Stevan Mena - Transience

Jack awoke with a jolt, as if shocked back to life by a defibrillator. He slowly sat up and grabbed his cell phone off the side table. It was ringing .

He looked out the window. Still dark out. He checked the clock on the wall, 3 A.M. No good news was ever exchanged at 3 A.M. Not in his world.

Jack’s eyelids were heavy, closing like attracted magnets. He swerved, struggling to keep his car in the lane. He hadn’t fully slept it off, his blood alcohol still unsafely elevated.

His cell phone rang. It was Harrington, surely checking to see what his ETA was. He let it ring and turned his attention back to the road. His Ford Taurus had crossed over the double yellow line again, this time headed straight into the headlights of a blue Dodge Charger. Jack yanked the wheel to the right, just missing the Charger’s grill. The Charger swerved onto the shoulder, kicking up dirt and rocks with a squeal of rubber.

Jack’s car skidded and fishtailed back across the yellow line.

“Jesus Christ.” He checked his mirror to make sure the other vehicle was okay.

The road curved around a bend, then up a steep incline that caused his engine to jerk and moan, all cylinders grinding to climb the hill. As Jack reached the top and the road leveled out, he could hear the rush of the river. He passed under a train trestle that traveled west, just parallel to the water, criss crossing several times before it turned south towards Illinois.

Jack pulled up onto the shoulder. There were a dozen police vehicles, all with their lights flashing along the entranceway to a wooded area along the busy stretch of road.

Harrington was waiting for Jack in the darkness. A rotating light on the car beside him made his face appear and disappear in flashing bursts of red. To Jack’s tired, watery eyes, the image was surreal.

“You look like you can use some coffee,” Harrington said, conveniently handing him an extra cup he’d been holding onto. “Might be cold by now.”

Jack took a sip and winced. “How far in?”

“About 300 yards.”

Jack took a deep breath and prepared his body for what was sure to be a painful walk over uneven, slippery ground. The pain was always worse at night.

“Who found it?” Jack asked, clearing his throat.

“Terry and his people.”

“The ones with the dogs?”

“Yeah.”

Jack fell in line behind Harrington as the path narrowed, allowing room for others passing in the opposite direction — officers, forensics personnel, and volunteers who had helped in the search. They were being cleared out so detectives could do their job. Jack felt as if he was the last one to arrive. He weaved in and out as they crossed shoulder to shoulder. One bumped his arm, spilling cold coffee onto his sleeve. Jack grumbled an obscenity and tossed the rest in the bushes.

“Anything left for us to sift through?” Jack asked.

“Terry knows the drill, he’s been watching it.”

There were bright highway construction lights shining in the distance through the trees, creating gigantic shadows that stretched to infinity. As they drew closer, it lit up the entire area like a supermarket parking lot. Radios buzzed and squawked, men with shovels were knee deep into the earth. The whole moment seemed to play out in slow motion for Jack. All he could think about was poor Carl Rosa, and that horrible phone call he would soon have to make.

Jack abruptly stopped in his tracks. The area where they were excavating was directly beneath a large willow tree, split in two from a lightning strike; its trunk charred black. Half of its limbs draped limply across the river’s edge, the tips of their branches submerged.

At that very moment, a loud booming freight train whistle screamed out, echoing through the cold night air. Jack took a moment to triangulate his position. Rebecca had described what this scene would look like almost perfectly. Jack subscribed absolutely zero credence to the notion of extra sensory perception, so the idea that Rebecca possessed any clairvoyant capabilities never even entered his mind. Still, the proximity of the location made it virtually impossible for Rebecca to have been able to witness a crime being committed here. The area was several miles from any path Rebecca might have walked to or from school. Her mother let her ride her bike around the neighborhood, but he’d seen how short that leash was. Nothing added up. So how was she here? Jack agreed with Leonard, she was remembering something. She couldn’t have imagined it. This proved it. But… how? Just Coincidence?

Jack made the long slow walk up to the gravesite that had been recently unearthed. The chief medical examiner at the scene — a heavyset man with thick glasses and coarse gray stubble — approached him somberly.

“Female, 18-19. Body appears fully intact, impressive considering the conditions, length of time.”

“Length of time?” Jack looked down at the cadaver forensics was carefully — meticulously — dusting and cataloging every inch of for evidence.

It definitely was not what he was expecting to see.

The dawn began to dry off the early morning frost and moisture from the ground. It was warming up but Jack could still see his breath as he stared out across the river, his mind racing.

The forensics team continued their excavation, collecting clues and stuffing evidence into plastic bags. Most of the officers and volunteers had left.

Harrington stood behind Jack and leaned up against a tree, balancing his foot on the trunk. He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, exhaling with a long, strangely suspicious huff, almost as if he was trying to make his presence known, get Jack’s attention.

“Last year I took the boys fishin’ up in Roanoke,” Harrington began, “not a nibble the whole freakin’ day. The kids were bored, driving me nuts.”

Harrington took another long sip on his cigarette. Jack remained fixed on the river, and the morning sunrise.

“Finally, I’m just about to call it a day, when BAM! I hooked this Pickerel. Man, what a fight. I got it up out of the water, but the squirmy fucker snapped my reel. Can you believe that?”

Jack turned around, not looking at Harrington, still deep in thought.

“Sucker must have weighed 15-16 pounds.”

Jack looked up at a news helicopter circling overhead. The wind from the rotors blew his hair in all different directions. “I have to make a phone call,” Jack said. He started to walk back towards the road when Harrington stepped into his path.

“How did you know?” Harrington asked, his stance confrontational.

“Anonymous tip,” Jack said quietly as he brushed past him. Jack had a few crazy questions of his own he wanted answers to. Harrington held his hand out, gently blocking Jack’s way.

“Okay, but… what told you to have them search down here? In this spot? Lafave said you were very specific.”

“Gut feeling,” Jack said while looking at the burned willow tree. He brushed Harrington’s hand away; he’d been interrogated enough.

Harrington took another dramatic drag on his cigarette, his words filled with smoke, “Just like that, huh? Maybe they should change your title to Jack Ridge, Psychic Detective?”

Carl Rosa decided to take the day off because of intense lower back pain. He’d developed sciatica in his hip and leg, and there were certain days when even getting out of bed was a bitter challenge. When asked to describe the pain, he often compared it to having a root canal done on his spine.

When the phone rang, he debated whether or not to answer it. It was probably the warehouse calling to grill him on why he wasn’t at work, tell him how shorthanded they were today — how replaceable he was — and that he needed to take something for the pain and get the hell down there. He decided to let it ring.