I'm sorry it took so long for this chapter, guys. Unfortunately, my computer got sick about a month ago, and I haven't been able to write or post anything. Before that, what can I say? I still liked my story, but my interests were elsewhere. But now my interest has come back to this.
I hope you guys enjoy this chapter. It's a little confusing, even to me, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
Disclaimer: I own only Jason and Janice Johnson, and the dog, of course. I am making no profit form this work; this is solely for entertainment purposes.
Visions From Afar
Chapter Seven
It was dark and damp in this room. A strange glow filled the room, but he still could see nothing except dark and unrecognizable shapes. He could hear dripping water, and to his left, he could hear a quiet sobbing.
Swallowing, he turned toward the sound of the sobbing, heading along in the darkness blindly. When he stood directly above the sobbing, he peered down, but to his dismay, he still saw nothing except the black shape. From the sound, he thought that the figure was one of a woman or girl.
A slamming sound came from somewhere above, sharp, painful light suddenly flooding the room, and he had to shield his eyes. Backing up away from the figure, he looked blearily up and saw a sodden and cracking wooden staircase. The crying figure stopped as he heard heavy boots clumping down the stairs.
"Are you here, Sandra?" called a voice in a mild tone.
The girl gave a petrified little whimper and tried to scuttle further into the dark.
"Oh, come on Sandy. You loved this place. You always did. Where are you now, Sandy? Come on, doll. I won't hurt you."
Sandra Anderson breathed hard, and in the little light available now, he saw her holding her clasped hands above her head.
"Sandy, don't make me come and get you. You won't want that," continued the voice pleasantly.
Sandra uttered a soft cry and he was sure that the voice heard it.
"I hear you, Sandy." The boots clumped down another stair. "I hear you, doll. Ready?"
Sandra let out a mournful cry.
"Not ready," said the voice distastefully. "Alright then, Sandy. You can stay down here for a little longer. I'll come back for you in a little while."
The boots started clumping in the opposite direction, and then stopped, and the voice said, "Your little doggie was a becoming quite the nuisance. He's lying about a foot away from the door, Sandy. He's dead, though."
Sandra cried aloud, hard, and said, "Jason!"
"Sorry, Sandy."
The boots clumped up, Sandra cried again, and the man hoisted himself up . . . through the door?
(through?)
As the square of light vanished, Johnny went toward Sandra, looking up to see a wall in front of him, and a little . . . square? A window, it was a square window.
(where?)
Staring up at the square window, he thought he saw light filtering through its filthy surface, and then in the distance, he thought he heard a sound, a sound, an animal-like sound . . .
He was cold.
The window was broken open ahead of him, blood staining the floor.
Blinking, he looked around to find Walt and Bruce staring at him intently.
"There was a man," he said, confused. "There was a man, but I couldn't see him. They were in a room, a dark room. A staircase, he went down a staircase, through a window . . . she was there, he didn't know if she there, she was hiding. I . . . it was . . ."
"Take it easy, John," Walt said. He sounded uneasy. "Just take it easy. You look horrible."
"No, I know . . . it was a . . . oh, I don't know what it was. It was confusing."
"Take your time," Walt repeated, stepping gingerly into the room. "Are you alright?"
"I feel fine," Johnny said. He stared at the blood. The square in the ceiling, he knew what it was, he knew, but he couldn't name it. And the man, and why had she been hiding? Jason.
"His name was Jason," he said slowly. "She was hiding in . . . a basement!"
He looked at Walt. "A basement! With one of those trapdoor type deals. The hatch is in the floor and when you pull it up, you go down it into a basement. She was in a basement! She was hiding there, I think. She was crying and then the trapdoor opened and Jason walked down. He called for her, asked her to come up, and I don't think he was sure she was there. He was trying to intimidate her, and it worked, she cried, and he knew. He asked her to come up, but she didn't, and so he said it was fine, he'd be back, and he went back up the stairs." Johnny stopped and frowned. "He said that the dog was dead. He said he'd killed the dog."
"Apollo?" Walt asked.
"It must be. It has to be. He didn't kill the dog. The dog's in my backyard." Johnny leaned against the door for support, suddenly tired.
"Alright," Walt said, noticing Johnny's weakness. "Alright, Bruce, take John back to the cruiser and just sit there for a second. Roscoe, get your lazy ass in here and collect this blood." He looked hard at his deputy. "We need to talk about this later, Roscoe, you and Fisher. I want you to dust this room for any new prints, get that blood, and basically a 120, alright? Get Fisher and I want Fisher to go through the bottom floor and look for any markings in the floor. He's looking for a trapdoor that leads to a basement. Got it?"
"Yes, sir," Roscoe replied thinly and headed down the stairs.
Walt looked around at Johnny and Bruce and asked, "Why are you still here? You look awful, John. Go down."
"No, Walt," Johnny said weakly. "I know I can help. Find the door and I can get something from it, I know I can."
"Johnny," Bruce said, grabbing his friend's elbow. "Come on now, listen to the good sheriff. Let's go."
Johnny looked into the persistent faces of his friends and sighed heavily. "Alright, fine. But you guys have better tell me if you find anything."
"Hey, I'm the sheriff, I can do whatever I want."
"Not if you want to find who killed Sandy."
Johnny started down the stairs, Bruce at his heels. Above them, Walt frowned, and Johnny looked
up to see his face dashed in confusion.
"What?" he asked irritably.
"You called her Sandy," Walt said. "You called her Sandy and you don't even know her."
Johnny stopped, putting his hand on the wall. "He called her Sandy . . ."
There was
(steady drumming, rain)
The police cruiser was outside, but it didn't matter. The cops were cheap, they wouldn't stray from their car in the rain.
The place was clean, he suspected, but the gloves on his hands were new. He had even worn gloves when he had opened the package. Overly cautious, Janice had told him, but it didn't matter. He had to be careful.
(tinkling from upstairs, tinkling)
The glass from the window he'd broken. He had tried to do it quietly, but he supposed that the window must have flapped in with the howling wind. The sound was soft. The wind should hide his movements.
He crept to the picture he knew she kept on the wall.
The picture with him in it.
Johnny looked down at himself and saw green and black and brown fatigues. The stitched nametag read JOHNSON.
"Jason Johnson," Johnny murmured aloud.
"What?" Bruce prodded him forward.
"His name is Jason," Johnny said, stopping Bruce's advances and peering up the stairs at Walt. "His name is Jason. He wore Army fatigues, and the nametag said Johnson. They could be his. He knows someone named Janice."
"Jason Johnson?" echoed Walt.
Bruce looked up. "You know a Jason Johnson?"
"Yes," Walt said, coming down the stairs rapidly. "I went to the PoliceAcademy with him, but he dropped out halfway. Said he was joining the Army and then was going to marry his girl." He gaped at Johnny. "His girl's name was Janice."
"Where do they live?" Johnny steadied himself. So they had found something.
"They still live in Bangor," Walt said. "At least I think so. I arrested him last year for public drinking, but it was a bet. He's a good guy." His eyes narrowed. "At least he was when I knew him. Come on. Change of plans. We're going to pay a visit to Mr. Johnson and see if he knows anything."
Bruce cast a look at Johnny, a look so pathetic that Johnny had to grin at him, despite his tiredness.
"Tired?" he prodded Bruce lightly.
"No," answered Bruce forcefully.
Johnny grinned as Bruce rolled his eyes toward the heavens, and they walked down the stairs, out the door.
"This it?" Bruce asked.
"No," said Walt sarcastically. "This is my dentist's."
"Hey, no need to get testy."
Ignoring them, Johnny studied the house. White, with blue trimming along its eaves and sides, the house was a neat little square. Half-bloomed flowers ran along the edges. The grass, yellowing and dying, was starting to flood with the now lessening rain. The hedges were messy, with hollows in the center, their roots sticking up from the poor and cracked dirt.
Johnny found Bruce's eyes and Bruce said, "Not exactly the lap of luxury, is it?"
"He worked for some repair service, last time I checked, when I arrested him," Walt said, frowning at Bruce. "Why don't you stay here, Bruce?"
"How about not?" Bruce pushed open his door and stepped out into the rain. "No way I have to stay behind while you two play detective."
"We're not playing detective. I need Johnny, that's all."
"I don't like the sound of that."
"Oh, shut up. Come on then. We're getting soaked."
They walked up the cracked walkway to the chipped, peeling wood of the door. Walt rang the bell two times and then waited. "Getting anything?' he asked Johnny.
Johnny looked around at the peeling paint and dead lawn. "He doesn't like to do housework."
The door didn't open.
"Knock," Bruce suggested, hugging his jacket more tightly around him. "Maybe the bell doesn't work. Looking at this place, I wouldn't be surprised."
Opening the patched screen, Walt rapped his knuckles against the door and waited.
Thunder rumbled in the distance.
"Is it ever going to stop raining?" Bruce grumbled. "Last time I checked, we weren't due for another flood."
Walt looked gravely up at the sky. "I won't be surprised if there weren't some downed power lines right now. As much as I hate doing it, we're going to need to wrap this up quick. Some people are going to be needing help, out in the rural areas. Hopefully nothing's already flooded."
He banged his fist against the door and a loud, slightly hoarse voice called, "I'm coming, I'm coming, you bastards."
The door opened and Johnny stared at Jason Johnson.
Was it the same one who had taunted Sandra Anderson in her basement?
Johnny had never seen the murderer's face. In the dark basement, there had not been sufficient light to see. When he had seen him escaping in the vision when he had touched Bruce, the face had been only a blur. And he hadn't seen the picture long enough to get a good look at the face.
Did he speak like Johnny remembered? The voice in the vision had been oddly muffled, oddly strained. Like he had been speaking through a mask.
Something to cover his head.
"Walt?" asked Jason Johnson blankly. "Sheriff? Is something wrong?"
His green eyes, half shielded by his messy blonde hair, darted from Walt to Bruce and Johnny, and then settled back on Walt. His hands burrowed themselves suddenly into his tattered jean pockets. A package of cigarettes butted out from his vest pocket and Johnny found himself thinking that this man looked nervous.
"Nothing's the matter, Jason," said Walt, sticking out his hand. "Glad you remembered me."
"How could I not? Who went on to be Sheriff while one of me didn't?"
Walt looked almost guiltily at the man before him. "None of that, Jason. It's been awhile."
"Yessir, it has. Except you arrested me last year." The man's green eyes narrowed malevolently.
"My job," said Walt, now standing up a little taller. "May we come in?"
"Who are they?" the man asked, pointing at Bruce and Johnny. "They're not cops."
"No," agreed Walt. "They're helping me in a case that we need to talk about with you. This is Bruce Lewis, and this is Johnny Smith. Can we come in, please?"
Johnson's eyes lingered on Johnny and Bruce a moment longer, and then he nodded, smiling a little, showing white teeth. "Alright, then. Come on in, then, Sheriff. My wife's asleep, though, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't wake her."
"Of course." Walt met Johnny's eyes, and the message was clear. As he stepped into the foyer, water starting to drip from his hair, he let his hand graze casually over the desk in the little foyer. Receiving nothing from the desk, he studied the room. The room to his right was the living room, crowded with battered, tattered furniture and littered with colorful children's toys. Behind that room came the dining room and the kitchen, but all he saw from that was a high chair and worn wooden table, full of marks and stains. To his immediate left was a hallway, and down the hallway he could see three doors, two on the right, one on the left. He assumed two must be rooms, the other a bathroom. The foyer was tiled, but the tile was stained and scuffed. The carpet was dark, but he thought that maybe it was at one time a pale cream, since he could see shavings of the color through the pale gray surface. The colorful toys continued from the living area back into the kitchen and dining place, as well as marring the surface of the foyer and door.
Nothing important from this, but he saw this was clearly a house that needed to be either torn down or expensively renovated.
Shaking rain from his head, Walt entered and stood awkwardly in the foyer. Johnson shut the screen and door, and then went into the living area. "Sit," he said. With searching eyes, he asked, "You want something to drink? A beer?"
"No thanks, Mr. Johnson. We're just here for a few questions, and then we'll be on our way."
Shrugging, Johnson sat on the worn armchair while Johnny, Walt, and Bruce took seats on the beaten couch. They stared at each other for a moment.
"So," trailed Johnson, tapping his fingers against the chair.
"Did you ever know a Sandra Anderson?"
Johnson's eyes widened slightly, and then he growled, "Yeah. What's wrong?"
Walt subtly hid surprise. "How did you know Ms. Anderson?"
"I did work for her," answered Johnson, tipping back on the chair. "Her house needed some fixing and she called my company."
"Hold on a second," Walt interrupted, and pulled out a pad of paper and pen. "What company is this?"
Johnson stared at the paper. "Am I being investigated for something?"
"No, of course not, what company is this?"
"What happened to Ms. Anderson, Sheriff?"
Walt looked uncomfortably around, and then said, "She was murdered, Jason. We're just trying to close up any loose ends."
Johnny watched the man's reaction closely. His eyes widened even more and he sat up in his chair. "Murdered?" he echoed. "How?"
Clearing his throat, Walt said, "I'm not at liberty to discuss this, Mr. Johnson. I'm just trying to rule out any suspects."
"I'm a suspect?"
"No," Walt said hastily. "But . . . er . . . we became informed that you did do work for her. She was sort of a hermit, and we need to talk to anybody she was in contact with. Like you said, you were in contact with her."
"My company hired me out," said Johnson dubiously. "I don't see how that says anything about contact. I hardly knew her. She was a quiet little lady who said nothing. I'm sorry to hear abut her murder. She seemed sweet, and she made a mean cup of coffee."
"Well, then, I'd appreciate it if you cooperated, Mr. Johnson," Walt said forcefully. "Now please, what company do you work for?"
"Shrouder Housework," supplied Johnson. "Top dog's name is Marcos Cross." He looked imploringly at Johnny and Bruce as Walt scribbled. "But don't you know that?"
"Yes. What kind of work did you do for her?"
"Basic stuff. Cleaned her windows, trimmed her grass and shrubbery, unplugged her toilet and sinks, fixed her leaky faucets, that type of stuff. The house was practically in shambles."
"How long ago did you do this?"
"Oh, I don't know. Say, maybe a month ago."
Walt wrote another note. "Did she say anything to you?"
"No. Like I said, a quiet lady. Sweet lady, and she made a mean cup of jo. Her dog was a little mean runt, though."
"Her dog?"
Johnny felt his hands going sweaty.
"Yeah, her big ole Shepard dog. Went bonkers at the sight of me. She had to lock him up in the bathroom to keep him from getting at me. Great, great big brute too."
Johnny felt beads of sweat moisten his hairline.
"Yes," said Walt retrospectively. "Do you remember anything unusual?"
Johnson's head creased, and then he shook his head. "No, nothing much."
"Do you--?"
The radio clipped to Walt's belt buzzed angrily. "Excuse me," Walt said, standing up, unclipping the thing from his belt and hurrying away into the kitchen.
Johnny, Bruce, and Johnson sat in uncomfortable silence.
Johnny studied the toys in on the floor. "So, you have kids?"
"Yeah," growled Johnson. "Jason Jr. Asleep with my wife."
"Lots of toys," Johnny said vaguely, picking one up. "Very colorful."
"Did you do it?" the dark-haired woman asked critically, handing the small rubber toy to the mewling baby cradled on her hip.
The room was darkened, except for the one light in the hall. The light didn't reach this dark corner of the room.
"I did it," whispered the man in the shadows. "I buried her. Couldn't kill the dog, though. I should've, but I didn't have any bullets left. Locked it in the house."
"Good," said the woman, a smile dashing her face. "That'll teach the bitch for trying to destroy you-me."
The man moved forward and embraced the woman, but his face was still swathed in shadows.
"Love you, Mark," whispered the woman.
Johnny set the toy down.
"Yeah, now would you not pick that up?" asked Johnson, annoyed. "My son chews that thing, you know."
"Sorry, it was stupid, we have to go now." Ignoring Bruce's startled eyes and Johnson's angry ones, Johnny went to the door. "Thanks for everything, I'll be going now."
Walt came out of the corner to find Johnny standing at the door. "Johnny-?"
"I need to go . . . feed my dog. Sorry about that, Mr. Johnson. Come on, Bruce, come with me to the car."
Bruce stood up, smiling politely at Johnson, and followed Johnny as Walt turned to Johnson and said, "I don't know what the hell got into him but—"
Bruce shut the door and Johnny turned to face him.
"It wasn't him." It couldn't be him. The woman had talked about Mark . . . but then why had Sandra called for Jason in the basement? And the woman, who was she? Mrs. Johnson? It had been in the living room, he was sure of it, that little transaction. And Sandra had tried to destroy who? Mark? Who was Mark, and why was he in the Johnson's living room? Why had Sandra called for Jason when Mark was the one who killed her?
"What do you mean, it wasn't him? Would you mind explaining a bit?"
Walt opened the door a second later, face angry, saying, "What the hell was—"
"He didn't kill her. At least, I don't think he did." He explained briefly what he'd seen inside the vision. "I don't get it! Sandra called for Jason in the basement, but apparently it was this Mark who killed her. And I don't know who the lady was either, but she was in this house, talking to his man, holding the baby. It could be . . ."
"Janice," finished Bruce. "But it still doesn't make sense. Why would she call for Jason, if Mark was the one who killed her?"
"Let's continue this conversation in the car," Walt interrupted, staring at the now pouring sky. "There's a flood out in the rural, and they need help. I can't swing by your house, Bruce, so can you stay at Johnny?"
"Yeah, sure, whatever," Bruce said. "I'm sure Johnny doesn't object."
"Drop him off at the flood."
"You're a jerk."
They went to the car, hands over their heads to shy away the rain, and when Walt put his foot on the gas tentatively, he said, "Okay, let's review the facts as we know them."
"I love it when he's all cop-like," Bruce grumbled from the backseat.
"Ignoring the jerk in the backseat, we'll continue. Sandra Anderson was murdered outside. Her dog attacked her pursuer, but then was taken back to the house and locked in, from the outside, might I add. So they needed a key, presumably taken from Sandra. Now, we know that Sandra was hiding inside her basement, trying not to be seen, when a man came down the stairs and taunted her. He told her that he'd killed Apollo, and then Sandra yelled his name, which was Jason. Right, Johnny?"
"Yes," Johnny said, massaging his temples. "But we're also forgetting another important thing. It might not have been Jason."
"Getting to that," Walt continued, "it could not have been Jason. We go to Jason's house, where we learn that he did housework for her about a month ago, and that she made a mean cup of coffee. Other than that, he says he has no contact with her. He's our man, at least until now. Now we know that a woman, presumably Janice, was talking in her living room to a man named Mark, holding her baby. She said she loved him, and that she was glad that the bitch was dead for trying to ruin him. Right, Johnny?"
"Right," Johnny said, mind working fast. "So . . . I don't have a damned clue what the hell any of this is supposed to mean. It makes no sense."
They were quiet for a long time.
"I can think of a few possibilities," Walt said, hesitantly. "But I need to check some things out first."
"Go ahead, Walt, shoot. We won't bite."
"No time." The car pulled up in Johnny's soaked driveway. "I'll call you guys later, probably tomorrow. Take it easy. You guys aren't my deputies, but I'm going to need you two tomorrow."
"Alright," Johnny said. "We'll mull it over some."
"Try not too much," said Walt as they got out from the car. "Get some rest. You need it." He said it looking directly at Johnny.
"Why does everybody think I'm about to drop dead again?" Johnny sighed as Walt pulled out into the street.
"'Cause we love you Johnny, that's all. Now come on, we're going to freeze."
Johnny let Bruce take his keys and lead him into the house.
Not fully realizing what he was doing, knowing only that he felt unbearably tired, leaving Bruce to put on a pot of coffee, he went to the living room and collapsed onto the couch. It took only a few moments for him to sleep, and when he found himself falling away, he saw the black masked face of the dog.