Page 12
The morning sun cast a warm glow over Trentville, but Jenna still felt only the cool residue of her nocturnal vision as she rolled her car to a stop in front of Jake’s modest bungalow. She tapped the horn, a signal that had become their routine, and Jake appeared at the door, travel mug in hand. He moved with a lazy confidence to the car and got into the passenger seat, bringing with him the rich aroma of dark roast coffee.
“Morning,” Jake greeted her, his voice gravelly from sleep. Jenna managed a smile as she eased the car back into the flow of the street. After a moment, he added, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“You’re not far off,” she responded, turning her focus to the road ahead. She knew that Jake’s remark was not just curiosity; she heard in it the undercurrent of concern for her well-being—and also for the case at hand.
“Another dream?”
“Yes. It took place in St. Michael’s,” she began. “But it wasn’t the church as we know it—it was... different. Distorted by time, or perhaps by becoming the realm of the dead.”
“Go on,” he urged, frowning as he processed her words.
“There were two women—dead spirits, I assume. They seemed lost and confused, and there was such sorrow about them, an unspeakable loss.” Jenna felt the weight of their unseen gazes upon her, even now. “And a man—plucking at the strings of an autoharp. It was all so vivid, Jake.”
“Did they communicate anything? Any clues?”
“Only in song,” Jenna murmured, pulling up to a stoplight and pausing as if the red glow could halt the progression of her thoughts as easily as it stilled the car. “The women both sang. The first was a haunting blues melody I think I’ve heard somewhere before.
“Can you remember the song?” Jake prodded gently.
“Every note,” she assured him.
The light turned green, and Jenna eased the car forward. The song lingered in the back of her mind, an enigmatic whisper from beyond the veil. She stole a glance at Jake, who waited with an expectant stillness beside her.
Jenna cleared her throat, the car’s engine humming softly in the background as they coasted down the asphalt ribbon that cut through Trentville. Her voice rose, tentative at first, then steadier as she sang the bluesy lines from her dream:
“I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees
I went to the crossroad, fell down on my knees
Asked the Lord above, ‘Have mercy, save this poor girl, if you please.”
Jenna glanced over at Jake, whose expression had shifted from concern to startled recognition.
“That’s ‘Cross Road Blues,’ by Robert Johnson, a very real old classic.” Jake’s voice held an edge of wonder as he acknowledged the song’s legacy.
A small spark of excitement flickered in Jenna’s eyes. “And then the second woman sang this hymn I’ve never heard. Her voice was different, lighter somehow, but it carried a message, a plea almost.”
She let the silence between them stretch for a moment, gathering her thoughts before she filled the car with another echo from her dream. Then she began to sing, her voice low and haunting:
“In shadows deep, the secrets keep,
Through courage, truth we strive to reap.
In dreams they stir, in whispers speak,
Guiding the lost, the brave, the meek.”
The final notes lingered in the air as Jenna’s voice faded into the hum of the engine.
Jake shook his head gently, breaking the momentary spell.
“That one’s new to me,” he admitted. Concern creased his forehead as he turned towards her. “Jenna, these dreams... they’re incredible, but I always worry about them. The toll they must be taking...”
Jenna’s response came on a sigh, shoulders drooping under the weight of a burden she had carried since Piper’s disappearance.
“I know, Jake.” Her grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. “But they’ve been crucial in solving cases.” The songs, the women, even the man with the autoharp—she was sure they were all pieces of a puzzle that extended beyond the realm of the living. “What if these songs are clues that we need?”
He nodded slowly, considering her words. “It’s possible,” he conceded. “Music has a way of transcending time, of connecting stories across generations.”
“Exactly,” Jenna agreed, feeling the gears of her intuition mesh with the logic of police work.
They continued their journey in an uneasy quiet, then Jenna said, “Thank you, for worrying about me. But it’s really not something I choose to do. And it’s not something I can just stop doing.” She glanced at him briefly, then back at the road.
“I get it,” Jake said, then added with a note of genuine concern, “I just... I care about you, Jenna. I don’t want to see you burn out.”
Jenna glimpsed Jake’s hand, suspended in the air, as if caught between his resolve and hesitation. The space between them hummed with tension, an invisible current that seemed to draw them closer despite themselves. He withdrew his hand, a silent retraction of uncharted emotions, but the moment lingered, electric and unresolved.
She slowed the patrol car to a halt. They had arrived at the imposing structure of the County Courthouse. It rose before them, its brick facade warmed by the sun’s embrace, standing proud against the passage of time. The clock tower loomed over the square, and Jenna felt the weight of history emanating from its walls. For Jenna, the courthouse was not only a symbol of law and order, but also a repository of answers waiting to be discovered.
Jenna led the way inside, her footsteps resounding in the empty hallway as she nodded at the receptionist on duty. As she and Jake descended into the basement, the air grew cooler with each step. They reached the bottom, where the corridor branched off to various departments hidden away from the public eye. Her nose twitched at the antiseptic scent that grew more potent with every step closer to the morgue. There was something about the smell that always seemed to linger on the skin, a reminder of the stark finality documented within those walls.
She slowed her pace as they approached the heavy steel door marked “Coroner’s Office” in black lettering. When they entered, Dr. Melissa Stark stood waiting, her lab coat less pristine than usual, evidence of the long hours spent unraveling the mysteries of the deceased.
“Jenna, Jake,” Stark said, her voice carrying the faintest trace of strain.
“Melissa,” Jenna acknowledged, and as they crossed the threshold, a chill brushed against her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms despite the room’s actual temperature being only marginally lower than the hallway’s. The autopsy room’s clinical atmosphere was underscored by the gleam of stainless steel tables and instruments meticulously arranged for the task at hand. Bright lights hung overhead, illuminating all the corners of the room, leaving nowhere for secrets to hide.
The coroner moved with practiced efficiency, preparing for the grim reveal that awaited beneath the sterile white sheets. Jenna’s resolve hardened; this was her territory, too—no matter how unsavory the road. Her gaze lingered on the two tables where the remains from St. Michael’s lay. She forced herself to approach, making each step with a sense of intrusion into a story that had ended before her time.
Melissa’s hand hovered momentarily over the first cadaver’s chest before she pulled back the thin, white sheet that had been covering its torso. Jenna observed as the coroner traced an invisible line down the sternum. “This one,” she announced, “I estimate was killed and hidden sometime around 1960, give or take a few years.”
Empty eye sockets met Jenna gaze, voids where once there had been life, expression, identity. She’d seen corpses before, but this one looked different—weirdly desiccated, but also weirdly intact. Jenna’s instinct to empathize, to reconstruct the person from the remnants before her, warred with the knowledge that these husks were mere echoes of individuals vanished from the world of the living.
Suppressing the shudder that threatened to ripple through her, Jenna focused on the facts, the evidence. She reminded herself that emotions were luxuries she couldn’t afford in the autopsy room. Instead, she absorbed the scene impartially, meticulously, searching for the clues that would resurrect the past these souls had left behind.
“The body looks like it’s mummified,” Jake said.
“Pretty close to it,” Melissa Stark said. “The quicklime accelerated the decomposition initially, but eventually preserved them in this state.” Jenna gave a small nod, acknowledging the explanation. The coroner’s eyes held a professional detachment, but Jenna saw the hint of a shared understanding—that beneath the science, there were stories here, people whose narratives had been brutally interrupted.
Melissa then moved to the second body with the same methodical grace. She pulled back another sheet to reveal the body, its ghostly pallor a stark contrast against the metallic sheen of the autopsy tables. The bodies themselves were a testament to time’s cruelty—skin drawn tight over bone like leather left too long in the sun, the withered flesh speaking of decades spent in an unseen grave.
“This one is more recent. My preliminary estimate puts time of death around 1990.”
Jenna felt Jake’s gaze on her as they both registered the staggering time gap between the victims. She turned to meet his eyes, finding in them a mirror of her own surprise.
“Three decades apart?” Jake’s question echoed the shared disbelief, seeking confirmation from Melissa, who simply nodded.
“It complicates things, doesn’t it?” Jenna heard herself say. Her mind went spinning, her dream of a third spirit lurking at the edges of her consciousness—and with it the possibility, or even the likelihood, of another concealed body. But she couldn’t speak of her nocturnal visitors right now. Instead, she forced her voice to be steady, practical.
“Any chance of identifying them?” she asked.
The coroner sighed. “It’s going to be challenging,” she confessed, resignation in her tone.
Jenna leaned over the autopsy table, her gaze fixed on a small, distinct mark on the more recent cadaver’s left shoulder. It was a butterfly tattoo, faded by time and death, incongruous in its delicacy against the leathery pallor of the remains. Dr. Stark had shifted the body just so, revealing the inked wings nestled on what once was vibrant flesh.
“Could be a lead,” Jenna murmured to herself, studying the outlines. It was a simple design, but unique enough that it might be recognizable to someone who knew the victim. Tattoos were personal, sometimes a roadmap to an individual’s identity or past. She took out her phone and snapped a picture of the image.
“Thank you, Melissa,” Jenna said, “Get back to us if you come up with anything more.”
Jake gave a nod of appreciation to the coroner. Together, the sheriff and her deputy left the frigid embrace of the Coroner’s Office, ascending the stairs that led back to life and light. Leaving the courthouse, the sunlight felt like an intrusion, too bright after the somber dimness below. Jenna squinted slightly, but her focus was clear.
“We should talk to Frank Doyle,” she suggested. “He might be able to help us with some local history.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jake replied, his agreement punctuating their resolve. They were partners in this—investigators bound by duty and a shared determination to unravel the mystery laid out before them.
Jenna clicked the key fob, and the car’s lights blinked in response, cutting through the early morning haze that lingered over Trentville’s streets. They walked side by side, their steps falling into a silent rhythm on the pavement. With a turn of the key, the cruiser’s engine roared to life, breaking the silence that had settled between them. Jenna steered the car onto the road, her mind already reaching towards Frank Doyle’s house, towards the insights he might offer.
The town passed by in a blur of storefronts and houses, each with its own story, its own secrets. Jenna wondered how many of those tales were intertwined with the ones they sought to uncover. Greenville, for all its charm and simplicity, was also a tapestry of lives and deaths, each thread woven tightly into the fabric of the community.
Jenna glanced at Jake, his profile outlined against the backdrop of the town they both swore to protect. She felt another surge of gratitude at his presence, not even trying to separate the personal from the professional in her feelings.
“What do you make of the time gap between the deaths?” Jake’s voice pierced the quiet.
“I don’t know, Jake. It could mean we’re dealing with more than one killer. Or maybe...”
“Maybe what?” Jake prompted, his gaze steady on her.
“Maybe we’re looking at some sort of... legacy. A killer passing on their ‘work’ to another.” The words tasted like bile as they left her mouth, heavy with implications that twisted her stomach into knots.
Two bodies spanning three decades, and a third victim yet to be found—the thought circled in her mind like a carrion bird.
“And, you said there’s another?” he asked. “You think the man playing an autoharp …”
“Yes. There’s at least one more body somewhere in that church. Whatever we’re dealing with, it’s not over. And given those skips in time …”
Jake finished her thought for her. “There might be more victims to come.”