The Suicide Society

Book 1: The Suicide Society

by William Brennan Knight

Genres: Horror; Supernatural suspense; supernatural horror

Synopsis

From Book 2:

What if time reality kept repeating itself and your subconscious mind remembered every past reality?

Would it drive you mad?

If you're living with an ever-present tension, anxiety and hopelessness you can't understand, you're not alone. The second book in the Suicide Society series offers a terrifying glimpse into a world where time is manipulated, and unwitting victims suffer the subconscious consequences of living in multiple realities.

Rational Insanity is a time-travel thriller that explores the possibility that our angst and depression may be caused by influences much more profound and ominous than we could imagine. Will these time resets affect the Suicide Society and the work it did to save the world, or will a new reality emerge that is much more terrifying than the one it replaced?

If you like books by Kenneth Johnson, DJ Molles, Robert Masello and Stephen King, you better clear some time in your calendar for The Suicide Society Series because you'll want to read all the books from cover to cover.

 

Release date: May 22, 2019

Publisher: Altron Services

Print pages: 454

Sample

Chapter One

 

Zach Randall clutched a cup of water with both hands while trying to control his shaking extremities. He was uncomfortably cold, but perspiration lathered his body in a slick, sticky film. An acrid stench radiated from his pores and filled every cranny of the small studio apartment. Groaning in agony, Zach fell from the chair and landed with a blunt thud. Blood began to seep into the whites of his eyes as he thrashed about in the worst of convulsive seizures.

Concentrate.

He forced himself to push back at the terrible invasive vision that eroded his will. Zach tried to picture Carol and Mandy, but the apparition was punishing and relentless.

As he inevitably gave in to the searing agony that permeated every cell in his body, the gray vision pushed his feeble defensive mental image aside. Swirling mists of steely gray slowly parted, and Zach struggled to control his ragged breathing.

It was a woman this time. Through the haze, he saw her in his own mind’s eye, sitting in an unraveled wicker chair. Her long brown hair was streaked with white, and unkempt clumps stuck to her face and forehead. A lit cigarette dangled between her index and middle finger, and her thumb flicked spasmodically at the filter tip. Her head bobbed from side to side while she mumbled incoherently. They always talked to themselves before it ended, almost like there was someone else in the room.

As the fog continued to clear, the frames in the vision looked like an old reel-style movie. Periodically they jumped backward, and the focus was lost as small snippets repeated in an endless loop.

Zach sorted through the murkiness, looking for the means. It was often a gun or a handful of pills. Sometimes they used something more gruesome, like a shot of Drano or a wad of Sterno gel. Whatever method they chose, the end never varied. The undertaker would have another dead corpse to drain and fill in the morning.

Zach stumbled over to the sofa and collapsed. He let out a grunt of satisfaction as he sunk into the soft cushions. The pain in his head subsided as he abandoned any further attempts to resist the vision. Like smoke spreading through a room, it continued to fill the recesses of his mind. Small blood droplets began to dry around his nose, and noticeable tremors receded into slight twitches.

The landscape was colorless and washed-out gray. The woman sat in a sparsely furnished room on a couch whose padding had long ago given way to age and the weight of its occupants. There was a kitchen table of the swap meet variety and a small range and refrigerator. Several magazines lay open, scattered haphazardly across the floor. A few unopened bills and an empty bottle of prescription medication shared space on a warped coffee table.

Zach forced himself to pause and focus the vision on the pill bottle. It was well within reach of the flabby arm that stretched over the side of the chair. From previous experience, he instinctively knew that it was the implement of death.

He changed his perspective back to the face of the woman as her shoulders slumped while she gasped for breath. Her head rolled to the side, and puddles of spittle began to form at the corners of her wrinkled mouth. She was dying, and Zach Randall would have an unobstructed, non-elective front-row seat to the whole affair.

With extreme effort, Zach lingered on the end table for a moment. There was something else of importance nearby; he could feel it. His senses were on high alert, and he examined every item carefully. There was a creased package of cigarettes, partially crushed and probably empty. A book of matches lay next to the wrapper, and small cockroaches scurried in and out of a stale bag of Doritos. A digital clock flipped numbers and read: 9:44. A yellowed envelope balanced at the edge of the table, almost ready to fall off. He looked at it through the gray mists. The envelope had writing on it; it had an address.

Zach grimaced and pulled himself up while concentrating his effort on the paper. Empirical evidence had never appeared in any of the previous seven visions, so this was a new and unexpected development.

Focus—focus, he chided himself while pushing his mind closer to the open envelope. He exerted such an effort that his hands curled and seized involuntarily. The writing was in a shaky cursive, and there was a deep coffee stain ring on the face of the paper.

Closer. He twisted his body in an effort to exert his will over the vision and control its perspective.

Clarity was fleeting, but Zach gritted his teeth and forced himself further. The first name was Helen—no, not Helen—it was Helena. Helena—Bostwick. Zach grunted, and his breathing quickened. He wiped a sheet of sweat from his brow and turned his effort to the second line.

The numbers were relatively easy: 501 followed by an N, which he assumed was an abbreviation for North. The next word remained elusive, but he recognized its importance. Through the reverberations and mists within the hallucination, he struggled to interpret the scraggly text. The process was painfully slow.

Somewhere in a corner of his mind, he heard a reverberating moan. The sound grew in volume as it expressed a complexity of raw emotion. Someone acquainted with the grievous mourning of the dead could recognize the sad expression of shock, sorrow, and indignation. Zach Randall knew the resonance well. He heard it on seven occasions before this evening and vividly recalled the wrenching pain of everyone.

Helena Bostwick was near death, and Zach’s voyeuristic intrusion into the last moments of her life would soon end.

Zach’s teeth clenched as his mind filled with an intense spike of pain. Waves of agony blurred the portal and further obscured the writing on the envelope. The image of Helena Bostwick faded, and the chance to find meaning in these visions would soon be gone.

In frantic haste, he moved his attention to the last line on the envelope, looking past the unintelligible address to the numbers on the zip code. The woman exhaled a final, heavy sigh, and her head slumped forward. Simultaneously, the vision receded as reality encroached. In desperation, Zach strained to see the writing on the letter. As the blackness enveloped him, the numbers 60007 briefly emerged in negative relief.

 

***

 

The morning light crawled slowly across the bedroom through a small slit in the vertical blinds. Years of being pushed aside to reach the latch on the sliding patio door had warped the slat, and like the whole house, it bore the subtle imprint of a comfortable, long-time occupant.

Today would be far different.

She opened her eyes and stared at the light. Like nearly every summer morning in Arizona, the sun was blinding and intense. Reaching over the nightstand, she fumbled for a cigarette. Too many nights filled with endless “what ifs.” Even the nightmares were less terrifying than the miserable reality within her troubled mind.

The phone rang. The bill collectors rarely called this early, but you never knew. She waited for the second ring. The phone stopped, paused a few seconds, and then rang again. It was the secret signal. She picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

“Kath, it’s Tammy…. How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay—I guess. I… it’s hard, Tam.”

“I know Kathy, you’ve been through hell.” There was a pause. “Do you have everything packed? What time do you have to leave?”

“The sheriff said I have to be out by two, but I’ll leave by nine, so I’ll only miss a couple of hours of work.”

Soft static interrupted the silence. “All right, Kath, just get in here as soon as you can, okay?

“Sure…. And Tammy?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know if I could hold it all together without you.”

“Thanks, hon. I know how hard it’s been. But we still have to talk when you get in, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

Kathy Rodgers hung up the phone and lay motionless across the silk sheets that clung seductively to the Saatva mattress.

The sun was shining full now, and with effort, she dragged herself into the bathroom and started the shower. The water cascaded from the Barnard 14k gold fixture, and as it poured over her head and torso, Kathy began to cry. Soft and nearly silent at first, her sobs grew in intensity until she finally curled up on the shower floor in a semi-fetal position.

Why did it happen? In just over a year, her perfect world was violated and horribly disfigured. One phone call, a New York minute and all that, and everything crumbled around her with the shock of a figurative tsunami.

She could recite the phone conversation by heart. Doctors are technicians, and as such, their lack of compassion is almost comical in a macabre way. The words reverberated and rang hollow off the shower walls as she played the different parts through tears of pain.

“Mrs. Rodgers?”

“Yes?”

“This is Doctor Michaels, Ryan’s pediatrician from Ravenswood Hospital… I, ah, received the results from the tests we ran last week.

“Yes, and were they negative?” She remembered twisting her hair while the intervening seconds passed in suspended animation.

“Ah, there is a problem. Ryan has a 3-centimeter lesion in the fourth quadrant of his pre-frontal cortex.” The doctor paused; his breathing was rapid and audible. “It explains the dizziness, the fatigue and the sudden mood swings.”

“A lesion? What is a lesion?” She had asked.

“It’s—a tumor.”

That day, the doctors had given a death sentence to her precious little boy. The four-year-old with the sparkling eyes was going to die in a slow, agonizing way, and there wasn’t anything on earth she could do about it.

Of course, everyone tried. Tom quit the Prosecutor’s Office and spent the better part of the next year seeking out the country’s preeminent specialists. They went from conventional surgery and chemo to experimental treatments without success. All their effort ended on a small, obscure path of scientifically rejected potions and tonics offered up by greedy medical carpetbaggers.

Mercifully, Ryan died before his sixth birthday. She remembered the funeral for its small, white coffin, and flowers that looked almost artificial.

The burial was the last event that they attended together as a couple. Their marriage had traveled down parallel paths that ultimately arrived at the same destination. No matter how far they climbed, the gravity of despair seemed to pull them back down.

The divorce was far too civil, and as Kathy exited the shower and reached for the vodka, she realized that her drinking had started in earnest just after Tom left for good. She took the bottle with a shaking hand and filled a tumbler nearly half-full. A splash of tomato juice served as the last thread of self-denial. She brought the glass to her lips and drank heartily.

The ring of the doorbell jarred her from the indulgence of self-pity, and she donned a gray haltertop and ran down the sweeping stairs to the foyer below. As the door opened, she saw the sheriff fingering a folded envelope while shifting his weight uncomfortably from side to side. The man next to him was dressed in coveralls and a baseball cap that said Big Ed’s Movers.

“Er, I’m sorry, Mrs. Rodgers, but you have to move out today. You know that, right?” He offered the foreclosure eviction without making eye contact.

“Of course, Sheriff Tyler. Let me just get my suitcase, and I’ll be ready to go.”

She refused to let them see her cry. No matter how much it hurt, she would not give them the satisfaction. Grabbing her handbag, Kathy raised her chin, strode through the door, and nodded politely at the sheriff, who smiled and nodded back. He found no enjoyment in this part of his job.

Kathy got into the Jaguar, and with a shaking hand, started the car. The vehicle wasn’t new, but there was still a balance on the loan. If the repo company could catch up with her, she knew it would be towed away. Pulling out of the driveway, she turned south on Scottsdale Road and headed toward the offices of Wineskin, Stein and Marshall. She would be late again, but really, who cared?

 

***

 

“Please, I’ve got to get away. Please help me!” The woman jerked her neck backwards repeatedly. She appeared disheveled, agitated and quite distraught.

The trucker looked down from his perch inside the cab and shook his head slowly. He reached into his back pocket, extracted a moist handkerchief, and started mopping his neck while grinning sheepishly. “I don’t know,” he said while weighing the potential downside, “I’m on company time.”

The trucker drove a fuel tanker, a big rig out of Phoenix, 7000 gallons filled to capacity. He made the trip several times before, taking over for Big Mike when the doughnuts, bacon, and greasy spoon cooking finally caught up with the second-generation German immigrant. He leaned out of the cab and spat a wad of chaw that landed with a wet, thick splat, and splashed a few grains on the woman’s worn loafers.

“Please,” she repeated, this time with a hint of panic in her voice. “I said I’ll do anything…. Anything.” She looked back over her shoulder. The message was unmistakably clear: this woman was in some serious trouble.

He rubbed at his two-day stubble, deep in thought. “Well, yer sure yer sayin’ you’ll do anything?”

“Yes, yes, anything—let’s just go!” Her face contorted, and she pulled loose strings from her fraying and faded print dress.

“Well, climb in then; I’ll take ya out to Phoenix, but that’s as far as I go.”

The woman bounded up the entry ladder into the cab on the passenger’s side. The smell of chewing tobacco was suffocating, and it mixed with the odor of stale sweat and rotted beef jerky. While pushing beer cans and various wrappers from the seat, her hand landed in something wet, and she recoiled from the tobacco mess that clung like stringy snot from her fingers. The driver turned toward her and grinned, his lips peeling back to reveal teeth corroded by decay and stained a burnt orange.

The truck let out a belch of diesel and moved out on highway 96, and Sarah Johansen leaned back in the seat and closed her eyes. She was breathless from the fear that enveloped her as the miners' shanties rushed past the moving semi-tractor, their dingy, peeled yellow color forming a near continuous blur. She fought against the tears while looking away from the trucker, whose greedy eyes fixed on her ample cleavage. He chuckled under heavy breath, and she shivered with the same naked fear that had become so much a staple of her everyday life.

Looking out the passenger’s window, she was drawn to her own reflection in the large side mirror. Like Arizona itself, the landscape of her face was a rugged map of craggy lines and deep scars.

She felt the hand lay heavily on her thigh and instinctively shuddered and stiffened. The trucker pulled back and sneered.

“Hey, what’s with yew?” he asked. “The deal is that I git whatever I want. I’ll turn the truck around and you can git off right where I picked you up.”

“No, you can’t,” she said. “Please, they’ll kill me if I go back.”

The grin returned as his lips rolled back over his rotted teeth. “Then I’d git a whole lot more friendly if I was you.” The hand returned to her thigh. “You like that don’cha?” The tone of his voice was like thick, spoiled syrup.

Sarah shook her head and forced a smile. A well-rehearsed part she played for one so vile, the trucker was Errol Flynn by comparison. Long ago, she learned the best way to handle the assaults was to acquiesce. The sooner she complied, the sooner the episode would end.

She implored him to watch the road, and while the endless miles passed, the tension between the two of them grew. The trucker calculated how to make his next move and where he could stop to achieve his ends. Sarah plotted escape routes and ways to string him along until they reached civilization.

“Ya know,” he said as tobacco juice drizzled down his chin, “there’s a truck stop up ahead where we could get some privacy.”

“Oh no, that won’t do at all. What kind of girl do you think I am?” It was her turn to grin shyly. “The least you can do is find us a hotel room in Phoenix.”

The trucker grunted and turned his attention to the road. He pressed the pedal down hard. He hoped he wasn’t going to regret picking this woman up.

   Chapter Two

 

They sat in a quiet corner of the café at the same table they always occupied on most Tuesday nights. Many peripheral relationships became awkward after the divorce, but saving this friendship had been worth it. They were in a comfortable place, and Zach desperately needed the companionship Jarad Anston offered.

“Did you find anything?” Zach asked.

Anston gave an incredulous side-glance as he reached into the breast pocket of his sport coat. He pulled out a photocopied paper and laid it on the table. “This is it, Zach, all that I can give you. Now, how about telling me what’s going on here? Sharing sensitive IRS data with a private citizen could land me in prison, you know.”

“I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.”

Zach carefully looked at the W4 form in front of him. He had a growing sense of both exhilaration and chilling fear as he gazed at her name. The document provided tangible evidence of Helena Bostwick’s existence and the motivation Zach needed for further investigation.

“Are you certain this woman lives in the 60007 zip code?”

“It’s a suburb outside Chicago called Elk Grove Village. Apparently, her phone number isn’t current, so you'll have to find that yourself. But the address is what she listed on her last tax return.”

Zach massaged the paper as though it might reveal something more than the antiseptic truth of her vitals. The form came from a previous employer and listed her as Helena Morgan Bostwick, with a birth date of December 13, 1981. The address was blanked out except for the city and zip code, and the phone number was also missing.

“This is it? Can’t you give me anything else? Help me out here, Jarad.”

Anston grabbed a breaded mozzarella stick from the sampler platter and generously dipped it in the accompanying marinara sauce. “Awfully odd to tell you the truth. She had very little in her file.”

“C’mon Jarad. You’re a consultant for the IRS, for God’s sake. There has to be more on her than this.”

“Sorry buddy. I can’t dig any further without leaving a paper trail, and that’s way too much exposure. But—if you want to tell me what you’re working on…”

“I can’t. At least not yet. I’m not sure if I believe any of it myself.”

Anston leaned back, puffed his cheeks out, and exhaled slowly. “Zach, you’ve got to move on. It’s been over a year and a half. Your doctor has given you a clean bill of health, and this isn’t a good time to regress. The meetings are still on the first Monday of the month. You have an open invitation, and…”

“I’m not regressing, Jarad. I’m not hallucinating, projecting, obsessing or suffering from a functional brain deficit. I understand what I did, and I’ve come to terms with it. The past has nothing to do with this.”

“Look, I’m your friend, and I’ll help you in any way I can,” said Anston. “But as your support group leader, I have to admit I’m a little concerned. You call me and ask for information on some woman in Chicago you’ve never met. Do you realize—let me pick the words carefully—how unusual that sounds?”

“Okay, I’ll grant you it’s strange, especially in light of my past. But I promise you this has nothing to do with my… illness.”

Anston leaned in closer to Zach. “Did you know Carol is dating?”

The words felt like a knife stuck directly into Zach’s heart. He lowered the teacup and set it on the table. “She’s dating? Who?”

“Does it matter, really? The point is she's moving on with her life, and Zach, so should you.”

“Well, that’s great. I’m really pleased for her.” Zach ran a finger around the rim of his cup. “Jarad, if you’re asking me if it hurts, the answer is yes; it hurts bad. But if you’re wondering if the pain over my divorce is causing me to relapse, you’re wrong.”

 

***

 

Pulling up in front of the Williams Center, Kathy Rodgers realized she had lost track of time. Glancing down at her wrist, her Cartier read 10:32. She was late, but it had become so much of a habit she only felt a twinge of guilt.

Reaching into her purse, Kathy extracted a compact and applied a new layer of makeup. The image looking back from the small mirror was disturbing. The deep, thick lines emerging around her eyes belied the age of a 36-year-old woman. She snapped the compact shut, reached back into her purse, and pulled out a hip-flask of vodka.

The elevator stopped at the 17th floor; Kathy stepped out and walked through the huge mahogany doors into the law firm where she had been employed for the last six years. The golden letters behind the receptionist’s desk highlighted the name of the company and still glittered brightly. Wineskin, Stein and Marshall… How many years had she hoped that one day the name “Rodgers” might find its way onto that wall?

“Good morning Mrs. Rodgers.”

“Good morning, Gail, do I have any messages?”

“No, but the partners want to see you in the conference room immediately. I’m to intercom them as soon as you arrive.”

Kathy’s head cocked slightly. “Any idea what they want?

The receptionist looked away. “I’m sorry Kathy. I have no idea.”

She walked down the short hallway to the large conference room reserved for the corporate clients. When she entered, Rodgers immediately sensed the somber mood. “Good morning, Kathy.” Edward Marshall was the Managing Partner for the firm.

“Good morning, Ed.” Then, nodding toward the other occupants, she said, “Good morning, Jim, Larry… Tammy.”

“Kathy, please, please take a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

“No thanks, Ed.” She looked from face to face, reading body language that told her something was very wrong.

“I’ll get right to the point then. We lost Rossier Airjet, Kathy. You didn’t make the court date on the 15th. That’s inexcusable in itself, but you left a client sitting in front of the judge without representation. We’ve looked the other way for almost two years now, but I have to think about the well-being of the firm. Wineskin and Stein employs 27 people who depend on this place for their livelihood.” Marshall made an expansive gesture toward the main office area, which was lined with small, occupied cubicles.

“So, what are you saying, Ed? Look, let me talk to the client. I know Jim Frontz; he’ll listen to me.”

Marshall shook his head. “No, he won’t Kathy. He says your error cost him millions in the court of public opinion. The media had a field day attributing his no show to an admission of guilt.” He wrung his hands. “It’s over, Kathy. I’m sorry, but we have to terminate you.”

Rodgers smiled and let out a muted chortle, waiting for the prank to be exposed. After a few seconds of ensuing silence, there was little doubt that Marshall’s edict was serious.

“Tammy?” She looked at her friend, who continued to avoid eye contact.

“I’m sorry, Kathy. We’re unanimous on this. You had so many chances. This is a business after all.”

Rodgers felt light headed, and she staggered a moment. Could it be the stress of the meeting or the effects of the vodka?

“Er, Kathy, you’ll have to excuse me, my 10 o’clock has arrived,” said Ed Marshall.

An awkward silence fell over the room, punctuated by the whirring of the server in the IT closet and the muted sobs of Kathy Rodgers. Finally, gathering herself, she straightened her back and wiped the smeared mascara from her face. She pushed the conference room door open and spoke without facing her former co-workers.

“I will pray for you all today despite what you’ve done to me. I will pray none of you will ever endure a tragedy like I have. For if you do, perhaps you’ll understand what compassion truly means.”

Then, turning toward Tammy Adams, “You, of all people. I thought you were my friend. You said you understood what I was going through, and you acted like you cared. Go look in one of your Latin books and see what, ‘et tu Brute’ means.”

Her sense of satisfaction faded by the time she reached her car. Kathy Rodgers, the one-time rising star of the Arizona legal community, was homeless, penniless and now unemployed.

She slammed the car into gear and turned out on Shea Boulevard without any particular destination in mind. She might have driven for hours, but Rodgers was oblivious to the passage of time. With her foot planted firmly on the accelerator, she kept waiting for the nightmare to end. Irrational thoughts bubbled up through her subconscious. Perhaps more speed would obliterate this false veneer and send her back to the privileged life she once knew.

The speedometer read 95 and rising, but she couldn’t outrun the gloom that smothered her life. She turned on route 87, heading north through the Tonto National Forest toward Payson.

The desert remained hot, dusty and forsaken. Its hostility was palpable and evident in every unfriendly plant and venomous animal. Time slowed, and the landscape darkened, providing a rare moment of complete clarity. Kathy fully recognized the hopelessness of her situation.

Without an actual conscious thought, she made a nearly instantaneous connection between the car and a huge ironwood tree that stood towering against the backdrop of the Black Mountains. A sly grin crossed her gloss-painted lips, and she turned the wheel slightly, which put her on a direct path with the tree. Kathy tossed her head back, shook her long blonde hair and screamed as she slammed the accelerator to the floor. The vehicle plunged into an unexpected dark abyss.

Oooooo, death by blunt force trauma. I haven’t been in a car wreck for some time. Not original, but still exciting.  

The voice came simultaneously from the passenger’s seat and from inside her own head. In slow motion, Kathy turned to look at the slight, ghastly, pale figure that sat beside her. She smiled at the man, convinced he was merely a hallucination. Her mind was clearly unraveling.

The car swerved violently, and for a painfully long moment, Kathy thought she would lose control. Two wheels came up off the ground and then slammed back down with a hard thud. The Jaguar skidded to the side of the road and gently came to rest against the ironwood tree, hidden in a thick cloud of brown dust. The paint on the car was barely scratched.

For a long moment, Kathy looked curiously at the passenger. He continued to stare back with an unwavering grin, and he periodically licked his thin lips.

Finally, he waved his hand and looked to the sky as if he was searching for the right words. “You know, I enjoy watching somebody’s skull get crushed against a windshield as much as the next person. But perhaps, Ms. Rodgers, you would like to consider something different…”

 

***

 

Zach sat in an oversized chair, looking out over the triangular park that anchored downtown Albuquerque. It was a vibrant city these days, and the pace of change was breathtaking. Only a half million people lived here when Zach migrated from Southern California, but when the fuel cell industry decided to call New Mexico home, the population exploded in just 10 short years.

The downtown Albuquerque library was the only place he could think of where he might find an out-of-state address. He tried the internet, but neither free nor paid searches yielded anything useful. Zach brought his focus back to the 5-year-old Northwest Chicago suburbs phone book that lay open on his lap. Running his finger down the long page of names, he felt a growing sense of excitement and apprehension. Boston… Bostros… Bosttus… Bostvock; and then he found it. He stared at the name for what seemed like an eternity, almost refusing to believe his own eyes.

Helena Bostwick, 501 Bianco Dr., Elk Grove

Village Illinois, 60007.

Slowly, he moved his finger to the other side of the page and stopped directly over the phone number. Zach sighed and gently rubbed his temples. He found her contact information, but what should he do with it?

For several minutes he sat quietly, absorbed in the muffled sound of his fingers rubbing against the page. He knew he should just walk away from this. Chicago was a huge place, and the odds of finding any imaginable name were pretty good. Even with an address and phone number, the whole episode was probably nothing more than a bizarre coincidence.

Still, the compulsion grew stronger; an itch he somehow had to scratch. Zach negotiated with himself. If he called her, and she answered the phone, that would be the end of it. He would contact Dr. Hankar first thing in the morning and make an appointment for a complete physical. In fact, Zach hadn’t told anyone about the visions. Maybe Anston was right. Perhaps he was regressing.

Zach fingered his cell phone nervously before bringing up the call screen. He stabbed at the digits as they registered across the top bar. A brief unsettling moment of doubt made him hesitate before he finally pushed hard on the send button.

A long pause followed as the satellites locked in sync, and the familiar click of a successful connection came through the ear piece.

One ring… Well, at least he had a working number, which was an encouraging sign.

Two rings… Zach drummed his fingers and rocked back in the chair nervously.

Three rings… The woman was probably at work or out having dinner. Maybe he called too late. What was the time difference between Albuquerque and Chicago, anyway?

Four rings… She must be… “Hello?”

Zach’s throat closed tightly; he couldn’t find the words.

“Hello? Is there anyone there?”

In almost a whisper, he said, “Ah, yes, Ms. Bostwick?”

“Yes?”

Zach exhaled and collected his thoughts. Either the visions were a fraud, or there was another Helena Bostwick living in Elk Grove Village.

Just to be sure, “Is this Helena Bostwick?” There was no reply. He wondered if the line had disconnected.

“Ms. Bostwick?”

“Who is this?”

“My name is Zach Randall, and I’m, ah, an old high school friend of Helena Bostwick. I’ve been trying to find her for some time now. I hired one of those internet companies, and they gave me a list of possible contacts. You were on the list. I hope I’m not bothering you, but did you go to high school in California by any chance?”

She spoke between whimpers and full-fledged sobs. “No, my sister went to school here in Illinois. Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have to go. My sister, Helena—she, passed away last evening.”

Zach’s pulse quickened, and his breathing grew shallow. Bostwick died last night, just as he had watched it unfold. All at once, the visions had meaning. He had so many questions to ask.

“Ms. Bostwick, are you there? Ms. Bostwick?” The line was dead. Randal hesitated, but then hit redial.

She answered after a single ring. “Hello?”

“Ms. Bostwick, it’s Zach Randall again. I need to ask you a couple questions if it’s all right.”

“Why are you calling here, Mr. Randall? I told you Helena went to school in Illinois. Can’t you see we are grieving?”

“Well, yes, of course I can. But I have to ask you—I know this is unusual. Can you tell me how your sister died?”

She muttered under her breath. “Who are you? How can you barge in on our time of grief and start asking those kinds of questions? Are you from the insurance company?” The woman’s voice remained level, but smoldered with underlying rage.

“No, no, it’s not like that at all. You see, I have these visions… Last night, I had one about your sister. I saw something in the vision that led me to her. Pills. Ms. Bostwick, did she kill herself with pills?”

“… How dare you, Mr. Randall. I have caller ID, and I know your phone number. I’m calling the authorities immediately. You ambulance chasers will do anything to dig up filth on the dead. Let me tell you something, you dirty lawyer. Your client can claim innocence until the day he stands before God’s judgment, but it won’t change anything. Helena didn’t commit suicide. She took those pills because those bastards ruined her life. So help me, they will pay.”

There was only a muted click, but Zach instinctively knew she slammed down the phone with force. He sat for some time gazing absently at the rows of books that lined the aisles of the library. His visions were genuine, and the bone chilling reality was almost beyond comprehension.

As the most perverted of all voyeurs, he had intruded on the saddest and most intimate final moments of eight people. The trauma and pain on their tortured faces seared deep into Zach’s psyche and tore at his soul with new meaning. The episodes could no longer be dismissed as mere hallucinations.

Zach stood up and steadied himself by grabbing at the corner of the desk. He felt dizzy and sick to his stomach. No matter how he tried to hide from it, the visions weren't going away. He was compelled to learn more, and the thought frightened him to the core of his being.