Page 11 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

Chapter Seven

A family of three was setting up a picnic under a nearby redwood tree, the large branches casting a wide shadow nearly reaching the playground just behind it.

The mother, a tall brunette wearing a yellow sundress, walked in circles for the perfect place to lay the blanket before her attention was caught by a set of carved initials on one of the low branches.

She inspected it, running her fingers over the markings softly, then her husband took her by surprise from behind, kissing at her neck.

A moment later, their young son came barreling in to them. The father feigned like he was caught off balance, squeezing the boy’s arm, and the boy flexed, frowning with effort.

Ingrid watched the boy as he burst into a fit of laughter, mirroring his smile.

She wondered how old he was and, for the briefest of moments, she thought about a few of those rowdy, pesky boys she’d grown up with.

She still hadn’t been able to shake the fog she’d been walking around, and so she fell easily into the memories.

The number of occasions her mind wandered to that place since leaving it could be counted on one hand, yet here she was, thinking about her childhood home, the shy toddlers, the nuns, and then lingering a moment on the girl with the black ribbon in her hair.

Ingrid had been forced to call her that since forgetting her name some years back, but she was always there in the deepest parts of her mind, sitting with Ingrid on the floor of her room, drawing pictures or braiding each other’s hair, staying up late to cut out pictures from magazines and read books they’d smuggled in from school.

But that was where the thought ended.

As if awakening from a dream, Ingrid’s smile faded, almost forgetting herself and what she was there for. She casually checked her phone, played idly with her hair, then stood and walked far away from the family like she’d been instructed to do.

“If anyone shows up,” the mechanical FBI agent who’d interviewed her had said. “Take a few moments before moving. If he’s watching, we don’t want him to think you’re protecting anyone.”

He and the San Bruno detectives had taken days to finally cave in and accept her offer.

Two more bodies had been found—both men, both posed the same way, both covered in more of those strange markings—and they were back to square one.

Seeing as her gift bag and book yielded no DNA results, they were desperate, willing to try anything.

Even Dean relented. When the symbols became more complex, he’d shown Ingrid the pictures in the back office of the restaurant just the day before, hoping they would trigger another unexplainable vision.

“You guys are hopeless, aren’t you?” Ingrid joked.

But Dean was far from laughing. He shuffled through another perplexing combination of emoting—disbelief, anger and disappointment.

He wasn’t supposed to be showing her the photos, Ingrid knew that, yet Dean never mentioned any need for secrecy.

He only seemed upset with the lack of results she gave him, more concerned with the markings than any reprimands that might come.

She let it go, but she did not forget.

She had more pressing matters to tend to first.

I want to see you, to thank you in person. Meet me at San Bruno City Park, 5 PM, please?

Her text to the killer was a long shot that had only elicited a very vague response: “Wherever you are, I follow.” But Ingrid knew he would be there. Watching.

When she was far enough away from the picnicking family, Ingrid searched for a new spot to sit. A stone bench with a plaque in the center was in the distance, just at the edge of the brush. Texting without looking too long at her screen, she asked permission from Dean before starting.

“You trying to get kidnapped?” he sent back immediately.

“I’m trying to catch the guy. And every time I have to use my phone to contact you, the likelihood of that happening drops significantly, I imagine.” She rolled her eyes, even though there was no audience. “We should’ve gotten earpieces. I told you.”

A minute went by.

“Just asked Agent Charisma,” Dean responded. “He says we still can’t get you an earpiece.”

“Why? Texting looks so suspicious.”

“A girl in her early twenties being on her phone does not look suspicious. How many times do I have to tell you that?”

“I’m twenty-seven, you idiot,” Ingrid typed out, then deleted it, feeling silly.

“Just focus,” was Dean’s next message.

“Got it. Can I sit on the bench now?”

“No! This guy could jump out of the woods and disappear with you in seconds!”

“Then set up one of your guys in there,” Ingrid offered.

But she got no response back.

Another minute passed.

Then another.

Ingrid stood in the middle of the park, feeling awkward and anxious. She was sure this kind of behavior would strike suspicion in the killer’s mind if he was still considering meeting with her, but strutted toward the bench anyway, gripping her phone tightly.

Before she made it, her screen lit up.

Dean: “We’ve got two officers in the woods, just behind you now.”

Ingrid tucked her phone away and peered around with just her eyes. The cops were all over, posted at every entrance of the park. Dressed casually, of course, but unable to hide that distinctive energy most officers possessed. Staunch posture. Eyes unblinking.

The situation was quickly turning into a farce. A harsh streak of self-effacement struck her then, her cheeks heating with noxious embarrassment when Dean’s next message pinged. “Agent Good Times literally just yawned.”

Ingrid held in a laugh as she typed. “How much longer do you think he’ll let this go on?”

“Hard to say. But you’re doing great.”

What little hope she’d had quickly began to vanish with every passing minute. A voice in the back of her head, one that Ingrid cursed for not rearing itself from the depths of her psyche earlier, began to taunt her.

What was I thinking?

Who do I think I am?

Why would he show himself now, for me?

The operation was a bust, and everyone involved knew it.

She should’ve been smarter. Been more thorough before resorting to something so stupid.

Sitting cross-legged on that disagreeable stone park bench, her mind started to wander, contradicting herself at every turn.

She thought about that gnawing feeling she had of the unseen, of what lay beneath all of this.

She should’ve focused on that, she told herself.

Tapped into whatever it was that allowed her to see those symbols back at her bar.

She should’ve known it wouldn’t be this easy. She should’ve…

No. What am I saying? What could I possibly do? No… no.

She remained in this suspended discomfiture for hours.

At around ten-thirty, the detective in charge finally called it off. Dean sent the news to Ingrid, and they packed it up as discreetly as possible. One after the other, the plain-clothed officers waddled away nonchalantly, still playing their respective characters.

Ingrid was given the signal and wasted no time getting back to her car. She sat there a minute, waiting for Dean and the patrolman, Marty, to give the second OK.

Consensus was, if the stalker hadn’t shown up at the park, he might follow Ingrid home. Thinking he’d outsmarted them all, he might get cocky, tail his prey and attack as she returned to her apartment.

But he wouldn’t do something so careless, Ingrid knew that.

Two minutes in that general area would’ve scared him off and he’d have run as far away as possible.

Even the family that Ingrid had been watching could sense something was wrong.

They were all packed up and leaving shortly after setting out their food.

Dean called her a few minutes later. “Ready when you are,” he said. “Let’s get the fuck outta here.”

She drove off, just over the speed limit, checking her rearview to make sure he wasn’t following her too closely.

“One positive takeaway, though,” Ingrid said.

“What’s that?”

“You honed your stakeout skills.”

“You’re right,” Dean said flatly. “I’m practically a stakeout master now. Feel any safer?”

Ingrid didn’t hesitate, responding with a short, toneless, “No.”

She made the next turn with one hand, the other still holding the phone up to her ear.

She was nearing the big white sign of The Boneyard now, glaring high above.

The crowd was heavy inside, loud and sprawling and full of familiar faces.

She craned her neck forward to get a better look, and was slightly surprised to find there wasn’t anything awry or peculiar going on in her absence.

Her fellow bartenders were pouring drinks and doing their rounds.

Hostesses seated patrons. Waitresses put on fake smiles and carried four plates at once with feline-like grace.

And Franky, he looked the same as he always did.

Hair tightly combed to the side, like it always was.

Suit a little big but ironed and presentable, as it always was.

And he had that undeniable glimmer of joy in his eyes, as he always did.

He didn’t need any lofty plans of getting away from that place, any goals of escaping to a quiet corner of the world.

He didn’t want for anything. In a few hours, he’d go home to his lovely wife Jillian, and they’d stay up late to sip tea on their patio or read until they couldn’t keep their eyelids pried open any longer.

They’d fall asleep in each other’s arms, then they’d wake up smiling at the idea of doing it all over again.

And this was when Ingrid began to feel it.

She wasn’t just surprised to see the restaurant going on without her.

She wasn’t just feeling strange about how long it had been since she’d missed work.

No, it was more than that. A stomping, unmistakable realization that she didn’t want to be here anymore.

Not in San Bruno, not in California, maybe not the country.