Violent Visions of Murder

CHAPTER ONE

Brianna turned the key in the car ignition. She gazed lovingly at her family who huddled in a group outside the doorway where a string of Christmas lights blinked colorfully around the door. With her hand on the gear, she started to shift in reverse when Marsha’s two small children rushed forward, yelling, Aunt Brianna, Aunt Brianna!

Brianna pulled on the emergency brake, and opened the car door for the last hugs and kisses from the little girls. Smiling, she wrapped her arms about them, returning each of their kisses while Marsha and her handsome husband rushed up to steer them away from the car.

Bye Brianna, yelled the little girls.

Drive carefully, said Brad Taylor, Brianna’s father.

Oh, Brianna, wait just a minute, her mother called as she turned and ran inside the house. She returned with a beautiful wreath of silk flowers in hand and passed them in the car window to Brianna.

Mom, I can’t believe you almost forgot them.

I would have been terribly upset if I hadn’t remembered. Not a Christmas has passed for the past twenty-nine years but what I’ve sent flowers to be put on Baby James’s grave.

Not just at Christmas, Mom, but Easter and his birthday, too. Baby James might not be your son, but it’s not for lack of love.

I know, and we mustn’t forget him.

I wish there was some way we could learn the truth.

"I do, too, but we might never know. I’ve thought about it every day since I gave birth to my twins. When they showed me Baby James after he died, I swore he wasn’t my son—that he didn’t look like my son. I’ll always believe someone switched a dead baby for Jody’s twin.

Oh well, no need to stir up that subject right now. Just don’t forget to put the wreath on his grave, she added.

I’ll remember, Mom. Tell Jody to call me sometime, she said. Jody’s career as a pilot for a major airline had prevented him from taking off to be with his family for Christmas. Brianna’s mother, Lorraine, had baked him a birthday cake anyway, since his birthday fell on Christmas Day, and lit thirty candles in his absentee honor.

I love you, honey. Drive carefully, said Lorraine before stepping away from the car.

Brianna waved at her family and backed out of the driveway. Glancing at the gas gage, she gave herself a mental nudge to fill up with gas before getting on the Sunshine State Parkway, which hooked up with Interstate 75 in Wildwood. It would be at least a three-hour drive back to the little town of Oakwood in North Florida where she lived in the home where she grew up with her family.

Brianna called it her river home because the river ran about four hundred feet behind the house. When her folks moved to Orlando, real estate wasn’t bringing good prices, so Brad Taylor, Brianna’s father, decided to keep the river home for a vacation spot. For years, the family traveled between Orlando and Oakwood on many weekends, holidays, and summer vacations. Summertime was the best vacation time because they swam in the river, fished, went canoeing, or put the motor boat in the water and enjoyed boat rides up and down the river.

When Brianna finished college, she knew she never wanted to live in the city with its heavy traffic, exhaust fumes, the hustle-bustle of people, the drugs, violence and crime. She couldn’t stand the busy mental stimulus that turned her mind into a television screen with visions of people’s lives every time she got too near or touched someone. Not only was it nerve wracking, it was de-energizing and emotionally traumatic since she underwent all the physiological symptoms experienced by the person in her visions. It’s like having my head repeatedly under attack, Brianna once told her mother. Sometimes, I think I’m going crazy. It’s as if everything around me is consuming me and my control over my life.

College was hardest for her. Just sitting in a classroom of young people with their problems, torments and fears had the impact of a visionary assault upon Brianna’s mind. It was frequently so emotionally draining she would feel zapped for hours on end.

She worked hard to control the floodgates that opened when she accidentally bumped into someone, touched an article belonging to someone, or simply happened to be too close to a person having an emotional crisis in their life. Psychologically carried to whatever depths of feeling that the subject felt, her brain flooded with despair, happiness, excitement, pain, anger, hope, joy, sadness, or disappointment. When others’ emotional storms overpowered her own thoughts, it left Brianna feeling she was in a runaway vehicle on a destructive wave link to insanity.

Fortunately, her visions weren’t always bad ones. Sometimes laughter came easy at someone’s humorous indulgences, but she felt guilty for the intrusion in others’ lives. Her visions were their secrets, secrets they never expected to share.

She spent her life trying to block out, or at the least, to tone down the frequency and intensity of the images, finally admitting her only method of preventing them was to stay away from people.

It was no wonder she became a recluse. During college days when she wasn’t in the classroom, or studying in the library, she curled up in her dorm room, thankful her roommate was a shy, meek little mouse of a girl who barely spoke unless Brianna spoke to her first. Not much stimulus came from the girl, except her shy nature. That made them good dorm partners who respected the other’s space and privacy.

Brianna’s list of social friends and her social calendar was nonexistent. The fault lay with her. She pulled away from people and tried to avoid anyone wanting to get friendly with her. Most sensed her coolness, labeling it as indifference and eventually ignoring her as though she didn’t exist.

It hurt sometimes, especially when there was a dance on campus, or some event when all the girls excitedly shopped for something special to wear. Such fun-times were extremely appealing, but the bombardment of mental images from her peers depleted her strength and kept her from attending such events.

Early in life, she realized she was different. Although most folks filled their thoughts with memories of the past, plans for the present, or goals for the future, Brianna’s busy mind was viewing life through others’ lives. Her thoughts were so preoccupied it was hard to think of goals she wanted to achieve. It was also hard to concentrate in class, and she often brought a tape-recorder so she could review the instructor’s presentation afterwards when she was safely tucked away in her non-stimulating dorm room.

In elementary school, she was tested and diagnosed as having attention deficit disorder, which in reality was the truth. How could she pay attention to the teacher when she was watching a virtual television screen in her mind of the emotional thoughts around her?

She did learn one thing, though, other kids had as many fears and hang-ups as she did. That knowledge made her more confident. Still, it was a terrible struggle and a time-consuming battle keeping her grades up, but she managed.

She grew up thinking life wasn’t fair, thinking God had seen reason to punish her by casting a heavy burden on her shoulders. She must have asked the questions thousands of times, Why me, Lord? Why me?

Her mother once told her that God gave special people special gifts, choosing only those strong enough to bear up under the load. Oddly, she never thought of her visions as a gift. When she was a little girl, the mental pictures frightened her to death, especially after visions of the car wreck that caused her to realize her thoughts were the blueprints of reality taking place all about her.

As Brianna left Orlando, she thought of the nice holiday she enjoyed with her family.

This had been a sunshiny Christmas, as was often the case in Florida. Early morning broke at around thirty-five or forty degrees, but climbed to sixty-five by early noon. The weather had been beautiful the entire three days Brianna spent with her parents. Everyone was in an unusually pleasant frame of mind, allowing only light stimulus to invade Brianna’s mental screen.

Brianna’s father was elated that his accounting business was prospering well enough to merit hiring two accountants to join his firm. Her mother worried about Jody flying, but was happy to have her remaining family around her. Marsha was going to have another baby. Her husband, Robert, a highway patrolman, wanted to move to the small town in Georgia where he was born, and where his parents still lived, but feared Marsha might not be agreeable. None of them mentioned these things to Brianna, but she knew. Fortunately, they were all good thoughts and feelings that left Brianna in a festive mood.

Brianna was nearing Wildwood where she would leave the Sunshine State Parkway and take Interstate 75. She still had nearly a two-hour drive ahead of her so she let her mind wander.

She recalled the conversation with her mother when she was four years old following the collision of the two cars that sent two people to the hospital for stitches. That same day, her mother made her promise never to speak of her gift to anyone. It was easy to keep the promise because she innately knew it wasn’t something one discussed openly with others.

Then when she came home from college, a bizarre situation occurred, bringing the Oakwood Sheriff’s Department to her door, causing her to disclose inadvertently her guarded secret.

OAKWOOD WAS THE HUB for an outlying rural area where people usually bought acres instead of lots. Mobile homes dotted the landscape throughout the county. It was a dry county, except for a few small beer bars, and beer at the grocery store. Only one restaurant served beer or wine with meals. Industry and commerce was slow coming to Oakwood so jobs weren’t plentiful. Folks’ goals were to make a living for their families and bring their kids up right. Crime was down to a minimum and most people felt safe in town and the rural community.

When Brianna accidentally bumped into a risqué looking young man in the grocery store, the visions blasted through her brain like explosives powerful enough to make her black out and crumple to the floor. The event would prompt the announcement of Oakwood’s first case of murder in years.

God had given her at least three special gifts. First, she could see visions of peoples’ emotional thoughts by getting too close within the field of their aura, or by touching them or an article belonging to them. Second, she was a self-taught artist able to draw well enough to create good representations of people from her visions. Third, she majored in journalism in college, and then took additional courses in creative writing, which enabled her to describe her visions.

Creative writing was a favorite pastime from the time she learned to spell and write, and her fourth-grade teacher taught her about journal writing. Over the years, she filled up dozens and dozens of spiral-bound notebooks with her private thoughts, along with drawings and notes about her visions, with dates, names and places. Her journals contained some pretty private and heady stuff on many people she knew, and many she hadn’t known. Her talent for recreating faces and details of her visions enabled her to draw a picture of the man she bumped into at the grocery store, a man who killed his best friend with a broken beer bottle in a drunken brawl over a poker game, and then dumped the body in the river.

As soon as she arrived home that day from the grocery store, she drew the picture while the man’s face was still fresh in her memory. She folded it, stuffed it into an envelope, along with an accusatory note about the man with enough detail to give an investigator worthwhile leads to follow. Then she mailed it to the Sheriff’s Department.

Brianna had no idea they would be able to trace her anonymous letter; however, soon after the letter arrived at its destination, two sheriffs’ investigators came knocking on her door.

The eldest showed his badge and introduced himself as Chief Investigator Tom Harrison, then stepped aside.

The youngest didn’t look much older than Brianna was, and wore a suit that must have been fresh from the cleaners because the trousers held their crease without the least wrinkle. He had black hair and was tall and slender, which reminded Brianna a little of her brother Jody. He was suave and handsome, and his face was expressively authoritative as he showed Brianna his identification. He announced his name as Investigator David Sherman while extending his right hand.

Brianna ignored his outstretched hand, learning a long time ago that grasping someone’s hand was the worst thing she could do if she wanted to keep her cool and maintain self-control.

Seeing she wasn’t going to take his hand, he pulled it back, and put his foot in the door in case Brianna decided to try to slam it shut.

What do you want Investigator Sherman? Brianna asked, directing her statement to him, since Tom Harrison appeared to be just an observer. Brianna blocked the door with her body when Sherman looked ready to walk over or around her.

She suspected this was about the letter she had mailed, although she couldn’t figure out how they traced it to her. Discussing its contents was the last thing she wanted to do. If her psychic abilities became public, her life would become a circus.

Sherman reached inside an inner jacket pocket and extracted a letter Brianna recognized instantly. She held a pose of indifference, trying to pretend she never saw the letter before.

Are you familiar with this letter? he asked. Before she could answer, he sounded off. Don’t deny it. We’ve put considerable time in tracing it back to this address. I know you sent the letter.

The silent partner shifted his feet and looked ill at ease. He knew David had transferred recently from a big city police department where he was a detective dealing with street hoodlums, gangsters and criminals of every caliber. It was a tough job and easily produced calloused detectives; however, he would soon learn this wasn’t the big city, and being a tough guy wouldn’t work so well with most Oakwood people who lived decent lives with nothing to fear from the law.

Brianna sniffed defensively. If he wanted answers, he wasn’t taking the right approach with her. Is my name on the letter? she snapped, offended by such an aggressive manner.

No…

Then I didn’t write it, she asserted boldly, her chin tilted upward with daring.

He continued as if she hadn’t spoken. …but the mail carrier saw the return address was left off, so she jotted your address on the envelope.

Isn’t there a law against tampering with someone’s mail? What if someone else put it in my box to be mailed? she demanded querulously.

But we know no one else did, don’t we? he mimicked with a smirk. Anyway, with the Anthrax scares we’ve had, the postal department likes to know the letter sender’s name, so that’s why the mail carrier jotted your address on it. She could have refused to accept it.

Brianna’s heart rate increased with rising defenses. At that moment, her best defense was an offense. What difference does it make who sent it? The idea was for the Sheriff’s Department to do their job and investigate the man who killed his best friend, rather than wasting time investigating the source of a letter.

Frowning, he pushed past her and stepped inside. His silent partner followed up the rear. The front door opened directly into the living room, and he moved over to stand in front of a stuffed chair. The silent partner stood by the door, his arms wrapped across his chest and his legs slightly parted, looking a little like a genie who just floated out of his bottle. All he needed was a turban to complete the effect.

May I? Investigator Sherman asked, indicating the chair.

By all means make your self comfortable, Brianna retorted ungraciously.

Despite the intended insult, Sherman smiled. Miss Taylor, I’m not here to waste your time or mine, so if you’ll just answer a few questions I can let you go back to what you were doing.

Brianna glanced through the wide doorway to the dining table where her computer set. The article she was working on was nearly finished and ready for submitting to the magazine where she sold her seasonal articles about the river.

Wanting to get the interview over with, she took a seat on the sofa, all the while feeling anxiety take over. She had to fight for control to keep from squirming in her seat. She was picking up vibes from Investigator Sherman, a tough guy who liked to use tough tactics to get what he wanted.

Brianna was nervous with good reason. If word got out how she knew who murdered that man described in her letter she feared the consequences could be treacherous. People probably wouldn’t believe her, and would likely make her the laughing stock of everyone who knew her. On the other hand, curiosity seekers could invade her privacy and make her life miserable.

Investigator Sherman might not be there to waste her time, but he was doing just that, Brianna decided, glancing toward her computer and the folder of work from a local ad agency that had to be finished before Wednesday. Her employer put out a weekly publication composed of free advertising to all except commercial enterprises, and made their money through publication sales. The more free ads they printed, the more papers they sold. Her job was to organize the ads under specific categories, type them on the agency template and submit them in time for the next publication.

Brianna submitted an application for the job after coming home from college, and the owner hired her. After proving capability of doing her job well, the management allowed her to work at home. That gave her two pluses: she wouldn’t be working in an emotional environment of people, and it would enable her to work on her own time-schedule to allow more time for the writing of articles she sold to magazines.

She sent Investigator Sherman a defensive look. Ask your questions, sir. I would like to get back to what I was doing.

David will do, if you don’t mind. Is your name Brianna Taylor.

Yes, sir, my name is Brianna Taylor, she said in a monotone, except for stressing sir.

The name is David. Did you write this letter, Brianna?

The name is Miss Taylor, she corrected. What if I say I didn’t write the letter? She could feel color fluctuating in her cheeks.

I can charge you with obstruction of justice if you’re lying.

Okay, so what if I say I wrote the letter, sir?

Then you have a whole lot of explaining to do, Brianna.

The letter explains everything clearly, I believe. There is nothing to add that you don’t already have. I even drew you a picture.

He stared at her, sizing her up. Where do you know this man from?

I bumped into him in the grocery store, she said, her cheeks turning redder from knowing how stupid it must sound. She didn’t want to tell him she was psychic, and trying to answer factual questions with non-factual answers made her sound like a fool, or an idiot, or both.

I see, he said questionably, his chin slightly tilted downward while he raised his brows the way some people did when they looked over the top of reading glasses. He wasn’t wearing glasses, however. His attitude mirrored comical doubt.

You can check it out if you like. I fainted, and the store manager had to come running with smelling salts.

A cynical grin spread on Investigator Sherman’s face as his head moved slowly from side to side. He glanced toward his partner with an expression that said the woman’s crazy.

Harrison kept a frozen look locked on his features and maintained his genie position.

Let’s see if I understand you; you bumped into this man in the grocery store, fainted and was revived, then you came home and drew the man’s picture and wrote this letter and mailed it. Does that about describe the situation?

The expression on his face spoke volumes of what he was thinking, and none of it was good. Brianna could see he thought she was a fruitcake.

Mam, if you don’t know him, how is it you were able to put this information together in this letter you mailed to the Sheriff’s Department?

Why can’t you just take my word for it? she snapped derisively, her patience stretched to breaking.

He stood up and paced the floor four steps one way then returned to where he started. He stared at her for a good minute, and then said, Brianna, do you live here alone?

His implication that she was crazy was so clear that it cut to the quick of Brianna’s temper immediately. She jumped to her feet. Sir, only people whom I like call me Brianna, and I don’t like you. It is none of your business whether I live alone or not.

He sat back down and leaned back into the chair with a sigh. Miss Taylor, he said sharply, we can do this here, or you can come to the station with me. Take your choice.

I’ve told you all I know, but if it pleases you, please do continue asking your questions. I have answered them thus far—or weren’t you paying attention? She remained standing.

He ignored her criticism. If you don’t know the man, how can you justify saying that he killed someone?

The man who was killed is called Henry Holmes. I read in the paper he was pulled from the river with multiple jagged cuts and equally jagged stab wounds.

Is that where you got the idea to write your letter?

Brianna was incensed. Look, I gave you enough details of what happened that you should have traced the murderer right to his place of residence. I even told you about the bloodstains, which you’ll find there in the kitchen on the table, walls and floor. I’m sure you’ll also find the broken beer bottle there that killed him, if the killer hasn’t gotten rid of the evidence; but I doubt he has because he’s not much into housekeeping. He was drunk, and accused his friend of cheating at cards when he kept losing—and one last thing, the letter is dated before they pulled the man from the river. What more can I tell you?

You can tell me how you know all this? Can you think of a reason why I shouldn’t suspect you of having something to do with Henry Holmes’ death?

Brianna glared at him. Go to hell, Mr. Sherman. Any idiot should know I wouldn’t risk exposure by sending a letter if I had something to do with the man’s murder. I’m no authority on law enforcement, but perhaps you might benefit with some more training in PR skills and investigative tactics. Her hands were on her hips and her legs spread slightly apart, and more upset than she could ever recall being previously, she shot flying daggers at him with her look.

Tom Harrison, the silent partner, shifted from one foot to the other, noticeably perturbed at Sherman’s forcefulness with a young woman who was the nearest thing they had to a witness in a brutal murder. As chief investigator with the Department, he was working the case with Sherman, giving him a chance to become familiar with department protocol and technique. He decided he didn’t like Sherman’s technique much.

Sherman didn’t like anyone telling him to go to hell, and was trying to control himself, but he wasn’t doing a good job of it as he came out of his chair and took a step toward Brianna.

Brianna backed away from him, wanting space between them. She didn’t have to ask him what he was thinking. He was all ready putting two-and-two together, although he was having a hard time assembling it as anything other than fiction or surrealism.

What do you do for a living, Miss Taylor?

That question is personal and has nothing at all to do with your investigation.

Then let me guess. Are you one of those psychic people who read minds?

Is that a professional question or a personal one? Brianna asked acidly.

Look, Miss Taylor, I’m trying to conduct an investigation here, and you seem intent on screwing it up.

Wrong, sir! You seem intent on screwing it up. You ask questions that have nothing to do with your investigation, you like to play the tough guy, and you’re extremely argumentative. She glanced over at the silent-one. Perhaps your partner needs to ask the questions.

The silent-one, Investigator Harrison, an icon with the department for the past twenty years, suddenly shifted his weight. He didn’t like the damn job of shadowing these new guys, supposedly training them. Sherman wasn’t a rookie since his previous experience on the police force earned him an impressive referral and resume. He was a certified Florida officer recently transferred to the sheriff’s investigative team, and assigned the Henry Holmes case as his first assignment. Harrison’s job was to observe, take notes and serve as a backup. He was having trouble remaining passive.

Sherman’s face turned crimson at Brianna’s statement, the blood rising up from his neck and throat into his face. He felt the heat of it. The tiny curl at the corner of his lips reflected his mood. He was angry as hell.

Sit down! he ordered, motioning toward the sofa where Brianna sat earlier.

She glanced sharply at him, afraid that if she angered him too much, he could drag her in on a trumped up charge that wouldn’t hold ice water, but would make things uncomfortable enough that she wanted to avoid it. Okay, you don’t have to yell, she replied and fell heavily on the soft cushion.

Brianna used every tactic she could think of to divert the questions away from her visionary giftedness.

Miss Taylor, I need you to tell me exactly how you discovered the information you’ve written in this letter about Henry Holmes’ murder.

She hedged. It was just woman’s intuition. I felt something when I bumped into him at the grocery store.

And you expect me to charge the man with murder based on your woman’s intuition? he asked with a twisted grin resembling a sneer.

No, sir, I do not. I expect you to go investigate what I’ve told you, find some evidence, and then charge him.

His frustration was obvious when his face turned red again.

Harrison, the silent one, stepped forward. Miss Taylor, a man has been murdered, and your letter is the first piece of evidence we’ve had. If you can tell us anything at all that will help us find the man’s murderer, then that is all we’re asking.

Mr. Harrison, I can only tell you what I’ve all ready said in the letter. I have no other information for you, she said, throwing out her hands despairingly and shrugging her shoulders.

That’s not entirely so, ma’am. You had to gain the information from some source. That is what we need to know. How did you learn about the information you put in your letter?

Woman’s intuition, she said sharply, flinging out her hands and arms in another exasperated shrug.

A few times during my career when leads on a case ran cold, we’ve requested the help of psychics with some fairly good results. Are you suggesting that you gained this information through psychic abilities?

Brianna’s face tensed, and she pursed her lips, feeling heat flood her face. She scratched an unknown itch on her neck, buying time. If I was a psychic—and I’m not saying that I am—do you think I would admit it to you. If word got around to that effect my life would never be the same again.

Brianna glanced at Sherman whose skepticism and amusement shrouded his face. Look at your partner, she said to Harrison. He’s laughing at the thought of such a thing. Psychic abilities aren’t something most people are ready to believe. Can you imagine the ridicule I would have to endure from disbelieving people like him? Even worse, if someone did believe I was psychic, curiosity seekers would never leave me alone again. I’m not a palm reader, Mr. Harrison, and I sure don’t want people knocking on my door with their palm sticking out.

Harrison nodded his head. He understood her concern. Lots was written about psychics lately, and some television networks ran stories about psychics helping to solve crimes, but she was right—most people weren’t ready to believe anyone had the capability to envision facts and details of a crime. If people couldn’t think it, feel it, or do it themselves, they didn’t believe it.

Miss Taylor, I understand what you’re saying, Harrison said agreeably, and for the time being we’re willing to let it go at that. After we investigate the details in your letter, however, if our investigation is inconclusive we’ll be back and expect you to give us some much better answers than you have today. It was a threat of sorts, but at least he let Brianna off the hook for the time being.

As it turned out, the Sherriff’s Department was able to make a strong case against the murderer. When he knew he was cornered, he made a deal with the district attorney, confessing the whole story about the killing, which miraculously fit the details almost precisely to those in Brianna’s letter.

Investigator David Sherman, with egg on his face, made a special trip out to see Brianna and tell her the news. He also apologized for his earlier attitude during his questioning of her, and admitted the Holmes murder was his first case after transferring to the Sheriff’s Department from his previous job on the police force. As a token of friendship, and for the pleasure of calling her Brianna rather than Miss Taylor, he invited her out for dinner. She accepted.

Afterwards, he became a regular visitor to Brianna’s home.

Brianna glanced at the gas gage, and pulled off the Interstate at the next exit. Glancing at the wreath of flowers on the passenger seat, then at her watch, she decided she still had plenty of time before dark to deliver the wreath sent by her mother.

CHAPTER TWO

Oakwood Cemetery was one of the town’s oldest cemeteries and filled almost to capacity. Brianna had to pass by it on her way home, and remembering her mother’s request, she pulled into the entrance and parked. With the wreath in hand, she walked through the maze of graves, trying to step around or over them, aiming in a direction toward Baby James’ small grave. She had taken this same path many times over the years, just as other family members had.

There was a time when her mother made these pilgrimages herself to bring flowers to the tiny grave of the child she thought of as her son, but after moving to Orlando, the task fell to Brianna following her graduation from college and her permanent residency in the Taylor family home. We mustn’t forget him, her mother constantly reminded Brianna, implying that Baby James had no one else but the Taylor family.

She came to the small grave with a headstone containing a little child-size angel sitting on the headstone containing the words: Baby James Taylor, loving son of Brad and Lorraine Taylor, Born December 25, 1968, Died December 26, 1968.

Baby James was born five years before Brianna’s birth.

Hello little baby brother, Brianna said, kneeling to place the wreath on the small grave. You know that Mama sent me like she always does when she can’t visit you herself. Just as she does every Christmas, she put something under the tree for you, James. She didn’t tell me to, but this time I decided to bring it to you before Marsha’s girls made off with it. I hope you like it.

She put the small package, wrapped in Santa Claus paper, on the grave slab, knowing it probably wouldn’t be there when she came back. That didn’t matter, however. The thought of giving it to Baby James was all that was important.

Baby James, I sure wish you could tell me what happened that day between the time you were born and the time the doctor told mama you died. Mama said the nurse wouldn’t even let her see you, using the excuse it would be too upsetting. Yet, when Mama finally did see you in your tiny coffin, she swore you weren’t her baby. She said you didn’t look anything like Jody’s twin. The doctor informed her that you and Jody weren’t identical twins, and Mama said she knew that, but she said she remembered a strong similarity between her twins after holding them in her arms at the same time. She swore you weren’t the same baby she first held.

Someone cleared his throat.

Brianna jerked her head up sharply, startled.

Sorry, Brianna, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just driving by and saw your car parked back there at the entrance. Are you just getting back from Orlando?

David Sherman, you frightened me out of my wits, she gasped, then took a deep breath of air.

Sorry, he said sheepishly. I expected you to tune in on me as soon as I parked my car.

She sent him a frown. You know it doesn’t work that way, but to answer your question; yes, I just got back.

He was looking at the gravestone. Is he a family member?

Well, there’s always been some question about that, but…

I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I confess I heard what you were saying. Your mother buried him, but she didn’t believe he was the baby she gave birth to; is that about it?

That’s it. He’s supposed to be the twin to my brother Jody, but Mama doesn’t believe he is.

What does she think happened?

She believes the baby in this grave belonged to someone else, and when it died, it got switched with my brother’s twin. It’s the only plausible story.

He bent over, looking handsome and sexy, and picked up the wrapped Christmas package on the grave. He was wearing a dark blue suit with a blue and gray striped tie and a sparkling white shirt, looking handsomer than ever at his six-foot height.

Did you put this here? he asked, feeling the package, trying to guess what was inside it.

I did, and you don’t have to crush it to find out what’s inside. Just open it if you want. She smiled at his curiosity, suspecting when he was a little boy that he opened all his presents under the tree before Christmas morning arrived.

He tore into the present, ripping the paper away as anxious as a little kid might. That was part of his charm. He was a seasoned investigator for the Sherriff’s Department and a tough guy when he had to be; however, there was still a young boy inside David.

David balled the Christmas wrapping paper up in his fist, gazing at the miniature train set lying in grooves in the box. I always wanted one of these when I was a small boy, he said pensively, memories churning in his head and chest like heavy weights.

He recalled his excitement each Christmas as a child when he opened his presents; then came the terrible letdown when he found nothing but school clothes and necessities such as a new toothbrush, lunch pail, or pencils, paper and other school supplies. There was never a toy for him, except once. He still kept it on his key-chain; a rabbit’s foot, the only gift his mother ever gave him besides necessities. There was never enough money because his drunken stepfather had to have his six-pack of beer every day of his life even if there wasn’t a morsel of food in the house.

Brianna smiled at his close examination of the little train. You can have that one. I’m sure Baby James won’t mind in the least sharing it with you.

He shook his head. Oh, no, I didn’t mean that. No, this one belongs to Baby James, he said, and set the box down on the grave slab. Tell me some more about the story of Baby James being switched with another child, he said as he rose back up to his full height.

Brianna shrugged. "Well, as time passed, Daddy said Mama started feeling