Byron Starr - Doppelgänger

“Just like the tracks we saw,” Greg chimed in, but a quick cold glance from Bill told him his input was not wanted.

Bill turned back to James. “I see. Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

“No, sir. I think that just about covers it.”

Bill paused for a brief moment, then leaned back in his chair without breaking eye contact. “You do realize that this all sounds like a king-sized load of horseshit, don’t you?” he said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.

This caught James off guard. “Sir?”

“I’ve heard some wild tales in my years, but this beats ’em all, hands down.”

James remained silent. Beside Bill, Greg looked briefly like he was going to say something, but, if he was, he must have decided against it because he too remained silent.

Bill shook his head and then said, “Greg tells me you’ve had these little psychic dreams all of your life. Could you explain?”

“They’re not exactly psychic, at least I don’t think so. It’s like I’m in someone else’s mind, looking out, watching what they’re doing,” James said. “I’ve had them since I can remember, but I haven’t had as many since I dropped out of high school. And I hadn’t had one in years before I had the first one about this thing, somewhere around the first of October.”

“Is there anything strange about these dreams? Anything different about them?”

“Yes, they don’t seem like dreams,” James paused, trying to think of how exactly to explain the difference between the visions and normal dreams. Then he said. “It’s like I’m not really asleep during them. My mind isn’t foggy, and I’m thinking clearly. I’m even tired when I wake up from them.”

“You’re tired when you wake up from these dreams?” Bill asked.

James realized what Bill must be thinking. “But I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m not talking about sleepwalking here.”

“How can you be sure?”

James started to reply that if he was sleepwalking, he would have awakened Angie, but he knew that wouldn’t help him any. Angie couldn’t verify this; she was dead. “I just know,” was all he could think of.

Then Greg chimed in, “How about when you saw Charles Wellman kill his wife and commit suicide? His neighbors were outside and heard the shots. They came over immediately and didn’t see anyone. Elbert Flanders even said he’d heard Charles say he was going to do it earlier that night. And what about when Matt and Bubba had their accident?”

Bill turned his gaze from James to Greg. “That doesn’t have a damn thing to do with what we’re talking about.”

“We’re talking about James’ dreams,” Greg replied, but was again interrupted by Bill.

“We’re talking about an investigation involving four recent homicides!” the sheriff snapped.

Now James spoke up. “Sheriff Oates, I don’t know all that much about law enforcement, but isn’t homicide one person taking the life of another?”

Bill didn’t answer. The wily old sheriff could probably tell the question was loaded.

Greg answered for him. “Yes, it is.”

“Do these killings look like they were committed by a person to you?” James asked Bill. “I went out there and saw those tracks at Sharon’s; they didn’t seem like any person’s I’d ever seen. And do the wounds look like any you’ve ever seen a man inflict on someone?”

At first, Bill didn’t say anything. James wasn’t sure if he’d really stumped the old sheriff or if Bill was just waiting to see if James had anything else to say — something that might be useful.

Finally Bill said, “Mr. Taylor, I suggest you get yourself a lawyer. A good one.” Then he nodded for Greg to take James back to his cell.

James’ interrogation went as well as could be expected. Of course Bill didn’t believe a word they had said, but Greg figured the interview might have saved his job. And maybe down the line something would happen that would prove to Bill that James really was having those strange dreams. Bill had told Greg he wasn’t through talking with him about withholding information on the Sharon Perrett case, but when Greg arrived to go on duty at 10:00 p.m. Bill wasn’t there to ask for his badge. If Bill was going to fire him, he would have told him that day, or at least before Greg went back on duty. Greg figured he would be suspended without pay for a short time at the most, but maybe, just maybe, he would get by with no more than the ass-chewing he’d already received.

Greg left Newton city limits and headed north on Highway 87. He was supposed to drive by and check the crime scenes at James’ house and Mr. Youngblood’s trailer. He had also promised James he would feed Lady while he was in the area. At the trailer, Greg got out and had a brief look around. Everything seemed to be undisturbed, so Greg got back in his car and started back up the road to James’ house.

At James’ everything seemed normal — for a crime scene that is. It certainly didn’t seem normal to Greg. This was supposed to be his best friend’s house, not the scene of a vicious crime. He could only imagine how poor James felt. Greg didn’t go inside the house. He walked around to the back porch and called for Lady. She didn’t come, so he assumed she was out prowling the woods. James kept Lady’s dog food in a large metal trash can on the back porch. Greg scooped some food out and left it in a bowl on the back porch. He filled her water bowl, and then headed back to his patrol car.

Greg got in his cruiser and started toward town. When he pulled up at the corner of Farm Road 1414 and Highway 87, an eighteen-wheeler was coming, so he waited. Then he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Sandy was coming around from the back of the patrol car, walking briskly towards the driver’s side door.

“Hi, Greg, I forgot to tell you something before you left home.”

He started to speak, then something dawned on him.

Where was her car?

She was almost at the driver’s side door when Greg floored the accelerator. He cut the wheel hard, but the forward momentum was too much. The patrol car slid into the far lane, directly into the path of the oncoming eighteen-wheeler.

Clara McClelland was filing her nails in the dispatcher’s office when one of the inmates started banging on his door. “Jack, can you see who’s making all that racket.”

Jack Coleman had worked for the sheriff’s department in Newton County for twenty-five years, ten of those years were way back when Sheriff Bill Oates was just Chief Deputy Bill Oates. He had been a deputy up until three years ago when he retired. Retired life didn’t suit Jack well, so he tried to come back to work after only six months away. The truth of the matter was that ol’ Jack had become more of a liability than an asset to Bill. Jack had never been very bright, and old age hadn’t been kind to his mind. Bill was caught between a rock and a hard place. He didn’t want to rehire Jack, but he didn’t want to hurt the old man’s feelings. Bill’s solution was to hire Jack on as a jailer, and it had worked out fine.

Clara nudged Jack, who was sleeping, leaned back on two legs in a metal chair in the dispatcher’s office. “Wake up, Jack.”

Jack snorted.

“One of the inmates is makin’ an awful racket in the back. Go see what they want.”

“Huh?”

This time Clara yelled, having to practically scream at Jack who was almost deaf and had taken out his hearing aid. “Go check on the inmates. One’s yellin’ up a storm!”

“M’kay,” Jack said lazily as he readjusted his glasses, which still had the same prescription he’d wore twenty years ago.

Jack slowly made his way down the hall to the cells. As he passed through the security door he could faintly hear a man in one of the cell’s yelling at the top of his lungs. He finally hobbled to the door of the cell of that James Taylor boy. The inmate was pounding on the glass window and yelling something, but Jack couldn’t understand him.