Debra Webb - Man of her Dreams

A peculiar stillness fell over Darby. Images flashed through her mind but she blocked them, refused to look. “Who was she?”

“Allison Cook from over at Isidore Newman.” Sandra frowned. “How did you know it was a girl?”

It had started with Christina Fairgate. In the three weeks since her body had been discovered, two more children had gone missing, one boy and one girl. So far, the police were stumped as to finding a connection among the three. There were no matching details whatsoever. Two were from wealthy families, the other from a single mother living in the projects. One black, two whites. Approximate age was all the three had in common, discounting the events surrounding their disappearances, of course. In each case, the child had been at home playing in his or her own backyard with one parent or both inside the house.

Darby swallowed hard, then shrugged stiffly. “Just a guess.” To stall her friend’s inquisition, she quickly asked, “They still don’t have any leads? No witnesses? Nothing?”

Sandra shook her head in weary resignation. “According to her mother, one minute she was there, the next she was gone. In broad daylight, just like the others.”

The scent of home-baked chocolate chip cookies abruptly filled Darby’s nostrils. The image of a little blond-haired girl skipping around in circles flashed before her eyes. Ring a-round the roses. Pocketful of posies.

Darby slammed the door on the other images and sounds that tried to intrude. She would not look, refused to see. From the moment Christina Fairgate’s body had been found, she’d experienced those images…the smells. She didn’t want to see. God, she didn’t want to know.

“Are you all right?”

The sound of her friend’s voice jerked her back to the here and now.

“Fine.” She blinked. “I’m fine.”

Sandra nodded, her expression thoroughly unconvinced. “Oookay,” she said, dragging out the syllable. “I have to get back to my classroom. I’ll talk to you later.”

Darby managed a nod. More like a twitch.

Another child had gone missing.

Two in the space of as many weeks.

Where are the others?

The question slammed into her brain, sent a wave of adrenaline surging through her veins.

There were others. The police just didn’t know yet. Five or six, more maybe. She’d sensed it from the beginning. Why were the sensations coming now? Why couldn’t she make it stop? Or learn something useful from it?

The bell rang, jerking her from the troubling thoughts and sending students scurrying for their seats. Darby moistened her lips and manufactured a smile. Using every ounce of strength she possessed, she directed her attention to her class. “Let’s get settled, girls and boys.” She paused long enough for two stragglers to make their way to their seats. “Today is Monday,” she continued when all eyes were focused on her. “Let’s talk about what makes Mondays special.”

Even at five, the children knew there was absolutely nothing special about Mondays.

AT 4:30 P.M., Darby slowed the momentum of her bike in front of an antebellum home in the Lower Garden District. She stopped on the side of the street, propping her weight against the curb with her right foot, keeping her left on the pedal to facilitate a hasty departure.

Corinthian fluted columns supported the home’s double gallery. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the last of the sun’s warming rays to tumble across its floors. She didn’t have to get off her bike and walk to the rear of the property to know that lovely gardens, bordered by brick walks with a bubbling fountain in the center, graced the backyard. Though sorely out of place in its nineteenth-century setting, a colorful metal swing set—red, yellow and blue—stood proudly in the middle of it all.

Yellow crime scene tape sprawled across the front of the property, flapping in the wind, its middle sagging and giving the appearance of a sinister smile.

This was the home where Allison Cook lived…the yard where she’d been playing when she disappeared.

A shadow moved through the lush shrubbery. Male, she knew, but she couldn’t see his face. Yet his voice was familiar. She heard that raspy, evil voice in her dreams. No one can save the children. They belong to me. One, two, I’m coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door.

Darby shuddered, pushed the voice away. She stared at the bushes where her mind had conjured the image of the shadow. Did the police know that he’d been hiding there? He’d watched until it was safe to grab the little girl. She concentrated hard, tried to see how he’d hushed the child. An inhalant. Quick, painless. The child would slump helplessly in his arms.

Her fingers tightened on the handlebars. How long did he watch the children before he made a move? Where did he take them afterwards? If she could see, if she dared to really look, maybe she could save the ones who weren’t dead…yet.

The latest victim was still alive, but she couldn’t sense anything definite about the others.

“Move along, ma’am.”

Darby jumped at the sound of the harshly barked order. Uniformed policeman. NOPD.

“This isn’t a sideshow,” he snapped impatiently. “Have some respect for the family. Now move along!”

Darby blinked, dragged her sluggish mind from the trance she’d slipped into. She had to go. The realization that a cop was speaking to her, the visual implications of his uniform and the cruiser parked a few feet away, suddenly cracked through the haze.

“I’m sorry…I…” She looked back at the house one last time. The sound of weeping, the weight of overwhelming anguish, abruptly echoed through her soul.

“Let’s see some ID.”

Another voice.

Male.

Darby’s gaze collided with dark brown eyes that were methodically sizing her up. The eyes belonged to a man dressed in a suit. A cop, too, she realized when he flashed his badge.

“I’m Detective Willis. Let’s see some identification, ma’am.”

Still feeling dazed, she fumbled in her satchel for her wallet. She showed him her driver’s license and waited for him to ask the questions that would come next.

“Ms. Shepard, what brings you to this neighborhood?”

He wouldn’t want to hear the truth. “I was on my way home.” She mentally grappled for an excuse to be on this street. “I thought I’d stop by Sardi’s Deli.” She knew the place. It was only a few blocks away. Though there were delis close to home, he couldn’t prove that she hadn’t been headed to this particular one for one reason or another.

He studied her a moment longer as she put her wallet away. She could feel him assessing her, deciding if her excuse was legitimate or warranted further questioning.

Realization struck her then. They were desperate for a lead in this case. They were hoping the perpetrator would show up at the scene of the crime again. Perhaps to get a look at the grieving parents. He would so love that. The children belonged to him now.

Her senses went on alert as the detective reached into the interior pocket of his jacket. She held very still so as not to give away her edginess. When his hand came back into view, he held a small white business card.

“Why don’t you call me if you think of anything from your observations that might assist us in this case.” The statement was made grudgingly, but the look of desperation in his eyes didn’t back up his indifferent tone.

Darby reached for the card, her fingers brushed his and in that one instant she felt his pain, his fear. Fear that he wouldn’t be able to solve this mystery. Pain at having watched the autopsy of one dead child, fear that another might follow soon.

She nodded. “Sure,” was all she could manage.