Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum (28 page)

The policeman took backward steps revealing
the ravaged corpse. There were a few slashing wounds to the torso, but they
appeared to have been incidental. The brunt of the attack had been inflicted on
the face. It had been flayed beyond any recognition. The eyes were mere bloody
sockets, the nose was completely gone and the cheekbones revealed protruding
bones. The neck had been ripped apart and blood had stained the dirt and hay
beneath and around the head and shoulders of the victim. The sight of blood...

Blood! Zach remembered that in real life he
was slowly bleeding from five wounds.

Yes, godson, be mindful.

“Show me more, please,” Zach said.

The scene sped up. Again as though on a
preview setting of a DVD, it quickly displayed the discovery of the body, a
flurry of people coming and going and then the vision slowed again to regular
speed.

Directing two other uniformed officers, the
policeman from the previous scene was now clean-shaven. A man in a white coat,
presumably a doctor, looked on. He halted the police chief as he reached for
the knife. It must be Dr. Johansson, Zach thought. Presuming it was, Dr.
Johansson had a thin face, high cheekbones and a pointed chin. He wore
spectacles, and age was turning his blond hair to white. He appeared to be
giving the police officer a lecture of sorts, and then a conversation ensued.
At first, the policeman appeared puzzled. Then, a more heated discussion took
place with hand gestures and pointing. After a moment, uncomfortable
resignation formed on the officer’s face. He shrugged and waved at the knife on
the ground. When the doctor turned away, the policeman’s face betrayed a look
of hostile disgust. A look that would kill? Zach wondered. Presuming this was
Paramour, and there was every indication he was, had he killed Dr. Johansson to
cover up this murder? No, Zach remembered, Dr. Johansson had died of heart
failure.

The doctor moved to the bloody knife,
withdrew a hanky from his pocket and used it to lift the knife by the blade. He
lifted the handle near his face and examined it. After a moment, and without
looking back at Paramour, the doctor exited the stables carrying the knife in a
hankie near the blade’s broken tip. Paramour walked, no—shuffled away. Zach
wondered if the childhood abuse, the burning of his feet that Evelyn had
informed him of had left permanent damage. Or, Zach wondered in horror, as he’d
gotten older, had Paramour
continued
to punish himself for his sins in
the same manner his mother had?

Without an answer, the scene morphed.

A doctor’s office. The administration
building? Zach was at eye level with the doctor who was taking measurements of
the knife’s handle and portions of the blade. He applied a powdery substance to
the blade and with tape lifted what appeared to be a partial print from an
index finger.

Fingerprints, right? Why didn’t the cops…

Keep watching.

The doctor compared the print with a set of
smaller ink fingerprints on a pad. His face scrunched into a puzzled scowl. His
lips pursed, and he searched his desk for something. Finding a small black
book, he opened it and made several notations. His private journal, Zach
thought, can I see where it is now?

The doctor’s office wiped away like chalk on
a board. Another vision took its place.

An emaciated and aged Dr. Johansson stood
among thick tree trunks. With a shovel, he painstakingly lifted clumps of earth
from a small hole and piled them next to a tin can. It was obvious to Zach that
the black diary must be inside.

That tells me nothing. Zach’s thoughts were
cloudy and he was lightheaded. Even the visions were becoming blurry.

“Is there more?”

Yes, but you’ve not got time.

“One more!”

Quickly, and then you must go back.

The scene returned to the doctor’s office,
but time had shifted. Surprisingly, it had shifted backwards. Dr. Johansson was
younger—the same age as in earlier visions. An attractive but haggard young
woman stood in front of his desk. Her blonde hair was chopped very short. The
diary was nowhere in sight, perhaps put away? Hidden?

Dr. Johansson said something to the woman.
In response, she pounded her fist on his desk. Obviously upset, she unleashed a
torrent of silent accusations or insults. She pointed at him. Her right hand
was smeared with black ink. He had fingerprinted her.

The already blurry scene became even more
hazy, smoky. Wait, one more, Zach thought.

No. It is enough.

The scene faded amidst an overwhelming
stench of
Sailor Black
.

The pieces will fall into place. But be careful.

And, with that, the presence of his
godfather was gone. The smell of tobacco abated, Zach fluttered his eyes open,
but he couldn’t see. It took a moment before Zach realized that his eyes were
adjusting and there was nothing really to see. It was night.

He sat cross-legged in full darkness. Bark
from the oak dug into his back, and the blood’s warmth on his flesh was already
cooling. More time had passed than he had planned on.

Much more.

Typically, he’d get one or two scenes during
an episode. This had been what, four or five? Six, he thought, six scenes. He
wanted to rest, but knew that he couldn’t yet. He pulled a small vial of holy
water from his bag and began pouring it on his wounds. The bleeding slowed and
stopped, but based on how weak he felt, he suspected he’d lost more blood than
ever before. He reached inside the bag and felt for the gauze. The strain of
such a simple movement nearly caused Zach to pass out, but he fought it off.
Slowly, deliberately and methodically, he wrapped his wrists and then each foot
with gauze. As his heart rate increased to normal levels, the feeling in his
extremities returned. It made the pain worse, but Zach didn’t mind physical
pain. He rested a minute before retrieving a large bandage from his bag and
slapping it onto his side.

He reached for his long-sleeved shirt. He
was shivering—he needed a nap to recharge, but he didn’t think he’d have the
time. They’d be looking for him.

He wrapped the shirt around his shoulders
and slipped his arms through. Before he could button it up, two figures emerged
from Rosewood headed in his direction. Even at a distance and even lightheaded,
he knew the silhouette with the baseball cap to be Matthew. The other, more
than half a foot taller, was clearly that of Bryce Finman.

Chapter Thirty-One

“How the hell should I know where he is?”
Little more than a whisper, Matthew’s voice cracked.

Bryce said something in low tones that was
too garbled for Zach to understand.

“No, he never just takes off like this. He
suspects something,” Matthew said.

They stood at the edge of the tree line,
close enough for Zach to hear their hoarse argument. Far enough away that he
remained hidden in the shadows. Or so he hoped.

“Dude, you’re just paranoid. Don’t fall for
the trick where he pretends to know more than he does in order to get you to
admit to something. That’s one of the oldest tricks in the book.”

“No, he suspects something. I’m telling
you,” Matthew said. “I know this guy.”

“Yeah,” Bryce said, “you know ‘this guy’
well enough to know he’s never going to make you an investigator on his show.”

“What does that have to do with it? I’m not
backing out, I’m just sayin’...”

There was the flash of a lighter. Bryce lit
a cigarette—from the initial smell of it, a regular cigarette. “Sayin’ what? It
sounds like you’ve got cold feet, like you’re tempted to not go through with
it.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Matthew said. “I’m the one
taking all the risk.”

“Yeah, right. Whatever, dude. C’mon, let’s do
this.”

Upon further sniffs of Bryce’s secondhand
smoke, the cigarette was laced with marijuana. His head already woozy and his
stomach empty, the odor nearly made Zach pass out.

“Put your weed out,” Matthew instructed.
“People will be able to see the light all the way to the asylum.”

“Yeah, right. They’d just think it was a
firefly.” He gurgled out a laugh.

“Shhhhhhh.” Matthew was staring in Zach’s
general vicinity. “Did you hear something?”

Zach resisted an urge to duck and flatten
his body on the ground. He tried his very best not to move one muscle lest he
make a sound. He kept his breath shallow as he could without blacking out. If
they discovered him in this weakened condition, he’d be completely at their
mercy. Something Zach had learned at the poker table and had observed ever
since in real life: desperate men take desperate actions. Not only can’t those
actions be predicted with any regularity, they’re usually harsher than the
situation calls for. Zach didn’t want to test this theory tonight.

“Yeah, I heard something” Bryce said, “a
fucking ghost.”  He raised both hands and waved them wildly around
Matthew’s face.

“Fuck, asshole. You just burned me. Put that
fucking thing out now or I
will
call it quits.”

Zach resisted another urge—to relax. He couldn’t
let his guard down. He closed his eyes and remained as calm and meditative as
he could.

“Okay. Okay.” There was a rustling as Bryce
presumably snuffed out his joint.

“Alright,” Matthew said. “Let’s go get the
stuff.”

The leaves rustled beneath their feet. Zach
kept his eyes closed. Opening them meant taking the chance they’d catch a shine
or a glimmer. Or that he’d think they’d seen him and make a noise that would
give him away.

They’d either see him or they wouldn’t. He’d
hear their response if they did. Not many people could stifle a reaction when
stumbling upon a half-clothed, bloody man in the woods.

Still, his heart raced. More rustling. Were
they farther away or was it his wishful imagination? A small branch snapped
behind him...but a safe distance behind him. They’d passed by.

He opened his eyes and, seeing no one, he
reached for his jeans. Slipping them on without disturbing the sticks and
leaves under and around him posed a problem. Even the slightest exertion made
his vision blur and his heart pound. He needed rest. He needed nourishment. But
most of all, he needed fluids. He reached into his bag and pulled out a water
bottle and guzzled it down as quietly as he could. After the massive blood
loss, it wasn’t nearly enough.

He stared at the remaining holy water.

“Holy water is water, son.”
Macginty’s voice in Zach’s head was a
modification of the Monsignor’s earlier words. Macginty had never uttered that
actual phrase, nor would he. Or would he? In an emergency he might, then again—

Zach caught himself passing out. From his
sitting position, he’d nearly tipped all the way over on his side. He stared at
the container of remaining holy water. There was about a liter of it and, in
his state, it looked so enticing.

Holy water is water
.

Was it his godfather’s voice? No smell of
Sailor
Black,
thank God, or he’d have passed out for sure. Zach chugged the entire
container of holy water. Some of it spilling on his cheek and chin. It helped.
A little. He wished he could eat a protein bar he’d packed in the bag, but
unwrapping it now was not an option. His head wasn’t so woozy to think that
Matthew and Bryce wouldn’t hear wrappers crinkling in the haunted forest. Zach
almost laughed but caught himself—then centered his emotions with a silent deep
breath. He grabbed the protein bar and slid it into his back pocket.

He stood. He took two steps and stubbed his
toe on a stone. The pain rang through the bones of his bloodless feet. Out of
nowhere, he recalled cymbals throbbing with tone the last time he was at a jazz
club. Focus. Focus. Shoes.

He heard voices and a hushed “Psst. Here.”

He looked about wildly, but no one was
there. The sounds had come from near the back fence line maybe twenty yards
away. It sounded closer, but the breeze must have carried it. Zach backtracked
and tried to slip on his shoes while standing. Couldn’t. He sat down and
pressed them onto his aching feet. Evelyn’s voice rang in his ears.
“She
punished him by scraping embers from the fireplace and scalding his feet.”

He shivered. Poor John Paramour—the man who
went on to stab dead bodies and commit arson...

Zach caught his head bobbing, his eyes half
closed. Both shoes were on. Sockless, it felt like wood planks across his
toes—the pressure grated the gauze over his wounds. He tried to stand. Couldn’t
find his balance. Decided to crawl. One arm and knee forward after the next.
Like in Kindergarten. His palms and wrists now ached worse than his feet. A
smell invaded his nostrils. The smell of wet leaves and urine? Had Bryce and
Matthew pissed back here? Was this a dream of some sorts? A nightmare? Shhhh.
One deliberate movement after the next. He’d crawled twenty-five yards or so,
and was within spitting distance of the tree line. Voices drifted from the far
corner of the property. He inched toward them stopping once to recoup energy.