Out of the Shadows (17 page)

“
Ayuh
, concernin’ the incident at the house this mornin’.”

Leslie noticed her husband’s breathing become shallow and fast, and she knew his heart rate was beginning to race. Her own palms clammed up, knowing deep in her gut that the news he was receiving was not good.

“I see. Can you tell me anything about his family? Specifically his niece, Jessica?”

His face turned white as all the blood rushed away to other extremities, and his jaw opened with slack, his eyes growing wide. He looked ill. Leslie didn’t have to ask; she already knew: Christine was in danger.

“Ok,” he stammered, trying to keep his cool on the phone. “Thanks so much for your help, and I’m sorry to have bothered ya, Ms. Mayes.” He slowly hung up the phone, his hands shaking. After a moment of disorientation, he jumped into action with a sudden furiousness. He retrieved his cell phone from his pocket, jumping up from his chair, pacing back and forth by his desk. He dialed a number and waited.

Finally, he spoke with urgency. “Brody, it’s Colt! Stay away from that house! Call me the second you get this message!” And he hung up, emotions overtaking his body, sending him into shivers of panic.

Leslie wisely stood back, allowing him to process the news he’d just received. He would divulge his information when he was ready, but she knew without a doubt that his partner was in terrible trouble, and he was nowhere nearby to help.

He flew into the chief’s office, not even bothering to knock on the door. Leslie watched them talk animatedly through the window, her heart sinking farther toward her gut. She saw the chief’s eyes grow wide, and she saw him pick up a walkie-talkie, speaking quickly into it. She could tell from his reaction that no one responded. She saw him try once more to no avail. Something was very wrong, and she knew what had to be done.

Jonathan ran from the chief’s office, blinded by fear for his partner after realizing how stupid they had been. Blood pounded within his ears, and he grew dizzy, inhaling and exhaling too deeply. He ran his hands through his wavy hair, looking around the room at nothing particular, trying to catch hold of sanity before his fear’s grip became absolute. He angrily kicked the side of a desk, the collision echoing through the station. He spun around, not knowing what to do with himself. And then his eyes came to rest on Leslie.

She stood by the front door, a bittersweet smile overtaking her face. In her hands was his thick winter coat, and she slowly held it out to him.

Jonathan stared at her a few seconds before uttering, “What’s this?” He approached her, taking the garment in his shaking hands.

“Jon, ya need to go after Christine,” she said, taking a deep breath to stave off the emotion she did not want him to see.

“No,” he shook his head in disbelief. “You need me here, so I’m stayin’.”

“Yeah,” she nodded slightly. “I do. But right now, my needs can wait. Christine’s in trouble.”

“I made a promise to take care of you.”

Leslie smiled, warmed by her husband’s devotion. She placed a soft hand on his stubbled cheek and said, “Ya made a promise to her too, and I won’t be the reason ya break it.”

Jonathan was torn, not knowing what to do in this delicate situation. “Leslie, I love you, and you will always come first in my life. I… I know I haven’t been the greatest at puttin’ you before my job, but I almost lost ya today and…” He took a breath to stop from cracking at the thought of his dead wife lying in his arms.

Leslie took his hands in hers and squeezed them tightly. “I’m no fool, Jon. I knew what I was signin’ up for when I married you.” She closed her eyes, knowing that this conversation wasn’t about his job and needing to get things back on track. Her eyes opened, and she united with her husband before continuing. “I see the connection between you two. I can’t say I understand it, but I can see that it’s there. And I know that you would
nevah
forgive yourself – or me – if somethin’ happened to her while you weren’t there.”

She paused before allowing herself to say the next thing on her mind. “You love her.”

Jonathan pulled back, shocked by her words. “No, honey! It’s not—!”

Leslie quickly placed her fingertips over his lips to silence him. “You love her, and that’s ok.” Her hand trailed away from his face and came to rest on his chest, feeling his heartbeat overtake her. “Jon, you have so much love to give. You’re one of the most compassionate men I’ve ever met.” She took a stuttered breath, breaking eye contact with him, holding back tears of her own as she realized that as much as she felt he needed to go after his partner, she was likely sending him to his death.

A tear managed to break free and roll down her face as she looked into his eyes, begging for the strength to see him out the door before breaking down. “You love her,” she nodded. “But you’re
in
love
with me.” She smiled despite her conflicted emotions. “And I can live with that.”

Jonathan wrapped his great arms around his wife, squeezing her and feeling her warmth consume his body in a way that no one else’s could. He pressed her head into his chest as she cried. “I love you so much, Leslie.”

“Yeah,” she managed. “You’re a pretty lucky guy.”

Through tears, they laughed, and her arms reached around his torso, embracing him tightly. And for that one moment of time, everything was perfect. She sincerely hoped that it wouldn’t be their last together.

*     *     *

Christine smells the whiskey, even while hiding in the closet. The stench permeates the walls of the house. She hears the door slam. She feels the floor shake with every tromp he takes up the steps. She hears him holler at the top of his lungs, searching for her and her mother. She hears her mother try to calm him, and she wishes the woman had hid like she did. Her mother screams in agony, begging for him to let go. He curses and calls her names, and with a loud
smack
, she goes quiet and drops to the floor.

Christine hears him beckon for her, calling her less-than-ladylike names. She tries to keep her breathing quiet, but she is shaking, terrified. Tremors rock her body as she hears her bedroom door open. He calls out for her once more, and she decides to hold her breath. She becomes nauseous when she sees the shadow of his feet under the bottom crack of the door. Dizziness takes over her mind, knowing that she must breathe again, or she will pass out – and then who knows what will happen.

All is quiet, and she thinks he might leave, but then her closet door flings open, and his grotesque and drunken appearance frightens her. He grabs her and yanks her from within the safety of the closet. He hobbles toward her, swinging his arm wildly, a fierce anger in his eyes, an anger that she doesn’t understand. His fist manages to collide with the side of her face, sending her backward into her vanity table, knocking over a beautiful vase. It falls and shatters on the floor. He pushes her to the ground, and she cuts her hands on the tiny shards of glass.

She barely has time to think about what to do when he grabs her hair from behind, pulling her head back and dragging her up onto her feet. He spins her around, preparing to hit her again. She lunges forward, jamming a lengthy shiv of glass into his neck under his jaw. His eyes grow wide in horror as blood spurts from his wound, bathing Christine in gore. She cries, continuing to push harder until his own legs cannot support him. He falls to the ground, and she does the same. Except he is dead, and she is not. He is dead. He is dead. Dead…

As the blackness finally flickered away, Christine’s awful memories suddenly awakened her from her concussed stupor, nausea taking over her body. The side of her head ached, and her vision spun with dizzying disorientation. She couldn’t quite remember how she came to be where she was. Slow deep breaths filled her lungs in an attempt to calm her raging queasiness. She shivered and noticed how incredibly cold it felt; she could see her heaving breaths expel from her mouth in giant plumes. Dim lamplight filled the room, and her eyes hadn’t quite yet adjusted.

As she tried to stand, she realized she was tied to a wooden chair, her ankles to the legs and her wrists behind her back. She blinked her eyes a few times, clearing her distorted vision as her surroundings finally came into focus. She was in the center of a small bedroom, adorned with trimmings of white and bed sheets of ivory.

Directly in front of her was a window giving way to the black night. Undulating waves of red and blue light pulsed around the windowsill. She could tell that she wasn’t on the first floor and that a squad car was parked outside on the street. She thought briefly about calling out, but she decided to look around a bit more first, in case the opportunity didn’t present itself later.

She turned her head as far as she could in an attempt to see what was behind her, and what she discovered sent unnerving shivers down her back. Lying on the floor, unconscious, was a petite woman with blonde hair matted awkwardly across her face, covering any discernible features. A few shelves lined the walls, along with a small dresser. Covering every inch of available shelf space were dozens of precious snow globes displaying peaceful scenes of winter wonderment.

Her mind swam rapidly with red and blue lights, unconscious women, snow globes, and her dead father.

And then she noticed that the door leading out of the room was wide open.

Christine Brody sat, bound to a wooden chair, facing the window where the police beacons pulsed from the cruisers on the street below. Trying to quiet the pounding within her head from the blow that previously had knocked her unconscious, she listened intently for the sounds of movement either outside or inside the house.

The door to the eerie bedroom in which she was currently held prisoner was open, leading out into a dark hallway down which she could not see. Adorned with cheery snow globes illuminated by the room’s dim lamplight, the room made her uneasy. A cognitive dissonance rattled her mind as she peered behind at the tiny winter wonderlands and the unconscious blonde woman on the floor.

Calling out for help would be too risky; she had no idea what might lay beyond the threshold of the room, and she would rather not alert her captor that she had regained consciousness. Besides, she knew what the team’s protocol would be: they would circle the perimeter and cover all exits, and then they would enter the house and save her.

But the lights
, her brain warned her. She thought for a moment and realized something was wrong. If the police lights were on outside, then their approach had not been stealthy, which meant they had received intel that there was a great danger at the house, and they would have stormed in and located her tied to the chair in the frigid bedroom.

But the house and the yard outside remained silent, save for the whistle of the dying wind as the storm continued to grow tired and cease its assault on Rockport.

As panic flickered to life within her, she began struggling against the tight white cloth that attached her limbs to the chair. She forcefully jerked and yanked, feeling the fabric’s friction begin to sear the skin on her wrists. Without looking, she knew that her firearm had been removed from her person. She felt naked and vulnerable.

Nothing in front of her would be of assistance, so she once more turned her attention behind her. The snow globes! If she were able to shatter one, she could retrieve a piece of glass and cut herself free! She knew she would have precious few seconds once the globe shattered to the ground, because her captor would be alerted.

Quietly, she attempted to walk the chair backward toward the shelves, but as she put force on the floor with her toes, the chair did not budge. She tried again to no avail. Looking to the side to examine the cause, she saw that all four legs where frozen to the floor with a thick layer of ice.

Her brain reeled, trying to come up with a new solution as she looked frantically around the room. She struggled against the cloth and wood and ice, she struggled against the memory of what she did to her father years ago, she struggled with the knowledge that she would always come second to Leslie in Colt’s mind, and she struggled coming to terms with the fact that she couldn’t protect every mistreated woman in the world.

She felt an emotional fire igniting in her gut, slowly rising toward her chest, and as it made its way up toward her throat, the cry of anguish burst forth from her mouth prematurely, feeling redness overtake her pale cheeks. She heard ice crack and wood creak as the chair broke free from the floor, and the two back legs snapped, sending her tipping backward and crashing into the floor.

The sting of pain blurred her vision as the back of her tender head collided with the floor, but she soon regained her composure, looking around the room for something with which to defend herself in case her captor arrived.

Her eyes came to rest on the unconscious blonde woman, whose head slowly turned at the commotion she had just made. “Hey!” Christine whispered to get her attention.

*     *     *

An anguished cry rang through her ears, a horrible crash shook the floor, and a woman’s moan of pain pushed the blackness from her vision as she slowly turned her head, regaining consciousness once more.

“Hey!” she heard the woman whisper.

Her own eyes had fluttered open, and she was trying to remember where she was and how she got there, slowly raising her head from the floor.

“Hey!” came the other woman’s beckon, more forcefully this time. “Come help me! We’re in danger here!”

As she struggled to get her bearings, she pushed her disheveled blonde hair from her face and looked around the room. She furrowed her brow in confusion, wondering how she came to be there. She thought back and remembered her headache, remembered taking ibuprofen, remembered the trail of ice and the argument that ensued afterward…

And then she woke up here on the floor.

She turned to look at the other woman who was calling out to her in whispers, and her breath was taken away when she saw who it was, tied to a broken chair on the floor. And she knew the other woman must have been just as shocked, because her eyes grew wide and she gasped.

“Rita?!”

*     *     *

Christine stared at Rita Mayes, locking shocked eyes with her.

“Officer Brody!” she exclaimed, and then her stunned expression slowly crumbled, her eyes filling with regret. Rita shook her head back and forth while crying softly, “No, no, no, no, no…”

“Rita,” Christine tried to calm the panicking woman. “Come untie me! We have to get out of here!”

Rita ran her hands through her long blonde hair, pushing the mess behind her ears and wiping the tears from her face. “I’m so sorry, Officer Brody.”

Christine was growing agitated by the woman’s lack of focus. “Just come untie me!”

Her face contorted even further, the streams of sadness rolling down her cheeks and dripping onto the floor. “I can’t.”

“Are you hurt?!” the officer asked, trying to make sense of the blonde woman’s reply.

Rita shook her head slowly. “She promised you would stay safe.”

“Who promised?”

“She said she wouldn’t hurt you!”

“Who?”

“Jessica!” Rita cried out, burying her face in her hands and sobbing.

The name of the Sheffield daughter being spoken aloud sucked the air from Christine’s lungs, as if a forceful punch had landed on her abdomen while lying on her back, still tied to the broken chair. She felt her face flush with embarrassment and anger and pity, all at once. She had trusted Rita Mayes, but she had been duped. Colt had been right all along; her emotions had gotten in her way, and she had been blinded to what was really going on.

Christine closed her eyes and took a deep breath, preparing herself to put her trust back in this broken woman, because there was no one else to save her. “Rita,” she began softly. “It’s not too late. Come untie me, and we can leave this place. Together.”

The bound cop watched as Rita’s sobs quieted, and her shoulders came to rest.

“Come on, Rita,” she tried once more. “Let’s get out of here.”

Rita slowly brought her face up from her cupped hands, gazing coldly at Christine through rogue strands of blonde hair.

The cop shivered as their eyes met.

Something was suddenly different about the woman at whom she stared. Something violent now lingered behind her pupils, and an unnatural smirk creased the corners of her mouth. Her demeanor had completely transformed. She stood, resting her weight on one leg, her hand on her hip.

“Rita?” Christine asked, her voice tinged with fear.

The blonde woman smiled and chuckled, like the cop on the ground had just asked the most ridiculous question she had ever heard. “Rita’s not here,” she replied with disdain, her voice somehow a little deeper than it had been previously.

“What?”

“She’s…” the woman hesitated, searching for the right words. “…
being punished
.”

Prone and vulnerable on the floor, Christine’s heart raced as she fought to keep her mental balance through this twisted development. She didn’t have the knowledge with which to explain what had happened, but she was certain that the woman standing before her was no longer the woman she had met earlier. A different personality had emerged from its mental shackles in the woman’s head. “Jessica Sheffield,” Christine stated more than asked, already knowing the answer.

“Who else would I be?” the blonde woman said matter-of-factly.

Christine tried not to act phased by the information, but it was difficult to think on her feet when all the blood was rushing to her head. “So, everything that happened today… It was you and your father?”

Jessica’s head tilted, eyes narrowing in puzzlement. “My father?”

“Frank Sheffield.”

“That piece of shit has been dead for twenty years.”

“But you said…” she stopped herself, unsure of how to address the woman. “
Rita
said that she saw him running away from the house this morning.”

Jessica smiled devilishly. “She lied.” She shifted her weight and strolled across the room, past the cop’s vulnerable head, and she came to rest at the window looking out into the front yard.

As she had passed, Christine’s eyes came to rest on Jessica’s small shoes, and she sighed, remembering the small footprints she’d seen at the side of Peter Sheffield’s house earlier in the morning. All of the pieces were falling into place.

“It’s so beautiful, isn’t it?” Jessica said with genuine awe, looking out the window.

“What?”

A sea of tiny white flurries floated gracefully down from the sky, a peacefulness permeating the air. “The snowflakes.” Her eyes brimmed with moisture as she took in the beauty of the scene outside, her breath taken away in reverence. She quietly began humming a music box lullaby that she had learned when she was a girl, and she felt swelling emotion surrounding her heart. “It’s all too beautiful.”

“I wouldn’t know,” Christine retorted, still lying on her back, staring at the ceiling above. “I can’t see it.”

“Right,” Jessica said dismissively, walking away from the window back to the other side of the room, retrieving a snow globe from a pedestal in the center of the dresser. She examined its intricate details with care.

Within the confines of the protective glass dome, two tiny people knelt together in a snowy lawn, smiles on their faces, flanked by snow-covered pine trees. The miniature house behind them was aglow with dazzling lights along the roof’s trimming, and the windows blazed with golden radiance. Unbeknownst to the two people playing in the snow, a sleigh pulled by reindeer was perched on top of the roof.

Jessica reached underneath the hefty trinket and cranked the silver knob on the bottom, allowing a whimsical melody to ring out softly through the air – the same melody that Jessica had been humming only a moment before.

“This one is my favorite,” she said, smiling, replacing it on its pedestal in the center of the dresser.

There was something childlike about Jessica, and also something dangerously unbalanced as well. “You have a unique…
gift
,” Christine said quietly, trying to buy some time to come up with a plan.

“Yes, I do,” she said.

“Will you show me?”

Jessica considered the prone woman before bending down and picking up one of the back legs that had broken off the wooden chair. She held it, outstretched, and Christine saw a white wispiness surround the woman’s hand as it grew pale and white, almost crystalline. The air around the wooden beam crackled, and a thin layer of ice extended from the appendage, reaching out until the wood became completely covered with frost.

Then she squeezed, and the icy length of wood shattered and crumbled to the floor.

Christine felt a small seed of fear sprouting within her at the randomly violent display. “And this is what you did to your father? And your uncle?”

“They deserved it,” she spat.

“I suppose you think the old man outside the house this morning deserved it too?”

Jessica suddenly lashed out in anger, hovering dangerously over Christine’s face, her hands beginning to turn white and wispy. “He stuck his nose where it didn’t belong!” she yelled.

Christine chose to remain silent for a minute, allowing Jessica’s anger to dissipate. Then she continued, “He saw you run from the backyard, didn’t he?”

Jessica’s silence was enough of an answer for Christine.

The cop decided to try a different tactic. “I’m not the enemy here. Let me help you.”

Jessica’s eyes grew cruel as she seethed, “I can see you lying there. Judging me.”

Christine noticed something familiar behind Jessica’s eyes. An intense anguish built up from years of suppressing emotional distress. “Tell me about your father,” she said, taking a gamble on Jessica’s willingness to discuss her past.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she argued, growing agitated and beginning to pace.

“Try me.”

After a moment of hesitation, the blonde woman charged over to Christine, lifted her upright, and held her in place. Christine gasped when she heard the crackle of ice, and she braced herself for the end of all things. When it did not come, she realized that her chair was upright again, and Jessica stood by the window now. She glanced over the side of the chair and saw two new back legs, constructed entirely of ice.