Message in the Fire Read online

  MESSAGE in the FIRE

  By Dawn Merriman

  Psychic visions are tricky things - especially from a woman in a coma

  I find the murdered woman crumpled under a tree. Blood stains her back and her hands are bound. If I touch her, my psychic abilities will show me what happened to her. But I’ve lived through murders before and the visions leave scars. Fighting my fear, I touch her – and only see four names – Addlynn Jeanette Claire Margaret.

  The unmistakable cry of a newborn infant shatters the calm of the woods. Her body is wrapped around the tiny boy, impossibly small and fragile. I scoop up the screaming infant, and the woman moves to protect her son. She’s alive.

  Alive, but in a coma - a complete mystery. The detectives, my brother and his handsome partner, desperately need information. I’m the only one who can communicate with the woman. Touching her hand in the hospital provides only snippets of her life. Terrifying snippets, like how she got the scar burned into the palm of her hand.

  Visions are tricky things. The details float like smoke - lost in the haze. I can’t tell what she’s running from, but the woman’s terror burns inside me. I will find out who hurt her, and I won’t stop until I bring them to a fiery end.

  Book 2 in the Message of Murder series. You don’t have to read them in order, but Book 1 is “Message in the Bones.”

  Follow and interact with Dawn Merriman.

  Sign up for her newsletter at DawnMerriman.com

  Enjoy your story!

  Prologue

  Dirt, decay and plastic blend together in a horrifying perfume. The smell of the tarp covering my face chokes me. I need air, need the tarp off me.

  I try to swipe it away, escape.

  My bound hands remain behind my back. The sharp ties tear my wrists.

  Panic threatens and a scream bubbles from deep in my gut. I bite my lip hard to keep the scream inside. He thinks he finished me, I must be quiet.

  I suck in the putrid air under the tarp and focus on my body.

  I am alive, but I hurt.

  The gravel under me stabs in tiny pinpricks. A more intense pain blossoms from two spots near my shoulder blades. Another pain sizzles closer to my hip.

  My thin nightgown clings to the spots.

  My blood.

  My ears strain, listening for him.

  The wind rattles the wood sliding door.

  The panic threatens again and I roll to get away from the tarp. The rough plastic slides across my face. I ignore the pain in my back and roll again.

  The tarp slides away.

  The air in the shed smells almost as bad as the tarp. The pale moonlight struggles through the single tiny window near the peak, illuminating piles of boxes and old buckets and garden tools. I recognize the rarely used storage space. Knowing where I am spurs me to act.

  Moonlight glimmers in a faint line beneath the door of the shed, outlining the gap where the gravel has worn away under the door. A gap I might fit through.

  I roll against the door, my long nightgown tangling my legs. The sliding door swings outward on its track making the gap wider. I wriggle under the door pushing and writhing, desperate to escape.

  My head and chest push through the gap into the night. I gulp the fresh air.

  Freedom is close.

  Pushing with my feet, I gain a few more inches. I try to make myself smaller, shrink into the ground.

  My pregnant belly stops my progress under the door. The wood door cuts into my body, I push anyway. I gain another inch.

  The weight of the door pins me to the ground.

  Frustrated tears burn my eyes. Dry leaves tumble from the nearby trees. A single leaf lands on my face and clings to the tears.

  I can’t move my hands to brush it away. I can’t move from under the door.

  The panic swirls, adrenaline pounds in my blood, making me lightheaded.

  The baby in my belly kicks.

  The sharp pain focuses me. The tiny life needs me, nothing else matters.

  “God,” I whisper to the sky. “Please help us.”

  In the distance, coyotes bay at the moon. Overhead, clouds move in and block out the stars.

  The baby and I are alone in the dirt.

  Suddenly, branches rattle and more leaves fall. The leaf stuck to my face catches wind and blows away.

  A gust slams the shed. The door swings outward and my baby kicks me into movement.

  I dig my heels into the gravel and push in one final effort.

  My belly slides out from the door as it crashes back in place. My legs easily slide under the gap.

  We are free.

  I don’t waste time marveling at the freedom. I struggle to my feet and run.

  I know where the gap in the fence hides. Nolan showed me a few days ago. We planned to sneak through that gap together.

  Moving awkwardly with my hands tied behind my back, I climb through the gap and run into the woods.

  I don’t look back.

  The woods grow thicker. Brambles and brush threaten to stop me. The thorns catch the fabric of my nightgown, holding me back. I shove on, ripping the gown, tearing my skin. I run until my lungs burn with the effort.

  Leaning my face against a tree, I gasp for air. The bark prickles my cheek, centers me against the buzz of exhaustion in my head. I need to rest, but I have a long way to go to find help. My back aches and fresh blood trickles in warm streaks.

  I yearn to stop, to slide down this tree and give in.

  A sudden cramp in my belly bolts me awake.

  With my cry of pain muffled by the bark, I ride the swell. I’ve felt these cramps before, more recently in the last few weeks. The intensity of this one frightens me.

  When the cramp subsides, I tear through the woods again, as fast as I can.

  My feet find a game trail worn open by animals. I quicken my pace until the next wave of cramping stops me.

  Leaning on another tree, I try to breathe as mother told me, try to separate myself from the pain. I bite my already swollen lip, push my face against the tree until it hurts. Anything to block out the contraction.

  A few agonizing moments later, it passes, and I continue on.

  Struggling on in starts and stops, I distance myself from the farm.

  The trees give way to fields. Wide dark stretches of corn shake in the night like the sound of dried bones. I keep to the edges of the fields where the light is better and the going easier. As girls, we were not allowed outside after dark, and never alone. I fight between my need for light and the need for cover.

  I want to be home, safe in my bed, surrounded by the others softly snoring in their bunks.

  I keep moving.

  Occasionally, I come to a country road. I resist the urge to stop on the roads and wait for help. If they realize I’m alive and escaped, they will look for me, driving the back roads searching.

  Lights from the few farms I pass call to me as I make my way south. Cows stand quiet and still in pastures. Barns form dark outlines against the sky. Porch lights spill islands of safety on front yards.

  The safety is a lie. Those islands contain strangers. We don’t trust strangers, they don’t understand us.

  Rule number one.

  My only hope is to run, to get as far away as possible. My head swims, my legs ache, and the contractions come closer.

  I keep moving.

  Another road opens before me. I hurry across, feeling exposed. Lights from a car rise up suddenly, the first car I’ve seen tonight. Terrified, I sprint across the blacktop, slide down a ditch on the far side of the road.

  Without my arms available to balance me, I tumble down the ditch bank, landing in a crumpled heap in the brush.

  The car on the road above drives past,
oblivious.

  The urge to give up, to give in, overwhelms. A contraction clamps viscously, blocking out all but the pain. I grasp the weeds under me, tear at them, writhe against the cramping. A cry escapes my lips no matter how hard I bite them.

  Hot liquid pours from my body, drenching my nightgown. It cools quickly in the cold, clings to my legs.

  “Not yet, please, not yet. Just a few more miles,” I beg no one.

  The contraction passes, leaving me spent and empty.

  I struggle out of the brush and stumble on torn bare feet. Instinctively, I know I’m running out of time.

  In a haze of pain and blood loss, I shuffle through the trees, moving automatically.

  My mind drums with a single thought.

  Get my baby to safety.

  Another car approaches as the next road grows closer. This time, I eagerly move towards the sound. Hopefully I’m too far away for them to find me. The car passes long before I reach the road.

  Despair drags my already slow pace. My vision blurs around the edges, and I struggle to keep my balance, will my body to keep moving, keep moving.

  The trees thin a bit. Off to the left, a light breaks through the dry branches.

  A cross, backlit with a floodlight, peeks through the woods. A beacon of safety.

  I trust my feet as they take me towards the church.

  Another contraction slams into me, knocking me to the ground with its intensity.

  I lay in the leaves and branches of the woods. I can’t see the cross from the ground, just the soft glow of the light in the distance. The light keeps me company, comforts me.

  The contraction passes, but I don’t have the energy to get back to my feet. Near me, a fallen tree leans against another, forming a sort of shelter. I roll towards the tiny space, the only protection I have against the cold and damp. I snuggle into the leaves piled under the tree. I only have time for a few breaths before the next contraction washes over me.

  My vision blurs and unconsciousness dances in and out of my mind. I manage to wiggle out of my panties and brace myself against the tree as another wave comes.

  The urge to push overwhelms.

  I give into instinct and focus all my remaining strength on bringing my baby into the world.

  My mind begins to escape my body and I fight the desire to just float away. A final focused effort of pushing, and the baby slides out.

  It wails as it hits the cold air.

  The most amazing sound in the world.

  With my hands still tied, I can’t hold my child. I do the best I can with my remaining strength. I wrap my body around the tiny squalling bundle, forming a protective wall. The moonlight breaks through a gap in the branches, illuminating the scrunched face of my son.

  “God,” I whisper. “Protect my son.”

  The darkness I have fought all night finally wins.

  My child’s cry follows me into oblivion.

  Chapter 1

  Gabby

  One side effect of surviving kidnap and torture by a serial killer is people become over-protective. Grandma Dot loves me like no one else and finds reasons to invite me over, to keep me close, to keep me safe.

  Cleaning out her closet isn’t a bad way to spend a Saturday morning. I don’t have anything else to do until tonight when Preston takes me out for dinner.

  “When Mrs. Mott asked for clothes to donate to the church drive, I don’t think she meant for all of them to come from you,” I say to Grandma Dot, surveying the piles of on the bed.

  “Just trying to help out,” Grandma replies with crinkles at her eyes.

  “Where did all these come from? I’ve never seen you wear most of them.”

  “When you get as old as me, you collect things.” Grandma Dot flops down on the bed, causing a pile to topple over. Jet, her tiny black dog, yelps and wiggles out from the pile. “Maybe I’ve collected a few too many things,” she concedes gathering Jet onto her lap.

  “Now you’ll have room to collect more.” I turn back to the closet. “But maybe this time keep it under 10 tons.”

  “I like having stuff around me.”

  “So do hoarders,” I giggle.

  “Fair point.” Grandma Dot snaps into action. “I’ll get some bags and we can pack this stuff up.”

  Alone in the room, I reach for a box unearthed on a top shelf in the closet. It’s heavier than I expected, and it teeters on the edge. I can’t get a grip on it, and it tumbles off the shelf.

  “Crap on a cracker,” I shout as the contents dump on my head. “What a mess.”

  A jewelry box spills its contents on the carpet. Papers float down around me. A photo album lays open to a picture of a beautiful blonde with eyes the same clear blue as mine, snagging my attention.

  I barely recognize my mother in the picture, so different than the face I saw at my latest visit to her in prison.

  I slide off my gloves, worn to protect me from unwanted psychic impressions. Messages from my mom are welcome.

  I touch the picture, a ripple of feeling tingles in my mind.

  Happiness and sunlight, innocence and possibility.

  The impression is vague but comforting. I kiss the picture and flip through more pages of the album. A shot of Mom with my brother, Dustin, stings my eyes. She stands behind him, her arms around his waist, a huge smile on her face. Ten-year-old Dustin’s brown hair contrasts with her blonde. He wears a matching smile. I barely recognize him either. I can’t remember the last time I saw him smile, at least not at me. The happiness radiates from the picture, so different from the sadness and anger radiating from them in real life.

  Near the back of the album I find pictures of my father. The shock of his face staring back at me knocks the wind out of my chest. I haven’t seen his face since the night he was taken from us and I was left for dead, only to awake with a scar on my eyebrow and my psychic gifts.

  When we came to live with Grandma Dot, she scrubbed the house of any memories of my dad. Pictures of her only daughter’s husband vanished, and the name Nathan McAllister was never mentioned out loud. Grandma tried to protect Dustin and I from the horror of that night.

  She must have missed these photos. I suck up the images greedily, quickly memorizing the curve of his face, the strength of his chin, the expression of love in his brown eyes. He resembles Dustin, only softer.

  Guiltily, I slam the album shut before I get a reading from the pictures. I can’t, not yet.

  Mom’s wedding ring glints in the morning sun. I recognize it instantly, even though it was taken from her when they locked her away, and has been hidden here in the closet for twelve years.

  Placing the ring in my bare left palm, I close my eyes and close my hand around it.

  My father on his knee, Mom squealing with delight, Yes, of course. Possibilities, excitement, fulfillment. Cool metal sliding on her finger, family and friends at the wedding. Contentment, love.

  The story of my parent’s love pours out of the ring into me. A story I watched first hand. The beginning of the story so sweet and innocent. Different than the end of blood and pain.

  I drop the ring to the floor and open my eyes. Grandma Dot crouches before me searching my face with concern.

  She brushes the tears from my cheek, careful not to touch the scar above my eyebrow.

  “She was so happy,” I choke the words out.

  “Yes she was. They both were.”

  “She didn’t do it, Grandma. I know she didn’t kill him.”

  “I know. But we can’t prove it.”

  “What if I can prove it? What if he isn’t dead?” I plead like a child.

  “That’s dangerous talk, Gabriella. Even with all your powers, you can’t change the past.”

  I stare at the carpet, deciding what to tell her, not sure if she will believe me.

  “I saw him,” I whisper.

  “Saw who?”

  “Dad.”

  “You mean in a vision just now?”

  “No, at the cemete
ry after Karen Jennings’ funeral. He was watching me.”

  “Gabriella, stop it. He’s dead.” Her voice firm and hard.

  “But I saw him. I know I did.”

  Grandma Dot takes a deep breath, runs her hand through her tussled curls. “You’d just been through a very traumatic event. Is it possible you wanted to see him, and so you did?” I know she’s trying to help, but she’s wrong.

  “He was real, not a figment of my tired mind.”

  Grandma touches my hair, tucks a dark curl behind my ear. “It’s impossible. You know that.”

  “Lots of thing seem impossible, but are real. My gift seems impossible, my tattoo telling me to do God’s work is impossible. But these things are real too.”

  The small cross tattoo on my inner left forearm shows stark against my pale skin. I touch it now and sniffle.

  Grandma thinks for a few quiet moments, choosing her words carefully.

  “You’ve been through more than any woman should ever have to go through. You’re visions and the things your tattoo tells you to do are from a good place. You help people with those gifts. Imagining your dad is alive, that you saw him, will do no one any good, least of all you. You have to leave the past alone.”

  “If he’s alive, I can get Mom out of prison,” I point out.

  “Think about it logically. If he was alive, where’s he been for the past twelve years? If he’s alive, how can he let my Emily sit in prison for his murder while he walks around free?” her voice shakes with fury. “If he really is alive, if you really saw him, he better stay away or I will kill him myself.”

  Jet barks, agitated by Grandma’s anger. He jumps against her, drawing our attention away from the heated conversation.

  “You’re right, Jet. Let’s focus on something else, something we can control.” Grandma hands me my glove pointedly, and snaps a garbage bag open with a crack. “Let’s get this stuff packed up and drop it off at Mrs. Mott’s church. Help those we can.”

  She quickly packs up the spilled contents and places the box far back on the shelf, nearly out of sight. “There’s nothing in this box that can help you, Gabriella. I should have thrown it out too.”

  “Please don’t,” I beg. “Just leave it. Mom needs to be remembered as she was.”