M Sellars - The Law Of Three

“My point exactly,” Felicity explained. “They brought something in with them.”

“Do you know if Albright was ever here?” I asked.

“Yeah, probably,” he replied. “Yeah, I think she was. Why?”

“That would explain a lot of the negativity,” I replied.

“Yes, it would,” Felicity agreed.

“What was that? A ‘yes’?” Ben jibed and then affected a bad Irish accent. “What happened to ‘Aye me good laddie boy and then and such.’”

Felicity just looked back at him as he sat there grinning. “I got some sleep, Ben. And, I don’t say ‘laddie boy,’ so give me a break.”

The phone rang, and I looked up with what had to be a startled expression on my face. I don’t know why, other than the fact that almost every time I had answered a phone in the past few days it had been unpleasant.

“You want me to get that?” Ben asked, leaning toward the device.

“No,” I shook my head as I started across the room. “No, I’ll get it.”

I had covered the few steps by the third ring. The caller ID read all zeros with the word “UNAVAILABLE” below them. I frowned and picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

There was no answer at the other end. “Hello?” I said again.

I was certain that I heard the heavy breathing of someone on the line issuing from the earpiece as the hairs instantly rose on the back of my neck. A stab of pain bit into my shoulder and my scalp tightened as the dull thud of a headache began to tap out its rhythm on my grey matter.

There was something that sounded like a heavy sigh then the line clicked and went dead.

Five Months Later

The television set tossed light out into the room as the picture flickered and changed. The logo of the news station sat prominently in the corner, proudly displaying the network affiliation along with the current time.

It was 7:32 in the morning.

The picture suddenly switched to a shifting, bright background overlaid with an artistic shot of a hovering helicopter, complete with the slow motion blur of its rotors blending into the gradient of colors. The words BREAKING NEWS slashed in bold letters across the screen, and a fanfare of syncopated beats underscored the image.

The screen switched again to a fresh-faced, young reporter holding a logo-adorned microphone. Behind him was a lush scene; leafy trees and dense vegetation disappeared into the unfocused depth of field. It was immediately obvious that he was in a rural or wooded area somewhere.

As he held one hand to his ear, presumably listening in for a cue, he began to speak.

“Thank you Chloe and Russ, I’m on the scene at Rafferty Park overlooking the Missouri River where last evening a jogger made a gruesome discovery. Mike Rickman was coming down this path when he stumbled upon what appeared to be a badly decomposed human arm.

“Authorities were called to the scene and after a thorough search have confirmed finding more remains in a shallow grave well off the path.

“While there has been no confirmation as yet, there has been speculation that the body may be that of Tamara Linwood, the grade school teacher who disappeared from the parking lot of Westview Shopping Mall back in January of…”

The man watching this particular television set this morning might have had an interest in the story had he been able to hear or see it. Unfortunately, he was sprawled on the hardwood floor, face down in a puddle of coffee where his cup had shattered.

He convulsed and postured as the sudden seizure ravaged his body, forcing him to bite his tongue and writhe as if holding the bare end of a live extension cord.