.

  “What’s that?”

  “Dude. I kept walking and talking to no one. People were looking at me.”