Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum (27 page)

Later, when armed with more evidence, Zach
would replay her initial reaction in his head over and over. It lasted only a
flash of a second before she returned to her cool demeanor and casual
confidence. Unmistakably and without exchanging a word, Zach caught it all at
once. Shock. Embarrassment. Confusion and guilt. At the forefront of all the
emotions was, of course guilt.

“Agreed,” she said flatly.

He smiled weakly hoping to express
gratitude. He turned and started away from her but intended on turning back all
along. In boxing terms, as Ray had taught him, after stunning your opponent, it
was sometimes best to back away for a fraction of a moment to let them hope
that another flurry wasn’t imminent. Zach knew this tactic would work with
Sara. He’d get a natural and unabridged reaction doing it this way.

On this subject, he
needed
the truth.

“Oh yeah.” He threw his hand in the air, index
finger pointed. He spun around. “Why did you notify the Demon Hunters about
this investigation a week before us?”

Her face told him all he needed to know
about the validity of the claim. Unlike before, she couldn’t quickly fling a
veil over her reaction. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. Her
expression couldn’t have been more telling had he shot her with truth serum.

When she finally managed an answer, she
didn’t even bother to deny it. “I-they just needed to have more time in terms
of arranging their travel stuff.”

It may not have been a complete canard, but
it was hardly the entire truth. Sara’s voice betrayed her.

“Sara. C’mon...”

“Zach, there are things that I just can’t
tell you right now.”

It didn’t matter. He’d nodded and walked away.
Zach had gotten the information he needed. Bryce, Rico, Patrizia or Pierre
would have had plenty of time to plan something with Matthew.

Zach lay in his tent atop his sleeping bag,
his head propped up on a pile of his clothes. He was twiddling his thumbs over
his stomach as if the action would cause his weary brain to grow sleepy. It
hadn’t worked for an hour, and as it got closer and closer to dusk, Zach
realized the time had nearly arrived for him to induce an episode.

He had spent the previous couple of hours
checking the technical set up and reviewing video with Turk. Nothing else had
shown up on video that equaled his female ghost image. Turk promised he’d have
it digitally enhanced and independently evaluated. When it looked like Turk’s
eyes were about to fail him, Zach had sent him home for a shower and a good
long break. Fortunately, they would have plenty of time to review video
evidence in the coming days.

Outside, a stiff wind buffeted the tent as
color slowly faded from the ceiling. Daylight was surrendering to dusk.

During the better part of the afternoon,
Pierre had manned the control center all by himself, perhaps feeling guilty for
the previous night’s disappearing act. He was extremely pleasant, but didn’t
volunteer any information or suspicions to Zach about why he’d passed out and
missed his shift. Angel must have kept quiet. When Zach asked about Matthew,
Pierre had told him he was in the tent asleep.

Bryce and Rico spent quite a bit of the
afternoon napping as well. It promised to be a late night and everyone wanted
to be fresh and energized once it got dark. Zach had also decided to nap, but
his churning mind had another plan. Rumination.

This was by far the most complex case he’d
ever worked. With most, the clients would report on the paranormal activity,
they’d study the history of the haunted place and pieces of the puzzle would
fall into place. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, with attention to
details, it always got solved. Rosewood’s pieces weren’t falling into place at
all. Years ago, he had seen a special on the JFK assassination. A conspiracy
theory expert had postulated that with most murders, as evidence comes in, it
slowly but surely points to one solution. One assassin. One culprit. With the
JFK murder, it was reversed. The longer time passed, the more disparate the
evidence and theories became. The expert had seriously questioned if we’d ever
solve the conspiracy question.

Rosewood was the Dealy Plaza of haunted
places.

Perhaps because it had been the home of so
many with emotional problems and mental issues, there seemed to be so many
dramatic events, but they weren’t connecting. No overall story of the haunting
was becoming clear and it needed to be thoroughly understood. If they had erred
by releasing the spirit of Dr. Johansson, there was now no margin for mistakes.

The tree line is dark enough.

The voice of his godfather had been silent
for a while. It was no coincidence that Zach had been in his objective
investigator mode the past couple days. That was all about to change. Inducing
an episode was a highly emotional and intense experience.

Godson, it is time.

The smell of
Sailor Black
was so
strong that Zach’s sealed tent may as well have been a pipe smoking lounge.

Wait, he thought, let me center myself. Let
me focus.

The visions during his episodes weren’t self
directed. Zach wasn’t sure how his uncle guided him, but often, perhaps seventy
percent of the time, Zach would view on the topic he requested. Tonight, Zach
was conflicted between solving the mystery of Rosewood and figuring out both
the reason and the details of the evidence tampering. As he normally did when
torn between two paths, he chose the more difficult one. He closed his eyes and
submitted a silent intention on solving the haunting of Rosewood Asylum.

He sat up and gathered towels and blankets
he’d earlier transferred from the trunk of his car to the tent. Slowly and
silently as possible, Zach unzipped the opening of the tent. Glancing out and
seeing no one, he slipped between the folds. He reached back inside for a small
gym bag and then swiftly moved toward the line of trees.

Chapter Thirty

Zach took off his shirt, but left his
scapular on. During his episodes, he especially needed the Lord’s protection.

He rolled up his pant legs and sat down on
the tattered navy blue blanket. Better to be old and best to be a dark color
Zach had found. He’d procured a number of these types of blankets from garage
sales and flea markets and kept them in his trunk—likewise with the towels. He
spread one over his lap careful to favor his right side where blood would flow
down. Many years ago, Zach had experimented by binding his wrists and feet
prior to an episode but was blocked from any visions. The flowing blood was
apparently required for him to connect to the higher plane of consciousness.

He leaned back against an oak tree, its
rough bark felt good on his shoulder blades—scratchy but centering. His heart
rate was already slowing naturally. Soon, his hands and feet would tingle and
then go numb. He inhaled deeply smelling the fresh air, dirt, leaves and wood.
Soon those smells would fade from his senses and be replaced by the smell of
his uncle.

The low murmur of crickets soothed him. Zach
placed his hands palms up on the cloth and began to quietly pray:

“Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon;

where there is doubt, faith;

where there is despair, hope;

where there is darkness, light;

where there is sadness, joy.”

The Saint Francis Prayer didn’t induce an
episode, but it prepared his mindset for one. In addition to accidentally
inducing an episode by becoming overly emotional, the power of the prayer’s words
centered Zach to a point of religious and spiritual fervor. He did wish to be
of service to others. He badly wished it. The desire was his life’s calling. In
this state, the priorities in his life became clear.

“O Divine Master, grant that I may not so
much seek to be consoled as to console;

to be understood as to understand;

to be loved as to love.”

As a teenager and as he became more in
control of “The Curse” as he’d then called it, Zach had, with the suggestion
from Monsignor Macginty, discovered the power of this prayer and had became
determined to use his gift in the service to others. That day, unbeknownst to
Macginty, Zach had gone to the tattoo parlor and gotten the
Chi Rho
s on
each location of Christ’s wounds. There had been five tattoo artists on duty
that day. Zach commissioned one tattoo each. Kyrie, the woman with photographs
of her daughters dressed up as angels had worked on his left wrist. Barbara,
she of the purple hair and nose ring had worked on his right. Hollister, a
raspy voiced guy with at least three days of growth on his face worked on his
left foot. Mark, an emaciated guy with long blond hair who didn’t talk much,
had worked on his right.

The four of them had done the hands and the
feet at the same time. At first they fiercely resisted, but Zach paid extra to
have it done the way he wanted. They were instructed not to look at the others’
work as they drew. The
Chi Rho
on his side had been completed later that
day, by Martin, a tall black man with a shaved head. Martin had but one tattoo
himself, a teardrop beneath his left eye. Zach knew the significance of that
mark:  Martin’s grief over having taken a life. Zach had chosen him
specifically to tattoo the location on his body where the spear had pierced
Jesus’s side after his death.

 “For it is in giving that we receive;

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

and it is in dying that we are born to
eternal life…”

He closed his eyes and repeated the prayer.
Most people knew that stigmatics bled from the wounds of Jesus. What most
didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, was that when bleeding from those wounds,
on some level, stigmatics experience the pain and anguish of Christ during the
crucifixion. The pain came not as a cutting sensation, more of an explosion on
his wrists and feet. His side felt an intense cold as though a frozen hole had
been created there.

There was only so much pain Zach could take,
but having worked for years with Monsignor Macginty to control and channel it,
Zach could remain semiconscious during his episodes and experience the gift of
vision that they brought.

Before he finished the Saint Francis Prayer
a third time, blood began to ooze, first from his wrists, and then from his
feet and his side. The scent of pipe tobacco surrounded him. The
Sailor
Black
during an episode wasn’t jarring or uncomfortable like it was in
waking life. It felt wispy and pleasant. Welcome. The voice of his uncle came
to him.

Welcome back, Godson.

Zach never saw Uncle Henry during his
visions, but felt his godfather’s presence and was guided by his soothing
voice. As jarring as the voice could be in waking life, it gave him great
comfort during an episode.

You need to see things.

The picture in Zach’s mind focused. At
first, Rosewood was sepia-toned, more so than it had been during sunset the
night before the investigation. Colors seeped in. As they did, as the picture
appeared real enough to walk into, people in the vision began moving. As though
on fast forward, they zipped past. Zach couldn’t make out faces, but could tell
by their attire, the derby hats and flowing dresses, that the time period was
near the turn of the twentieth century.

On his left, led by two horses, a closed
black buggy pulled up. The images slowed to normal speed. A man dressed as a
policeman, possibly a police chief, exited the driver’s side and walked, no
shuffled, around to the passenger’s door. He looked from side to side as though
nervous of being observed. From Zach’s vantage point in the vision, he could
have reached out and touched the man’s square jaw. The policeman stood six-feet
tall, large for that time period, Zach noted. He had broad shoulders and a
barrel-shaped chest. The brim of his police cap hid his eyes in a shadow; his
pug nose crooked to one side as though once broken and never healed. He opened
the door, exposing a large bundle wrapped in a navy-colored rug. He slung the
rolled carpet over his shoulder and headed into the stables. Seconds later,
several horses whinnied.

“This is John Paramour? I don’t understand,”
Zach said.

Keep watching.

It was as if his godfather knew what Zach
needed to see and provided him images that Uncle Henry himself could
not
see—or perhaps could no longer understand. Maybe Uncle Henry could perceive
Zach’s reaction to them, but not the visions themselves?

The image morphed, and Zach was inside the
stables at an elevated position. The policeman had taken off his hat and
covered up his uniform with an off-white piece of clothing. It’s a patient’s
garment, Zach realized—a dress?

Based on Hunter’s psychic reading of a dead
body being repeatedly stabbed, the policeman’s intent was clear before the
corpse and kitchen knife were revealed from inside the rug. The cross-dressed
cop hunched over the body, then he raised and lowered the knife repeatedly.
Zach’s visions were silent, but he couldn’t help imagining the repeated sounds
of pfft. pfft. pfft…