View From My Soul

CHAPTER ONE

He washed the blood off his hands in the cold creek water and, moving slowly, made his way back up the steep path to the cave in the side of Bailey’s Mountain. The mountain, ablaze with the fiery colors of autumn, hid the narrow cave entrance from anyone who didn’t know exactly where to look. As he walked along the path, he shook his head and told himself that he hadn’t wanted to do it. He hadn’t wanted to kill her. But he knew that if he didn’t kill her, he’d just end up having to kill himself.

And, no matter how shitty his life was, he wasn’t ready for that yet. Besides, he already knew how he was going to go. He’d seen enough TV to get it right. He’d just go blasting into one of the schools—probably in the Stony Brook area where all the rich snobs lived—and cut down as many of their spoiled little brats as he could. They even had a name for it: suicide by cop.

What a way to go! His name would be in all the papers and maybe even on Fox News.

Grandma had a satellite dish installed just so she could get Fox News. She’d sit in front of that TV for hours shouting and cussing, the floorboards groaning under her weight. He’d learned all about how to steal a car and get on TV with one of those police chases, except that they usually took place in California or Texas. Places like that. Nobody on this side of the mountain had a car worth stealing, anyway. Besides, not even the local news would cover a car chase way out here in the back woods. No; to get on Fox News, he had to do something really big.

He had to get a gun.

And when he did . . . well, they’d all be sorry. They’d be sorry for calling him a retard, making him sleep in the shed and treating him like a dog. He picked up a stone and threw it at a squirrel that stared at him from the middle of the path. The stone missed and the squirrel casually hopped away.

Years ago, he had finally stopped wishing that he was normal. He had stopped a long time ago wanting to go to school or wanting a real family. His grandma warned him every day that he was going to burn in hell. And she was especially mean when he hadn’t even done something to rile her up. So, eventually, he didn’t care about anything anymore. He lived only for the moment, and right now all he knew was that the beast living inside his chest for the last few months had disappeared and euphoria had taken its place. At present, that was all that mattered.

That and getting rid of the body.

There was a slight indentation in the rock almost halfway up the mountain where wild ivy disguised the cave entrance—a hole about three feet high and a few feet wide. It was just big enough to get into easily, but small enough for him to have to promise both beer and weed to get the girls to crawl into it. He pushed open the ivy curtain then stopped and looked back down the mountainside. Out here in the middle of nowhere, it was unlikely that anyone had seen him or could see him now. Yet, he always had this feeling that he was being watched, and it made him nervous. Of course, he’d had that feeling ever since he was a kid and Grandma would lock him in the coal bin for whatever he had or hadn’t done. She’d tried to put the fear of God into him by dragging him to church every Saturday night and Sunday morning. But it served only to make him hate her even more.

His eyes scoured the mountainside and the gravel road that ran below. There was not a soul in sight, but he was still uneasy. Maybe the old woman had succeeded in brainwashing him after all. Maybe God—or the devil himself—really was watching him.

He squinted his dark eyes in the bright sunlight as he looked up into the sky. Fuck you! he said as he thrust his fist into the air, middle finger extended. Fuck them all, he said under his breath and turned back into the cave.

It was quiet and dark as he stoop-walked his way back to where her body lay. There was no chirping of birds, no buzzing of insects, no happy sounds of nature back here. There were only twilight and death.

He looked down at her feet and hands bound with baling twine. She had come so willingly to her death. Of course, she hadn’t known; all she knew was that Rand Grogg had found something marvelous in the cave—crystals that looked like diamonds—and he was going to share them with her. At least, that’s what he’d promised right up to the moment when he began to strangle and beat the life out of her.

It had all been too easy. With his slight build, curly brown hair, and pretty boyish face, none of the girls ever felt threatened by him . . . until he put his hands around their little necks. When this one started screaming he hit her. Hard. Then he found the baling twine. When she’d regained consciousness and started to panic, he hit her again. And again. And again, until his hands were bloody.

He opened and closed his fists. They would be sore tomorrow, but it was a small price to pay. Killing the little bitch had gotten rid of the beast that sat on his chest, and it sure made him feel more like a man. Something Grandma Grogg could never do with all her preaching.

He looked down at the girl’s bloody face, her bloody tee shirt. He nudged her with his boot. She was dead all right. Now he had to do something with the body. He thought for a moment, but there really wasn’t much to think about. It wasn’t as if he’d never done this before. He reached into a small crevasse in the rock and pulled out a filthy blue tarp covered with a mixture of mud and old bloodstains. He laid the tarp on the cave floor, dragged the girl’s body onto it, and rolled her up in it as if he were rolling up a rug. Then he shoved her under an over-hanging rock. That would do for now.

He had to get home and do a real clean up. It was getting late and soon it would be time to take Grandma Grogg to the Saturday night meeting at the Universal Holiness Church of the Holy Spirit, located directly behind the Exxon station.

CHAPTER TWO

I sat up in bed. Something had jolted me awake. My head was swimming and my nightgown was soaked. I guessed I had consumed more than a few glasses of chardonnay because my head hammered and my breathing was shallow. Then I remembered. I had been dreaming of a man standing over me—a dark shadow in the surrounding twilight. Suddenly he was upon me, and I was fighting for my life, kicking and screaming.

I exhaled. No wonder my breathing was shallow. I leaned back against the headboard and rubbed my face, trying to pull myself away from the blackness and desperation of the nightmare. But everything about it felt as though I was actually living it, and I couldn’t rub that away.

Then I heard a low whine and something wet nudged my hand. That could only be a yellow Lab in desperate need of bladder relief. I opened my eyes and rested my hand on Scout’s head. I was rewarded with a bark and a few cavorting circles followed by an expectant look. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself out of bed, despite the early hour. I had to pee, too.

Together we descended the narrow metal staircase to the kitchen where I opened the back door. Scout bolted through as if shot from a cannon. Poor guy. I couldn’t remember how long he’d been locked in the house, since I couldn’t remember when I’d fallen asleep. Or if I’d even let him go do his business before I passed out.

I nuked a cup of instant coffee in the microwave and walked into my favorite room, the library. Standing at the big picture window, I looked up at Stony Mountain and allowed the warm sunlight to fall on my face and tried to shake off the miserable dread that made me polish off a bottle of wine last night. Something bad was coming down; I could feel it in my soul. And the nightmare that seemed so much like an actual event did nothing to dispel it. Nightmares can be actual events. I ought to know; I’m a psychic. Two years ago, I hung a shingle outside my library door that shouts Psychic Investigations in gold letters against a dark blue background filled with stars. And Sarah Seere is my real name—something I’ve had to explain many times.

Still, I resented being forced to wake up so early on a sleep-in Sunday by whatever was invading my psyche. Empowered by caffeine, I stubbornly refused to fall victim to my gloomy thoughts and reminded myself that ghosts tend to fade in the light of day. In fact, I knew a way to make them disappear entirely.

I tossed down a blueberry muffin and walked into the mudroom, where I pulled on my old purple James Madison University sweatshirt, then black riding pants and tall, black boots. I tucked my dyed blonde hair into a ponytail and scrunched it down under my riding helmet, then fished around in the fridge for carrots before I headed out to the barn. The morning breeze was cool, but the sun felt unseasonably warm. We were already well into a nice Indian summer. Warm days of sunlight and brilliant blue skies prevailed, while the trees’ crimson and golden leaves fluttered in the breeze and set the mountainside in motion.

Even with a hangover and nightmares, I tried to be optimistic. This was my favorite time of year, dammit, and I was going to enjoy it. Scout bounded across the lawn to meet me, but I could see that the two horses at the far end of the pasture were busy eating grass and would need coaxing to meet me at the barn.

Hor-ses! I called.

Spoofer, a dark bay, 16-hands tall, with a flowing black mane and tail, looked up. Sugar, a plump little gray mare, just kept eating.

Then a man’s shadow fell across the path to the barn.

Mornin’ Miss Sarah, Jacob said. He took off his weathered Stony Brook Rebels baseball cap and held it in both hands. I fed them almost an hour ago, so you’re good to ride.

I looked at a face familiar since childhood. Jacob Henry, a former jockey with legs so bowed that they formed an O, was as weathered as his cap. Hair once gray had finally turned white and facial lines that had been wrinkles years ago were now deep craters etching a lifetime of memories in Jacob’s ebony skin. But his amber eyes were still as sharp and critical as they were when he used to watch me ride my pony.

Thanks, Jacob. Too nice a morning not to ride, isn’t it? I didn’t look at Jacob. That wise old man was sure to see something in my eyes that would start his asking questions.

You want me to saddle up Spoofer for you? It won’t take but a minute to snatch him outta that pasture and give him a good brushin’.

I tried to form a pleasant facial expression. Sure, I said.

Jacob had been Mommy’s groom way back when. He was as much a part of Chicory Hill as I was. As a kid, I never would let Jacob groom my pony, thinking it wasn’t good horsemanship on my part. Now I was old enough to understand that Jacob needed to take care of me just as much as I needed to take care of him.

Jacob disappeared into the barn with Scout on his heels and returned with a halter and lead line. Now you just set yourself down on the bench, and I’ll go get Spoofer.

I couldn’t help smiling as I watched him walk down through the field of blue chicory flowers, Scout bounding at his side. Jacob was so bowlegged that one wondered why his knees didn’t collapse at any moment. All my pestering couldn’t make him to think about knee surgery, even though he knew I would pay for it. Jacob thought he walked just fine and informed me more than once that he didn’t need any fake knees.

Following Jacob’s instructions, I sat down on the wooden bench. I could hear the bells of St. Vincent’s in the valley below ringing the devoted to mass. It never crossed my mind to substitute a church service for riding a big Thoroughbred horse because I had given up on organized religion decades ago. Oh, sure, the energy during mass was nice. Sometimes it even moved me to tears, especially when I thought of Daddy and Grandma and Grandpa. Their final services had been held under the vaulted arches of St. Vincent’s, and, every time I was there, I would remember. But my church was the mountains, my devotional was my ride through the forest, and my prayers were the sound of hoofs beating a rhythm on the planet in time to the beating of my heart.

After Jacob brushed and saddled up Spoofer, I climbed onto the saddle and looked up at the top of Stony Mountain.

Now, don’t be thinking of ridin’ up to the top of that mountain, Miss Sarah.

Why on earth not? I looked down at Jacob. I’ve been riding on that mountain since I was twelve.

Yes um, I know that. But there was a report on the radio this morning about that girl that was killed up there last July fourth.

Oh, I said, disappointed. I had forgotten about that.

Yes ’um. I had, too. And I shoulda remembered it and not let you go up there all this summer like I did.

I didn’t laugh, although I wanted to. I was a small person, and Jacob always thought Spoofer was too big for me. But I had to smile. Here I was in my mid-fifties and the thought of Jacob keeping me safe by not letting me ride the mountain was just sweet enough to be delicious. I’ll be careful, Jacob, don’t worry about me. I know every trail on and around that old mountain. Besides, who’s going to catch me on a horse as swift as Spoofer?

Pardon me, Miss Sarah, but a horse can only go as fast as them trees and that steep hill will let ’em.

I leaned down and patted Spoofer’s neck. I know, I assured him, I know. I took up the reins and turned Spoofer onto the trail alongside the pasture—the one that led up the mountain. Then I looked back. Would you take Scout back to the house and give him his breakfast? I didn’t need Scout underfoot as we climbed up the steep mountain trails. I saw disapproval cloud Jacob’s expression. I won’t go far, I promise. By the way, I wondered, did they find the person who killed that girl?

No ma’am. They done found another body, right smack dab in that same nasty dumpsite where they found that other young miss. Jacob shook his head. Poor little gal. Now, who’d do a thing like that?

CHAPTER THREE

My heart dropped like a lead ball. It had happened again! Who could have done such a thing? The community of Big Gap across the mountain, and even Stony Brook, had just begun to heal from the first murder, and now another precious child had been killed.

As I rode up to the mountain trailhead, I tried to remember the details of the first murder—what the media had called the July 4th Killer. Just about everything happened across the mountain at Big Gap, a small coal-mining town, so the crime didn’t seem to touch the good folks of Stony Brook. The two towns were as dissimilar as a piece of shiny black coal and a sparkling diamond.

Surrounded by rich coal fields, Stony Brook was safely tucked into the deep folds of the Appalachian Mountains. It was this little valley that the owners of the coal mines claimed as their own. Stony Brook became mansions, country clubs, cocktails, and golf tournaments. But after World War II, Stony Brook also became neat little subdivisions, the Elks Club, beer, and football games. What started out as a refuge for wealthy coal barons finally became a real community with everything coal money could buy. We had our own airport, railroad station, television station, hospital and community college. Golf courses popped up as if spontaneously sprouting from the earth. And the mountains gave us a sense of isolation, enabling us to believe that we were separated from the outside world.

When I was a kid, leaving Stony Brook required hours of tortuous, winding roads first up, and then down the steep mountains. But, in the eighties, two long tunnels were constructed through Stony Mountain and Walt’s Mountain to the south. Now we had easy access to the outside world. What people tended to forget was that now the outside world also had easy access to us.

After the July Fourth Killer, the people of Stony Brook started locking their doors at night. But as the months crept by with no new developments in the case, people began to talk about how this heinous crime had to have been committed by someone just passing through—a drifter. This rationalization suited most of the general public. But there were others who weren’t so sure. Of course, no one spoke about what no one wanted to acknowledge—that it wasn’t evil just passing through but evil living among us.

As I walked my horse along the fence line, I remembered that the girl’s name was Heather, and that she had just turned fourteen. Her parents became alarmed when she didn’t return home from a July fourth celebration at the Big Gap swimming pool. A search was started that lasted well into the night, but it wasn’t until the next morning that three teenage boys found her body. She had been horribly beaten and strangled. It was the first murder in our area since prohibition, when the Feds were cleaning out the moonshine stills, and it really freaked me out. That a young girl had been killed was heartbreaking, but I also had to deal with the fact that her body had been discovered at the top of Stony Mountain. Literally right above my house! And worse, my psychic instincts never kicked in. I never knew it had happened until I watched the news that night.

And now it looked like it had happened again. I thought of my nightmare. Maybe this time, I had been warned. Or maybe this time, I should get involved.

I’ve found lots of lost items and healed a few broken relationships, but I’ve never been asked to help in a murder case. And I must confess that it suited me to exist within my comfort zone. Many are the cases of psychics coming forward with information about where to find the body, only to be arrested for the murder themselves. But I saw my role as providing a service to those in need; a gift from God to ease suffering in others as well as my own wretched guilt concerning my sizeable inheritance as a coal baron’s daughter. So, after the fireworks had died and little Heather was found on top of the mountain, I swore that if the family asked for my professional services I would consider working the case. But the family never asked for my help, and I was both sinfully relieved and inexplicably disappointed.

As Spoofer and I walked along the fence line, I wondered if this new victim was the runaway who had dominated the local news in the last couple of days. Once more, the teenage girl was from Big Gap, and posters had appeared on telephone poles and in business windows all over Stony Brook.

Once more, no one felt it necessary to contact the local psychic. It was a fact I was getting used to.

I turned my attention to the ride and the forest and the mountain. Normally, the beat of my horse’s hoofs on the path was a balm for my soul. But today, the unhurried rhythm set my teeth on edge. Suddenly, a gust of wind sent yellow leaves swirling around us like a golden tornado, and I urged Spoofer into a trot. The sky was brilliant cobalt and the warm colors of autumn were at their peak, but this didn’t register on my brain. As I passed one of the back pastures—now unused because there were about thirty fewer horses than when Mommy rode and showed—I should have marveled at the blue wildflowers that carpeted the landscape. But there was only room in my mind to think of this new victim. If another girl had been found in the same general place as Heather from Big Gap, then there was no doubt in my mind that we had a killer in the area. And he left his victims on Stony Mountain!

A fire started in my belly. I hated the killer because of the dead girls, but I also hated him because he was so close. I mean, right above my house, above my farm, above me! I wanted to think, like the good citizens of Stony Brook, that evil was far, far away. It wasn’t. It was right above my house and had sullied the perfect beauty of my mountain. I had to know more and reined Spoofer in. I was torn between continuing to ride up the mountain or going home and taking the car into town to sniff out more information.

After some quick rationalizations, I decided to stay on horseback and wait for the news to come out, like everyone else. After all, no one had contacted me for help with the case of the July Fourth Killer, and it was unlikely that anyone would contact me for this case either. A few months after little Heather was murdered there had been mention of my name by a reporter for the local newspaper, but the suggestion was obviously ignored.

Once we made the trailhead there were several choices of trails to take. I could make a hard right turn and take the Walking Trail—the trail that ran alongside the mountain’s edge and was used by joggers who lived in the foothills; or I could turn far left and take my usual mountain ride on the Scenic Trail that meandered up to the overlook on top of the mountain. I felt guided to choose the Rocky Route—the middle road, the path less followed—mainly because it was a strenuous, steep climb, and that suited my mood right now. Eventually it would require me to dismount and lead Spoofer up the last fifty feet of a treacherous, rocky incline, but I felt compelled to do it. Besides, we’d done it before, so I pointed Spoofer up the mountain.

The trail made several zigzags, and then just continued in a long traverse that reversed direction with a hairpin turn. The path was covered in fallen leaves which muffled the beat of Spoofer’s hooves as we followed another long traverse in the opposite direction. Eventually the traverses became shorter and steeper. I wanted to stop and look down the mountain, but when I tried, I could see nothing but the treetops, so we continued to climb, my mind occupied with murdered and missing children.

I had let my mind drift, and Spoofer plodded to a stop to wait for instructions. We were at the point where we had to continue or turn back. Ahead of us