Playing with Fire (21 page)

“Maybe get a vibe from that ugly red sofa?” I say in a semiteasing tone.

She sort of laughs. “We'll take any help we can get.”

The good thing is that you don't have to worry about them being there,” I say, “since we know they're headed to the mountains.”

“Eric and I are on our way,” she says. “We'll pick you up in about ten minutes.”

H
ey, Samantha,” says Eric, as I hop into the backseat of their unmarked car. As usual, he is casually dressed and looks like a regular guy, like he could be one of my brother's friends. I doubt most people would ever suspect he's a cop. “How's it going?” he asks.

“I'm not sure,” I admit. “But it's great to see you guys.”

“Samantha's been busy,” Ebony says. “She's been doing some impressive undercover investigating for us.”

“And it's been lonely,” I say.

Eric laughs. “That's why most cops have partners. You need some backup in our line of work, Samantha.”

I explain how I usually involve Olivia, but because this task force was top secret, I couldn't tell her a thing.

“We've made some real progress these past couple of weeks,” says Ebony. “A few more arrests, and things might actually slow down a bit.”

“That's Tate's apartment up there,” I point out the window. “The one on the corner, second floor.”

“Looks dark in there,” observes Eric.

He parks near the stairway that's closest to apartment 214 and leads the way up the stairs. Then he knocks on the door, announcing, “Police, open up,” and waits about
a minute before he pulls out his crowbar and forces the door open. “Police,” he says again. “We're coming in.”

It's dark in the apartment, but Ebony finds a light and turns it on. The place, not surprisingly, is very messy. Clothes are strewn about. There are dirty dishes and carry-out boxes as well as a slew of empty booze bottles all over the place. My guess is that these boys have been partying hearty just about 24/7.

There's the lovely red sofa,” I say as I point to the back of a worn-out piece of furniture. There are dark stains and a large rip that exposes some white stuffing in the back. Eric walks around to the other side and suddenly stops. I can tell by his expression that something is wrong.

I freeze, and Ebony steps in front of me, her gun ready for backup; I suddenly wonder if I'm wrong. What if Zach and Tate are still here? Maybe they decided to wait until —

“You don't need your gun,” he tells Ebony as he kneels beside the sofa.

We both hurry over to join him, and there is Felicity-face pale, eyes closed, with one hand over her mouth, the other one twisted behind her back, exactly like my dream. Even the syringe is there. My legs begin to shake, and my head is starting to spin. “Is she dead?” I whisper, but I think I know the answer.

Ebony puts an arm around me and guides me out of the apartment. “Sit down,” she commands when we get to the stairs.

I don't argue. My rubbery legs give way, and I sit down on the top step, hanging my head between my knees as’I begin to sob. “Oh, God,” I cry, “Oh, God…why?”

I can hear Ebony on the phone, explaining the situation and asking them to send backup and the medical examiner. Finally she hangs up and puts her hand on my shoulder. “You okay?”

I look up at her. “Not really.”

“I know this is hard, Samantha. Probably the hardest thing about being a cop. And trust me, it never gets any easier. That's the truth.”

“I feel like it's my fault.”

“No.” She sits down beside me and cups my chin in her hand, forcing-me to look into her face. “It is not your fault. If anything, you did all you could to warn this girl. You warned her boyfriend. You actually told her your vision, Samantha. It's not your fault. Do you understand?”

Tears are still streaming down my cheeks, and I can't catch my breath. “I just—just feel—so—so horrible.”

“I know you do. We all do. No one likes to see this sort of thing happen. It's tragic.”

“I wish we could've done something…something more.”

“Short of having her locked up, which would've lasted about twenty-four hours, there, was nothing you or anyone else could do. You need to accept that.”

“But why?” I sob. “Why did God give me that vision…if I couldn't help her? I just don't get it.”

“God has His reasons, Samantha. We don't always understand, but we have to trust Him. Maybe God just wanted to give Felicity another chance.”

“But she wouldn't take it…”

“No, she wouldn't.”

A police car with flashing blue lights is pulling into the parking lot now. “Come on,” says Ebony, helping me to
stand. “Let's get you downstairs and in the car. I need to go look around some more, collect some evidence.”

I let her lead me to the car and help me into the front seat. “Will you be okay?” she asks as she locks the doors. I nod, although I seriously doubt this. I don't think I'll ever be completely okay again. I feel numb as I sit there. And confused. Why has this happened? What is the point? And why has God involved me? It all seems so pointless. So useless. Such a horrible-waste. I lean forward, put my face in my hands, and continue to sob.
Why? Why? Why?

I'm not sure how long I sit there crying, but finally the tears subside, and I look up to see there are a number of police cars around. There is yellow tape barricading the stairs, and people, probably neighbors, are nervously moving about the parking lot. I notice a cameraman sneaking under the yellow tape and creeping up the stairs. I guess the police will deal with him.

Someone taps on the passenger-side window, and I recognize the handsome face of Derrick Swanson from the six o'clock news. I can tell he wants to ask me a question. Probably something like, “Did you know Felicity Tompkins? Can you tell us how she died?”

I turn and look away, hiding my face with my hands in case someone tries to get me on film. Suddenly that image flashes through my mind again. That dead girl with a long strand of bright blue hair across her pale cheek. Poor Felicity. Why did she go back there? Why didn't she believe me? I wonder if Zach was involved, and yet I don't see how he could not be. He was living there with Tate, wasn't he? Surely he was aware of this. But why would
these two guys just nonchalantly head out to go snow-boarding with a dead girl lying there on the sofa? Are they that heartless, that callous, that cruel? I know that drugs change people, but I cannot imagine Zach, my brother, being that cold.

I wonder where Zach and Tate are right now. I look at the clock to see that it's close to eight. They might be at the cabin by now. Something could've already gone wrong. Zach, like Felicity, might be dead right now. I suppress the urge to scream. I feel so helpless…so hopeless… What's the use?

“Dear God,” I begin to pray out loud, “I do not understand what's going on tonight. It feels like everything is spinning out of control. Is this all because of drugs? Please, please help Zach. I know he's made some very bad choices. Some very stupid choices. But he needs You. He desperately needs You. Please help him, God. Protect him tonight. Keep him safe. Bring him home.” I continue to pray, sort of rambling and probably mostly incoherent, although I think God understands incoherent.

I open my eyes in time to see a gurney being pushed past the car. Her body is wrapped in gray, a good color for death. They wheel her to a police van with the initials ME—I'm sure for “medical examiner”—on the side. It seems obvious that her cause of death is drugs, more specifically an overdose. But they will probably check for other things. I close my eyes and try not to think of what kinds of other things…or how they could possibly relate to Zach. And then I feel sick—seriously sick. I open the door, jump out of the car, bend over, and vomit on the asphalt. Again and again I heave, barely managing to stay on my feet
because my head is so dizzy. I'm about to fall over when I feel a pair of hands on my shoulders, and Eric is helping me into the backseat.

Camera lights are flashing, and I hear Ebony yelling at someone, “You can't print those without permission! She's a minor, and her parents can and probably will sue you.”

“Let's get out of here,” says Eric as he gets into the driver's seat. He turns on his flashing light, the one that's hidden inside the car, and then he hits a siren like a warning for spectators and newspeople to get out of the way.

“Keep your head down, Samantha,” commands Ebony. “I don't trust those news folks any farther than I can throw them.”

Once we're out of the parking lot, Eric turns off his flashing light. “Where are we going, ladies?”

“Do you want to go home now, Samantha?” asks Ebony.

“I don't know…,” I mutter. Then I admit that my mom's not home and won't be until late.

“Why don't we take her back to the station with us?” says Eric.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “Why don't you?”

Back at the station, Ebony checks her messages and makes some phone calls while Eric tries to cheer me up with some hot chocolate from the machine. Unfortunately, it tastes like cardboard. Or maybe it's just me.

“Samantha,” says Ebony in a very serious tone. “I need to talk to you.”

I look at her eyes and can tell that something is wrong. Very wrong.

“Come in my office.”

Once I'm seated across from her, she sighs deeply,
and I think I can see her eyes getting moist. “What's wrong?” I ask. “Does it have to do with Felicity?”

“Tell me again what Zach was wearing in your dream…when you found him facedown in the snow.”

“His Gap denim jacket and white Adidas tennis shoes,” I say in a wooden voice that doesn't even sound like me.

“Right…” She picks up a pen and rolls it between her fingers.

“Why?”

“I heard back from the authorities, the ones at the ski resort where Zach and Tate were headed.”

“And?”

“You were right about Chuck Denton's cabin. They tracked it down. And there had been a fire, and a shooting.”

My hand flies up to my mouth. “Is it Zach?”

“The young man's pockets were empty. No ID. But he had on a denim jacket and a pair of white Adidas.”

“Is he…is he…dead?”

Ebony gets up now and comes over to my side of the desk. She wraps her arms around me and begins to sob. “I'm so sorry, Samantha. So very, very sorry.”

Things get very, very blurry now. I feel as if someone has just pulled the plug on my life. Maybe it's God. Maybe it's Satan. But something in me just dies…and I do not see how I can go on.

“Here,” says Eric as he hands me a glass of water. I'm not sure how much time has passed, but both Eric and Ebony are looking at me with worried eyes.

“Are you okay?” asks Ebony.

“No.”

“Yes. I would expect that.” She's gently rubbing my back. I can tell she's doing this, but it's like I can't feel it. Like I can't feel anything.

“Do we need to take you to a doctor or anything?” asks Eric.

“No.”

“I tried to call your mother,” says Ebony, “but her phone's turned off, and I just couldn't leave a message. Not about something like this.”

I look at the clock above Ebony's desk. It's 9:25. “They're at a concert in the city/’ I say in a flat tone. “She said it'll go until midnight.”

Ebony frowns and looks at Eric.

“They need someone to identify the body, Samantha,” he says in a quiet voice.

“I think it's too much for her,” says Ebony.

“No,” I say. “Let's go.”

“Are you sure?”

But I'm already on my feet, opening the office door. Like a programmed robot, I'm going down the hallway, putting one foot in front of the other, pushing open the exit door that leads to the stairs to the garage. Soon we're back in Eric's car, I am slumped in the backseat again, and he is driving us through town. The city lights are blurry and fuzzy and weird. I'm not sure if it's from the rain
or
the tears. Everything about tonight seems surreal and impossible. And I actually begin to think I'm just having one of those dreams. I lean back, close my eyes, and surrender to it. I surrender to God. I figure if He's going to kill me anyway, since that's what this feels like, He might as well get on with it.

“Samantha,” says Ebony. “We're here.”

“Huh?” I open my eyes and then blink at the bright light that's streaming into the backseat of the car. “Where am I?”

Ebony reaches in to help me out. “Remember…we're up in the mountains…at the sheriff's department…to see about Zach.”

To see about Zach, to see about Zach… Those words keep echoing through my mind as Ebony and Eric lead me into a small brick building. And then I remember. Oh yeah, Zach has been shot. He's dead. We need to identify him. I notice a clock as we go inside. It's eleven thirty. Mom and Steven are still at the concert. Hasn't it been about a week since they went up there? Shouldn't they be back by now?

“Right this way,” says a man in a tan uniform. I think someone told me his name, but it went right
over
my head. I'm not really functioning at full capacity just now. I wonder if I'm really here at all.

It's a small room. Brightly lit. There is a table off to one side. Not an impressive table like you see on television shows. It looks more like the kind of folding table the church might use for a potluck. This is not a potluck. On top of the table is a body that's draped in a white tarp. Zach.