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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780692283462 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Suspense Publishing |
| Publication date: | 09/30/2014 |
| Series: | A Beyond the Veil Mystery , #1 |
| Pages: | 296 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.62(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The first thing she noticed was the sound. Steel wheels rolling on rails, thrumming in time with her heartbeat. Instinct whispered that if she could only screw up the courage to pry open her eyes, she would see the world hurtling past with the breathless rush of a roller coaster. But that kind of courage had deserted her.
How long had she been sitting upright, hands clasped in her lap, knees and ankles pressed together as tightly as if they were bound? Hours? Days?
It would be so easy to pretend she had the answer; to continue drifting on a sea of passivity and give in to the lethargy that threatened to consume her. But somewhere deep inside, a voice insisted, You have to come back.
Leave me alone.
Even in her head, the protest sounded weak. She sighed, recognizing that she had no choice but to accede. And once she came to that understanding, a gradual unraveling began, thread by delicate thread, of the veil that separated consciousness from the abyss.
With consciousness came a sharpened awareness: refrigerated air on flesh stippled with goosebumps. At least her sensory perceptions were in working order.
She began to take inventory. Olfactory: the ropy odor of a pot smoker somewhere nearby — check. Hearing: Valley Girl chatter behind her — check. Taste — the dregs at the bottom of a Mezcal bottle were less toxic than the inside of her mouth. Check.
With just one sense left to test, a sudden primal fear brought the self-inventory to an abrupt halt. Don't open your eyes. The truth is too grotesque to name.
But when the raucous blare of the train's horn rudely snatched away the choice, her eyes flew open of their own accord. It took only a split-second to squeeze them shut again, but a split-second was time enough to absorb the sight of gauzy mist floating above grey, choppy water.
Words that failed to attach themselves to any personal meaning filled her brain.
Ocean. West Coast. United States. Pacific.
A thousand desperate questions tried to form, but she pushed them all aside, listening instead to the voice, which began to whisper instructions: Breathe. Relax. Focus.
Five times ... ten ... fifty, she mouthed the mantra until the outside world receded and the abyss welcomed her back.
A loud clanging jerked her awake once again as the train thundered across a railroad crossing. She pressed her cheek against the cold window, straining to see up ahead. No point in trying to keep her eyes closed anymore.
How long had she been unconscious this time? Long enough for the scenery beyond the window to have changed. Scrubby weeds and dirt had replaced the ocean. Beyond the tracks, patches of dense fog brooded low to the ground, like a ghost cat on the prowl ... an eerie landscape where anything might be lurking.
There was the coastline again; there, a neat patch of yellow rental umbrellas and beach chairs lined up on the sand; a long wooden pier jutted out over the ocean.
Rounding a bend, the train slowed for a truss bridge that had been used as a canvas for some urban artists' particular brand of graffiti. Then the sand-colored walls of a hotel came into view on the promenade, with a sign identifying it as the Crowne Plaza.
Vaguely aware that her fellow passengers were beginning to stir, she arched her back and wiggled her toes inside her shoes; stretched out the kinks in her legs as the conductor announce the next stop: Ventura Station.
At the far end of the carriage the EXIT sign beckoned.
Like a prisoner whose cell door has unexpectedly swung open, she lurched to her feet and stepped into the aisle.
Everyone thinks you're crazy.
That's because you are crazy.
Faltering, discomposed by the new murmuring in her ear, she gave her head a sharp shake. But instead of ceasing, the insidious whispers morphed to a loud buzz, exploded into a harsh cacophony.
She reached out, grasping at the closest seatback, swaying with the motion of the train, and attempted a few unsteady steps forward before slumping into an empty aisle seat, gulping like a landed fish. Her hands were slick with sweat.
A voice — not the one in her head — an elderly male, said, "Are you okay?"
Ignore it. You're hallucinating.
"Miss? Do you need help?"
Sane people don't act like this.
A hand touched her shoulder. "I'll call the conductor. You don't look ..."
Not a hallucination. Twisting her head sideways to look at him, she pasted on what she hoped would pass for a smile, though she suspected it emerged more as a grimace. "I'm fine. I'm fine."
"You sure? I'd be glad to ..."
"No," she cut in more firmly. "I'm fine."
The truth was her skin was hot and tingling and she was shaking like a dry drunk. A completely inappropriate giggle slipped past her lips. An image had flashed in her head: a chorus line of pink elephants in tutus.
The man gave her a look of concern, but sat back in his seat across the aisle without further comment. She could feel his eyes still on her, and the scrutiny made her uneasy.
She pushed herself to sit up straight and began to count silently, focusing on each number through sheer force of will as if it were a buoy to cling to. By the time she reached thirty, the din in her head had begun to subside and her breathing leveled out.
You can do it. You can do it. You can do it.
What am I? The goddamn little engine that could?
Watch your language!
Shut up.
She pulled herself to her feet again, determined she was going to shut out the voice, and resumed her march to the EXIT sign — a tightrope walker on a high wire who must reach the termination point without losing her balance. Ahead of her the carriage bent and elongated; a hall of mirrors stretching to infinity.
She passed the Valley Girl still yakking on her cell phone. Passed the pot smoker, who tipped his chin at her as if to catch her attention. The sickly sweet odor of marijuana wafted off him, like the dirty cloud hanging over Pigpen's head in a Charlie Brown cartoon. Refusing to change her focus, she ignored him and continued on her way as if she were just a normal person on a train, preparing to alight after a normal journey.
Except this was no normal journey and she was no normal person.
By the time the train ground to a halt she had reached the exit. The carriage doors slid open and travelers maneuvered past, debarking around her. Yet, she found herself unable to follow them, staying where she was, fingers wrapped around the handrail as if permanently attached.
New passengers climbed aboard. Then a conductor was heading her way. She could already read the questions on his face: Is this your station, or are you staying on the train? Where are you headed? And the one he would leave unspoken: What are you doing, standing on that step?
Her need to avoid those questions was stronger than her need to remain in the relative safety of the train.
Three — Two — One — Go.
As soon as her feet touched the platform she turned her back on the conductor and walked briskly in the opposite direction.
The station, a mere strip of concrete 50 yards long; nothing more than a couple of benches, an electronic ticket machine, and a sign reading "VENTURA." She hurried to the end of the wrought iron fencing that separated the tracks from the street.
"You're late."
She swung, breathless, to face the man who had spoken the accusation. Not much taller than her, wearing short-sleeved shirt and slacks, he was slight in stature. He didn't look particularly threatening, but it was with an odd sense of relief that she realized his scowl was directed, not at her, but the Valley Girl.
"Oh, like I was driving the train or something," the girl retorted, earbuds still plugged in. "It's only five-thirty anyway. We're not all that late."
They hurried off and climbed into an SUV parked at the curb. As she watched them drive off, behind her, the train's engine began to rev. At the same moment, a sudden sharp breeze sprang up from the ocean, nipping at her bare arms, reminding her that she had no jacket to cover her thin t-shirt.
No purse, either, she realized in confusion. You don't get on a train without some means to buy a ticket — cash, credit card — something ... She jammed her fists into the pockets of her Levi's clawing at the denim; first the front, then the back. No ID. Nothing but lint. Not even a dime hiding in the seams.
How could you be so stupid?
Whirling, she dashed back onto the platform, but the behemoth was already on the move.
"Hey!" she shouted, running alongside the train, heedless of the massive wheels turning mere inches from her feet. Her fist beat uselessly against the siding. "Hey, wait! Wait!"
The last compartment lumbered past, forcing her to jump back as the train picked up speed, watching in dismay as it disappeared from view. What now?
Alone on the platform she turned in a slow circle, taking in her surroundings. Across the street was a huge empty field of concrete, a parking lot that, according to a marquee on the corner, served the Ventura County Fairgrounds. To her right, the road that ran alongside the railroad tracks dead-ended.
Fighting back tears, she bit down hard on her lip and turned left, walking away from the station. And as she walked, the thing that had been clamoring at her all along struck her with the force of a body blow: the terrifying truth that refused to be silenced; a truth she had been warding off since the first inkling of consciousness on the train. A truth from which she could no longer protect herself. And with that emerging truth, the question to which she had no answer: Who am I?
CHAPTER 2The street sign read 'Harbor' on the Amtrak side and 'Figueroa' as the cross street.
The names meant nothing to her; she might as well be on Mars. Questions reverberated in the vacant space where her identity should have been.
What was I doing on that train?
Where did I travel from?
Where do I live?
What day of the week is it? What month? What year?
Omigod, why can't I remember anything?
It was light now, but in a couple of hours it would be dark and cold. What then? Was it safe to sleep on the beach? What about the tide? Would it cover the sand and rocks, leaving no place for someone lost and alone with no place else to go?
The voice mocked her.
You're not going to get any help standing here, dumb shit.
She turned on Figueroa, where two highway overpasses spanned the small, empty street. Etched in the concrete was the word DOWNTOWN. Maybe she could get some help if she headed that way. Or maybe by the time she reached 'downtown' a brilliant idea would have inspired her and she would know exactly what to do.
A pair of long mesh screens stood beneath the overpasses, which would otherwise have been dead space. At some other time it might be interesting to examine the colorful children's drawings posted there, but this was not the moment. The unnerving sensation of being watched was giving her the creeps.
With a furtive glance over her shoulder at the lengthening shadows already falling across the empty sidewalk she scuttled past the first screen. She had made it halfway past the second when she heard a coarse laugh.
"Hey, sweet thing; you friendly, honey?"
Like a puppet on a string she jerked to a halt. Her imagination had not been playing tricks. She could feel them sniffing her vulnerability: two men sprawled on the incline, half-hidden behind the screen.
The scumbag who had called to her rubbed his fingers together, as if suggesting a financial transaction. "Come on over here, girlie." The second creep hoisted his can of Budweiser in solidarity. A scattering of battered empties lay between them. "Yeah, cutie pie, how about it?"
Why couldn't she make her feet move? Her brain was sending commands to her legs, but fear had completed its circuit and shut down her ability to respond. An angry retort stuck to her lips: Do I look like a hooker?
A pulse bumped hard in her throat. Oh God, am I?
Scumbag number two stuck out his tongue and wiggled it at her, like some obscene species of overgrown lizard. The other, more aggressive, pushed to his feet and began to stagger down the hill making wet kissing noises that caused the bile to rise in her throat. His hands, outstretched like claws, were aimed at her breasts. "What's ya' name, cutie? C'mere ..."
He was close enough that she could smell the beer on his fetid breath. All at once he halted, staring over her shoulder. For an instant his eyes widened. He swung on his crony and hissed, "Hide that shit, dude."
Moving with the urgency of a man on fire, Scumbag Two shoveled empties under a bush, whatever fantasies he'd had of a hook-up vanishing as fast as the beer cans.
A half-second later, when a black-and-white patrol car pulled to the curb, she knew she ought to be grateful for the intervention. But for no reason she could identify, she was not grateful at all, and for a tense moment her paralysis remained.
One hand rested on his nightstick as the patrolman climbed out of his vehicle, ignoring their protestations of innocence as he sized up the two scumbags. The cop turned to her, his square jaw jutting. "Is there a problem here, miss?"
She opened her mouth, but her voice seemed to have deserted her as completely as her memory.
"Miss? Are you —"
"No," she managed to gasp. "No problem."
Without stopping to question why his appearance had shaken her more than the threat from the two men, she spun on her heels and started running back the way she had come, tearing up the sidewalk like a witless thing pursued by a pack of the undead. The cop yelled something, but it didn't matter, she had no intention of stopping.
At Harbor Boulevard, turning away from the train station, she ran until the air was rasping in her throat and painful shin splints forced her to flop against a wall, panting.
Trying to catch her breath, she rummaged in her mind, frantic for something to hang on to, some morsel that would provide a clue to who she was, where she belonged — anything. But a memory as empty as her pockets had nothing to give.
What if those men had raped and killed her? When her body was found, no one would know who she was. She didn't even know who she was. But something else nagged: the appearance of the policeman had completely and irrationally unnerved her.
Why? Why? Why?
The closest public building appeared to be the Crowne Plaza. She started walking towards the hotel, about a quarter-mile away, rehearsing what she would say to the smartly-uniformed clerk she imagined would be manning the front desk. I have no money and I don't know who I am. In a burst of harsh reality she saw her circumstances for what they were. Would that front desk clerk look at her worn Levi's and scuffed running shoes and take her for a homeless person?
They would certainly call the cops to haul her away to a psychiatric hospital. Was that why the sight of a policeman had scared her so badly? Maybe she was an escapee from a mental institution.
By the time she reached the hotel's front door, her resolve had melted like ice cream on a hot day and she had talked herself out of entering.
What now?
She was still searching for an answer when a group of tourists following their guide filed past her to the crosswalk in front of the hotel. Obeying a sudden impulse, she attached herself to the end of the group and crossed the road with them. Chattering among themselves, no one seemed to notice her as the group continued its trek up California Street. She let them go, lingering on a pedestrian footbridge, mesmerized by the traffic speeding on the road below.
The 101.
The words flashed in her head with a little thrill of recognition. A small victory. She had conjured up the slang name for this segment of the interstate highway. She knew something.
But it took only a moment for the excitement to fade. She was still the same nameless nobody. All of those people actually driving on the highway — those people in their Mercedes' and Toyota's, their trucks and motorcycles — they all knew where they were coming from, where they were going.
Was anyone wondering where she was?
A sudden flurry of sound made her turn as a crow alit on the guard rail only a foot from where she stood. The sharp black eyes seemed to bore into her soul, as if it could read her despair and found her wanting.
The big bird looked straight at her for a long moment, then, with a flap of its powerful wings, rose gracefully into the sky, circling away on an updraft.
How wonderful it must feel, she thought, watching the crow disappear into the clouds. What if you could spread your arms like those wings. You could lean over the edge until you were soaring on the wind ...
As the image formed in her mind, her arms stretched out to her sides. Her left foot lifted onto the ledge and she started to lean ... ... A passing motorist blew his horn.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "What She Saw"
by .
Copyright © 2013 Sheila Lowe.
Excerpted by permission of Suspense Publishing.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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