Scott Pratt - In good faith

Jack and I were just walking back to the waiting room from a trip to the cafeteria when my cell phone rang. It was Fraley.

“You need to come out here,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“To the park. The girl in the picture. She’s here. She wants to talk to you.”

I’d called Fraley and taken the picture to him Sunday afternoon after I found it on my windshield. Both of us were skeptical, but he said he’d follow up.

“What?” I said. “Now?”

“As soon as you can.”

“Caroline’s in surgery. Can’t it wait a few hours?”

“I guess it could, but we take a chance on her changing her mind or leaving.”

“Where exactly is she?” I said.

“Near the pavilion. Right where you said she’d be. I’m holding the drawing in my hand and it looks exactly like it. It’s weird.”

I hung up the phone and looked at Jack. “I have to go,” I said. He gave me a bewildered look. “We may have a witness in the murders. She wants to talk to me. Your mother will be in surgery for at least another hour; then she’ll be in recovery for a while. As soon as the surgeon comes out, call me. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Winged Deer is a two-hundred-acre park located on the eastern outskirts of Johnson City. The upper half of the park contains baseball and softball fields and a hiking trail that winds through a five-acre patch of dense forest. The lower half skirts the Watauga River. Along the river are more walking trails, a boat ramp, a board-walk, and a large, covered pavilion that people rent for outdoor gatherings and picnics. There are also a few benches scattered around beneath the oak and maple trees that dot the riverbank. I spotted Fraley’s car in the lot and parked next to it. I found him pacing back and forth near the pavilion, nervously sucking on a cigarette.

“Sorry about this,” Fraley said as soon as I walked up. “How’s the wife?”

“Don’t know yet. She’s still in surgery, but thanks for asking.”

“This one’s strange,” he said.

“How so?”

“You’ll see.” He nodded towards the river.

I started walking down the hill in the direction of the nod. My view of the bench was obscured by the tree at first, but then I saw her. It was as though the drawing I’d held in my hand the day before had come to life. I approached slowly. The dress she was wearing was antique white and ankle length. Her feet were covered by sandals, her head by a finely woven straw hat that fluttered gently in the light breeze. A white crocheted shawl was draped over her shoulders. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she appeared to be looking out over the river, serenely contemplating the universe. I could see dark red hair curling softly down her back and shoulders all the way to her waist. As I approached, she turned towards me and lifted her chin. Beneath the brim of the hat was a young, smooth face with high cheekbones and a jawline that melted into a slightly dimpled chin. Full lips were curved into a pleasant smile. Her nose was small and delicate. A flesh-colored patch, which was secured by a length of what appeared to be nylon, covered her right eye. Her left eye was the most brilliant, clear blue I’d ever seen.

“I’m Joe Dillard,” I said as I stood uncomfortably over her. The eye was beautiful, but at the same time, it was unnerving.

“Someone you love deeply is very ill,” she said in an even tone. Her voice was calm and appealing, like that of a well-trained stage actress.

“What’s your name?” I said.

“I see pain in your eyes. I sense regret. You’ve done things you’d like to forget.”

“Who hasn’t? I was told you have some information for me, Miss… What did you say your name was?”

“You’re skeptical of me.”

“Comes with the territory. Do you mind if I sit down?”

She nodded, and I sat down at the other end of the bench. I looked out over the river. It was placid, a vivid green. Some of the trees on the opposite bank were beginning to change to their fall colors of orange, yellow, and red. The sky was azure, the temperature warm.

“You did the drawing?”

She nodded again.

“You put it on my car?”

“You needed it. It was there.”

“Why a drawing? Why not a phone call?”

“I thought the drawing was more likely to get your attention.”

“Who are you? What’s your name?”

There was an aura of calmness about her, a sense that she was perfectly at peace with herself and everything around her. She looked back out over the river.

“It’s cancer,” she said, “your wife.”

Lucky guess. Coincidence. She knows someone who knows me and she’s heard about it from them.

“No,” I said. “My wife doesn’t have cancer.”

“You lie poorly. She’s very strong, isn’t she?”

“I don’t have time for-”

“And so are you, but you draw much of your strength from her.”

“I’m sorry, but you still haven’t told me your name. You know, I could probably have you arrested just because of what was in the drawing. Would you like to continue this conversation at the police station?”

“You don’t want to arrest me,” she said.

“I don’t want to sit here all morning and listen to you talk in circles, either.” I was becoming impatient. “Now, what’s your name?”

She looked back out over the river. “Alisha. Alisha Elizabeth Davis.”

“Are you some kind of psychic?”

“I see things that others can’t see. I hear and feel things that others can’t.”

“I don’t have a lot of time this morning, Alisha. If you know something about the murders, I’d appreciate it if you’d just tell me.”

“They thirst for revenge, and they won’t stop.”

“Who are they?”

“One is Samuel, another Levi.”

“Do they have last names?”

“Boyer. Barnett.”

I reached into my back pocket for a notepad. I didn’t have one, so I pulled a pen from my shirt pocket and started writing on the palm of my left hand.

“Samuel Boyer?”

She nodded.

“Levi Barnett? You’re saying Samuel Boyer and Levi Barnett did these killings? Do you know where they’re from? Where can we find them?”

“They won’t be hard to find.”

“How do you know? And don’t say you know things. Don’t tell me it came to you in a vision.”

“There’s a third. One who commands. She believes she is the daughter of Satan.”

“How do you know?”

My cell phone rang. I looked down at the caller ID. It was Jack.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I need to take this. I’ll be right back.” I got up and walked twenty or thirty feet away from her, out of earshot.

“Tell me something good,” I said when I answered.

“Surgeon just left,” Jack said. His voice was hushed. “The tumor was stage three, whatever that means. He said it was almost four centimeters long. There was cancer in the skin above the tumor and in the lymph node. He said the type of cancer she has is very aggressive. He already closed her back up. He said he left the tumor so they could see how it responds to chemotherapy.”

“What did he say about the chemo?” It was the one part of the treatment Caroline had talked about the most. She was terrified of chemotherapy.

“Some other doctor is going to handle it, but he said most of the cases similar to Mom’s go through three months of chemo, then surgery to remove the breast and the rest of her lymph nodes, then three more months of chemo. After that she’ll have to go through radiation for a couple of months. He says she’s looking at about a year before she’s clear of it, and that’s if everything goes well.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m standing in the lobby.”

“Where’s your mom?”