Blow Out
Page 7
He didn’t believe for a minute that the Barrister house, the one Sheriff Harms said was deserted and abandoned, was the house he’d been inside.
“We should see the house any minute now,” the sheriff said. It seemed to Savich that there were more ruts in the road than he remembered, the asphalt crumbling in many places, as if it hadn’t been tended in a very long time. No, he was wrong, he was mis-remembering. That beautiful big lighted house would come into view at any moment. Yes, there, another hundred feet and the small rise appeared, on the left, and on top of the rise was the house, trees closing in around it from all sides. He didn’t remember the trees being so close.
There were no lights shining out of the first floor of the house now, none at all. It looked like a huge black hulk, crouched atop that rise. Someone had come back and turned the lights off, or the power. A small voice in the back of his brain asked why.
“This is the Barrister house,” Sheriff Harms said, as he pulled to a stop in front of the big, dark house. “Is this the place where you brought the young woman, Agent Savich?”
Savich didn’t say anything. He pulled on his leather gloves as he slowly got out of the SUV and walked to the front of the house. He paused a moment, unwilling to accept what he was seeing. He walked up the wide wooden stairs that led to the covered porch which extended the full width of the front of the house.
Suddenly the moon came out from behind the black clouds, and he saw the house clearly for the first time.
It was the same house he’d been inside an hour before, but it wasn’t, not really. This house looked deserted, dilapidated, as if it had been neglected for many years. Trees pressed in toward the house, some of their branches whipping against upstairs windows. There were boards nailed over downstairs windows, broken glass scattered on the porch. There was even graffiti on the wall next to the front door.
The house was dead, had been dead for a very long time. His heart pounded as he looked at the front door that was barely hanging onto its hinges, studied it, and accepted what he saw because there was simply no choice. He closed his eyes a moment, seeing the woman clearly in his mind’s eye, realizing how very pretty she’d been, not having noticed it at first because she’d been so frightened.
He turned and walked back to the car.
Sheriff Harms said as he turned on the engine, “Her name was Samantha Barrister. She was murdered here back in August of 1973.”
“I want to see a photo of her,” Savich said.
Sherlock took his hand, held it tight.
TWO HOURS LATER, Sherlock awoke to find Dillon standing by the bedroom window, staring out at the falling snow.
She got up and walked to him, and wrapped her arms around his back.
“Did I wake you?”
“No. You’re thinking about her, aren’t you, still trying to find logical reasons for what happened.”
“There aren’t any. It’s driving me nuts. Even though I’ve been over and over it, I guess I can’t get around the fact that I’ve experienced something, well, I guess you’d have to call it otherworldly.”
She kissed his shoulder. “Then perhaps it’s time to simply accept it.”
“But the reasonable part of my brain doesn’t want to.” He turned and pulled her into his arms, buried his face in her hair.
“There’s another thing, Sherlock, something I just remembered. I called you when I had the blowout. It wasn’t ten minutes later that she came running out of the woods. I insisted on calling for help, but I couldn’t get through on the cell phone. But then later, at the house, after she was gone, I called you and it worked just fine again.”
She held him more tightly. “It’s possible the signal was better there.” She paused a moment, touched her fingertips to his jaw. “I just remembered something else, Dillon.”
He wasn’t going to like this, he knew he wasn’t.
“You called me at about eight o’clock.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“The second time you called me, it was only about a quarter after eight.”
He sucked in his breath. “No,” he said, “no, that’s just not possible. That would mean that all of what happened—no, that’s ridiculous. I spent a lot of time with her, even more time just searching that house. No, I can’t accept that all that happened in fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe we’re both wrong about the time. That’s the most reasonable explanation.” She hugged him again, touched her fingertips to his cheek. “It’s very late. It’s snowing. Sean will be up and raring to go in less than four hours. We’ll have time to discuss this tomorrow; you can decide what to do then.
“We should see the house any minute now,” the sheriff said. It seemed to Savich that there were more ruts in the road than he remembered, the asphalt crumbling in many places, as if it hadn’t been tended in a very long time. No, he was wrong, he was mis-remembering. That beautiful big lighted house would come into view at any moment. Yes, there, another hundred feet and the small rise appeared, on the left, and on top of the rise was the house, trees closing in around it from all sides. He didn’t remember the trees being so close.
There were no lights shining out of the first floor of the house now, none at all. It looked like a huge black hulk, crouched atop that rise. Someone had come back and turned the lights off, or the power. A small voice in the back of his brain asked why.
“This is the Barrister house,” Sheriff Harms said, as he pulled to a stop in front of the big, dark house. “Is this the place where you brought the young woman, Agent Savich?”
Savich didn’t say anything. He pulled on his leather gloves as he slowly got out of the SUV and walked to the front of the house. He paused a moment, unwilling to accept what he was seeing. He walked up the wide wooden stairs that led to the covered porch which extended the full width of the front of the house.
Suddenly the moon came out from behind the black clouds, and he saw the house clearly for the first time.
It was the same house he’d been inside an hour before, but it wasn’t, not really. This house looked deserted, dilapidated, as if it had been neglected for many years. Trees pressed in toward the house, some of their branches whipping against upstairs windows. There were boards nailed over downstairs windows, broken glass scattered on the porch. There was even graffiti on the wall next to the front door.
The house was dead, had been dead for a very long time. His heart pounded as he looked at the front door that was barely hanging onto its hinges, studied it, and accepted what he saw because there was simply no choice. He closed his eyes a moment, seeing the woman clearly in his mind’s eye, realizing how very pretty she’d been, not having noticed it at first because she’d been so frightened.
He turned and walked back to the car.
Sheriff Harms said as he turned on the engine, “Her name was Samantha Barrister. She was murdered here back in August of 1973.”
“I want to see a photo of her,” Savich said.
Sherlock took his hand, held it tight.
TWO HOURS LATER, Sherlock awoke to find Dillon standing by the bedroom window, staring out at the falling snow.
She got up and walked to him, and wrapped her arms around his back.
“Did I wake you?”
“No. You’re thinking about her, aren’t you, still trying to find logical reasons for what happened.”
“There aren’t any. It’s driving me nuts. Even though I’ve been over and over it, I guess I can’t get around the fact that I’ve experienced something, well, I guess you’d have to call it otherworldly.”
She kissed his shoulder. “Then perhaps it’s time to simply accept it.”
“But the reasonable part of my brain doesn’t want to.” He turned and pulled her into his arms, buried his face in her hair.
“There’s another thing, Sherlock, something I just remembered. I called you when I had the blowout. It wasn’t ten minutes later that she came running out of the woods. I insisted on calling for help, but I couldn’t get through on the cell phone. But then later, at the house, after she was gone, I called you and it worked just fine again.”
She held him more tightly. “It’s possible the signal was better there.” She paused a moment, touched her fingertips to his jaw. “I just remembered something else, Dillon.”
He wasn’t going to like this, he knew he wasn’t.
“You called me at about eight o’clock.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“The second time you called me, it was only about a quarter after eight.”
He sucked in his breath. “No,” he said, “no, that’s just not possible. That would mean that all of what happened—no, that’s ridiculous. I spent a lot of time with her, even more time just searching that house. No, I can’t accept that all that happened in fifteen minutes.”
“Maybe we’re both wrong about the time. That’s the most reasonable explanation.” She hugged him again, touched her fingertips to his cheek. “It’s very late. It’s snowing. Sean will be up and raring to go in less than four hours. We’ll have time to discuss this tomorrow; you can decide what to do then.
