Don't Forget to Breathe (14 page)

“Leo, Leo…?”

I pried open my eyelids. “Dad?” His fingertips stripped hair from my sweaty chin.

He said, “Another bad one?”

My head cleaved the pillow. I nodded feeling like I’d been suffocating.

“Maybe,” he suggested, “we need to make another appointment with the physiatrist.”

“Maybe.” My voice croaked.

“I stopped by the police station to talk with the detective, but he was gone for the day. What’d he want?”

“Are you just getting home?” I turned to look at the time on my digital clock, three-ten in the morning.

“Was a late one.”

“It wasn’t important.” I brought a hand to my mouth, yawning wide. “Can we talk in the morning?”

“Sure, get some sleep.” He started to move. “Do you want me to sleep in the chair?”

“No, Dad. Go to bed. I’m fine.” He stroked my cheek with the back of his large hand and I was happy he didn’t reek of booze for a change.

“Goodnight.”

As soon as Dad clicked my bedroom door, I swiped my cell and keyed in Nona’s number. I stuck my head beneath the pillow to stifle my voice. She picked up on the fifth ring.

“I had another dream.”

“Leo? What time is it?”

“It’s after three. I have to talk to you.”

“Uhum….go ahead.”

“The person who grabbed me from behind was wearing black boots.” I plucked a hair from my mouth. “Henry said the guy who murdered Dave and Skipper had on black combat boots.”

There wasn’t life on the line and I wondered if Nona fell back asleep. She then hushed into the cell, “You dreamt it. Could’ve been osmosis. Maybe the black boots got caught up into your psyche after Henry told you that.”

“The doctor said I might start to remember bits and pieces as time goes by.”

“It just seems an unlikely coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences.” I puffed into the phone. “Its fate, my memory is beginning to heal.”

“But it was a dream.”

“The psychiatrist said my brain is still working during my sleep cycle. It can bring forward things I push back when I’m awake.”

I heard her breathing in the silence, then she offered, “Don’t tell a soul. At least not yet.”

“I need to tell the detective. I want to find the bastard that killed her.”

“That’s a smart move,” she voiced pensively. “Just him and no one else. Got it?”

“Right.” I felt invigorated, like there was promise at the end of a dark tunnel.

***

While still lying in bed at six o’clock in the morning, I phoned Henry. “Don’t pick me up. I’m staying home from school today.”

“Are you sick?”

“Just wiped. I didn’t sleep. We’ll talk later.” I severed the connection before he had a chance to ask questions.

Dad was bumping through the house. He had to be exhausted coming home so late. I walked into the kitchen to see him full of vim and vigor. “Hey, Pumpkin, feeling better this morning?” He poured OJ into a glass.

“Not so much.” I waited for the inquest about being hauled into the police station, it was bound to get sticky.

“I’ll be late again tonight,” he said. After chugging his ritual juice, he clinked the glass into the sink. “I have a backlog of paperwork that needs to get done.”

He must’ve been preoccupied. Either he forgot about Detective Dyl or wasn’t in the mood for more drama. Unclenching my teeth, I said, “You’re looking chipper this morning for coming home so late.” He looked at me for the first time and raised a definitive eyebrow. Uh-oh, here comes the sermon with reference to the inefficient police department.

“Why aren’t you dressed for school?” he asked, not a word about the police.

“I’m taking a mental health day.”

“When I was a kid we called it skipping school. Mental health day sounds better.” Snapping his coat around him, he waltzed out the door. “Your brain could use a day of rest. See you tonight.”

Who was that man? Two days ago he was a floundering drunkard. And when was the last time he chuckled when I skipped school? Even during the turmoil of Mom’s murder investigation and my psychosis, he hired an aging tutor to keep me standardized. I prayed Dad was over the proverbial hump; however, I’d never be restored until Mom’s murder had been solved.

Even though my brain felt sleep deprived and mangled in cobwebs, I showered and dressed in record time. Collecting my hair I tied the nuisance into a ponytail, then scarfed down a bowl of cereal which curdled in my stomach.

Putting on my jacket, I eyed the gold-tone key hanging from the peg. The key to our house on Lucien Court. The metal felt cool in the palm of my hand as I split through the side door into the October morning. After perusing the unwelcoming atmosphere, I returned into the house for an umbrella. As I fingered the penlight and the key in my jacket pocket, I’d formulated a haphazard day.

Star Hallow’s police headquarters was approximately two miles from home, and how I longed for Mom’s car stationed in the garage. Dad had removed the license plates months ago, and alluded he couldn’t afford the insurance. I knew better, he was iffy of my instability.

Besides being tired, I felt more than fit and ready to battle my demons.

The clock struck nine when I walked into the police station. Inquisitive heads revolved in my direction. The person I searched for was leaning on the wall with a mug in his hand speaking to a uniformed officer. Medium build shouldering a tawny suit coat, graying at the temples and a rugged face, his eyes slew my way. Detective Dyl straightened his spine. He didn’t smile or look pleasant heading toward me. “Leo? Do you need to talk?”

It’s like the man could read my mind. “Yes.”

“Come with me.” He laid the mug on the counter and walked along a hallway. Arresting to turn the knob, a placard on the door read: Detective Mark Dyl. Papers scattered the desk, a computer and file cabinets lined the walls. “Have a seat.” He seated in the chair adjacent to mine, looking at ease. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Er…waiting
for me
?” His words caught me off guard.

“Yes. Do you have something important to tell me?” His eyes deepened from light to dark gray in a matter of seconds. Like he knew what I was going to say.

“It was the same man. The guy that murdered my mother is the same man who murdered Dave and Skipper,” I told him in confidence. His mouth moved from side to side like he was chewing over what I had to say.

“Not what I was expecting to hear. How’d you come to that conclusion?”

“You know how I’ve had this amnesia since…you know.” I twined my hands in my lap to stop them from shaking. “The psychiatrist said I might never regain the memory or in time random pieces to the puzzle might begin to break through. I’ve had the dream a million times of finding my mother.” I stared into his daunting eyes, he nodded, understanding. He’d been well informed of my nightmares, rehashing them for months on end without recourse. “Each time I see a little more. Last night I had another one, and this time when I looked down I saw black boots.”

“Black boots?” His eyelids contracted. “Are you sure?”

“Positive, I heeled one of them trying to get loose. And noticed a divot on the toe of the right boot, like he’d scraped it on something or kicked something sharp.”

He steepled his fingers over his mouth. “You know Henry’s description of Dave and Skipper’s killer?”

“Yes, he was dressed all in black wearing a black head mask wearing black combat boots.”

“Could be possible the mention of the boots uncovered a vital statistic you’d had buried.
Or
…your mind used the description in your mother’s case.”

“You said the murders might be connected. Now you have proof.”

“Not the kind of proof that’d be admissible in a court of law. A dream rarely is grounds for a conviction.”

“We have to find the boots,” I stated.

His hands gripped the armrests. “Leo, the weapon involved is a unique dagger. What I didn’t reveal remained confidential, only a select few on the case know this fact.” He tilted forward uncertainty marred his expression. “The bloody boot prints at the crime scene in your house, and the boot prints in the cemetery are a match.”

“I knew it. I just knew.” My ebbing anxiety ratcheted a notch.

“Young lady,” he said, with an influx of caution, “we are going to keep this confidential. Right?”

“Yes—I mean, right. Now what? If we find the boots we find the killer.”

“Sounds easy, doesn’t it?” He slipped a hand into the front of his suit coat and retrieved a pack of gum. “What makes you think the murderer hasn’t discarded or destroyed those incriminating boots?”

“Because the dude’s a nutcase and keeps them as a memento along with the murder weapon.”

With measured movements, like he was thinking in the process, he breached the plastic wrap on the pack of gum and glimpsed at me from under a stern brow. He then extended the pack.

My tongue felt icky and relished the impending juiciness; I rolled a stick onto my tongue. “Thanks.” Then hurriedly said, “But if you did find them, they’d be sufficient evidence, right? Enough for a conviction?”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?” I said while chewing. “The murder weapon?”

“That’d help tremendously. You dream that up yet?”

His cynicism put quite a damper on me. “No.” I planned on telling him about the Lucien mansion and Mom’s picture, but after his remark, I decided to check things out first.

While standing, he tossed the pack of gum onto his desk and then fingered a business card. “Here.” He held it like a cigarette between his fingers. “I gave you my private cell number after your mother died. I doubt you still have it.”

“No, I don’t remember that at all.”

“Take it.” He waved the card in my face. “Call me at any time of the day or night. I’m here for you.”

“What did you expect me to say when I walked in here today?” I slipped the business card from his fingers. “You said you were waiting for me.”

“I can read people fairly well.” He buttoned his suit coat. “I misread you.”

“Misread me in what way?”

“I’d expected you to recant your story on the night that you and Henry James were in Hallow Saints. It didn’t mesh.”

I’d heard that before, from Becket.

“Leo, you’ve had a traumatic year. I don’t blame you for going off on the deep end. I would’ve done the same if I was in your shoes. I know about the drug deals with Dave and Skipper.”

It didn’t shock me that the detective knew of my breakdown; just about everyone in Star Hallow had been aware.

He righted his neck tie. Completely changing the theme, he inquired, “How well do you know Henry James?”

“
Henry
?” I shrugged. “He moved here a month ago. If I were to guess, his parents suspected he was involved with illegal drugs and thought he’d get away from the trash.” I harvested an uncouth grunt. “How wrong could they be?”

“Legally, I can’t divulge Henry James’s rap sheet. My best advice is to cut any ties you have with the boy. He’s like a ticking time bomb.”

“Is Henry a murder suspect in Dave and Skipper’s case?” I drew my eyebrows in consternation. “I don’t remember what he had on his feet. At least I don’t think he had on boots.”

“Everyone’s a suspect, until we find the killer.”

“Even me?”

“Even you.”

***

As I walked to my next assignment, Hallow Saints Cemetery, I went over what I’d retained about Mom’s life before her demise. She’d been well liked, even loved by her students as a teacher. Now, I recalled her asking me, “Leo, I miss your Grandpa. Would you like to spend the holidays with him? Maybe we could look for a little bungalow for ourselves.”

“You mean like a second home?” I’d replied.

“No, we’d live there. Grandpa’s getting fragile. He’s going to need round the clock care and I’d like to be there for him.”

“I can’t leave Nona and all my friends.”

She’d smirked, and with her index finger tapped me on the nose. “I figured you’d say that. But I need to get away…from here. Will you think about it?”

I blew it off and that was the first and last time she’d discussed it.

Mom and Dad had been fighting a lot, more so than normal. Dad had been staying late at the office, and Mom acquired a part-time job at night, tutoring. That’s it in a nutshell, that’s all my brain could conjure at the moment.

I traipsed into the cemetery. “Oh, darn it, I forgot to bring flowers.” My voice deadened over the graveyard. I glanced over the memorial stones, not much action today, or any day for that matter.

Detecting colorful flowers bordering Mom’s headstone, I slowed. Pink lilies. Had Dad finally gathered the nerve to visit? How strange, the flowers were lilies like the ones in the Lucien attic.

“Hi, Mom. Did Dad visit you?” I balanced on a bended knee into the moist earth to finger the petals. “Just passing through. I’ll be back on Sunday to give you the details of the Homecoming Dance with Henry.”

Standing tall, I browsed the network of oak trees flanking the perimeter of the railroad tracks. I scrabbled up and over the ties and into the Baskerville Estate with purpose. By mid-morning the bleak skies had dispelled into a finicky shine, and voyaging clouds played hide and seek with rays of sunshine. Now the umbrella was an absurd burden.

The lofty mansion eclipsed me in shadows as I approached. Hopping up to the porch I let the umbrella roll over the wooden planks and wiggled through our hole. I landed on the grimy floor and cleaned my hands on my jeans. Precisely what I expected, gloomy, but no need for the flashlight, yet.

Functioning on autopilot I climbed the towering flights of stairs. The mansion creaked and wailed as if it protested my intrusion. My objective hadn’t been to linger in the bowels of a haunted mansion, only to investigate and accumulate evidence. I just about flew out of my sneakers when my cell chimed.

I removed my phone and checked the screen. Nona. She was probably wondering why I wasn’t in school, I muted the ring and stuffed it back in my pocket. “Thanks for waking the ghosts,” I said to the nasties. Suddenly, a wink of misty white floated by the hallway and an inexplicable frost encapsulated my body. I catapulted the final flight of stairs and barged through the attic door and slammed it shut. Like that would deter filmy ghosts.

A rainbow of prismatic colors radiated from the massive stained glass window, though the confines of the attic remained dingy.

“Monique and Lucien let me be for today, please.” It seemed I wasn’t alone or ghosts had concrete footsteps. My head whisked to the side to monitor the hording debris. Whipping out the flashlight my fingers fumbled for the button and aimed the beam into the junk pile, scanning for anyone or anything.

When I was young and cried about hearing scary footsteps during the night, Mom used to say it was the house settling. I veered right and tiptoed to my destination. The door was yawning open. That must’ve been how I left it, I didn’t remember. The flashlight wasn’t needed, but I refused to turn it off, just in case. Sunlight leaked from the one window into the room.

I gawked at the bed, immaculately made, no longer mussed sheets. The place was spotless and I expected to find a wilted lily under Mom’s picture. Not a wilted lily, but three new pink lilies perfumed the room.

My feet stepped to their own accord and stopped at her picture. “Mom, what happened here?” Pivoting to the bed I gathered the border in my hand and sailed back the comforter. Same sheets. Russet stains bled into the threads in a disorganized manner.

The police could get a DNA sample from the stains and establish who belonged to the droplets. “Mom, is this your blood? Is this where it all began and ended in our house?” My knee sunk into the mattress as I planned on stealing the sheet and take them to Detective Dyl.

I tugged on the sheet to dislodge the corner, then heard a definite swish of a door.