Andy's Disappearance [Part 1]

When he woke the following Monday, Josh found himself staring at the small black pouch Andy had given him. With shaking hand, he picked up the pouch and pulled out a small black composition notebook. Slowly he opened it and started to read. The pages were full of names, dates, addresses, and weapons. Josh couldn't believe it. He recognized the dates because of the murders he was working on, but there were more deaths here than he had record of. He flipped through page after page of them until a folded page separated more writing.

These weren't dates, but a list of weapons and locations. Josh closed the book and held it against his lips. Why had she given this to him? Her actions, her expressions, even her words had rung with some truth to the amount of damage that had happened to her. So, if she truly didn't care then why hadn't she just killed him and left this information unknown? There had to have been more to Andy's story than she had told him. Getting up, Josh drove to work. He had just pulled his case files out when the Chief of Police approached him.

"Josh, are you sufficiently recovered?"

"Yes, Sir," Josh replied.

"I understand from Lyle that the girl in your hotel room had been your friend."

"Yes, Sir."

"Do you think someone was trying to frame you because of your pursuit of the case?"

"No, Sir. She orchestrated her own death in order to give me information needed for my case."

"How did she get it?"

"That's what I need to find out, Sir."

"Would you like assistance?"

"Not right now, Sir."

"Alright. Keep me apprised."

"Yes, Sir."

Josh sat at his desk and reviewed the case. He reorganized the deaths according to the dates in Andy's notebook. It wasn't until he had gone through a few pages that he noted a small star next to some of the children's names. He flipped back to the front of the dates, but found no key to indicate what the star meant. He flipped to the end of the dates and found the note. *=Other Life.

'Other Life?' he thought. 'What does she mean by that?'

He thought about the note for another moment before starting to turn back. The last name on the list caught his attention before he could fully turn the page.

Bobbie Rock 10/19/12 Police Station Hands

Bobbie was part of the squad. He was the one who tested evidence possibly related to crimes. Taking the book with him, Josh went down into the lab. It was cold enough that they may not smell the decay yet. He started searching the closets. He was nearing the stairs again when he found Bobbie's body. Stale air and fecal material wafted into the air causing him to cough and nearly gag. Josh covered his mouth while he looked at the body. Lying on his chest was a journal. Grabbing some gloves, he picked up the journal. He opened the cover and found the scrawled words. "Other Life."

Did this mean that this journal belonged to Andy? Josh turned the next page. The words were just as scrawly, nothing like Andy's neat handwriting. It was difficult to read. Taking it with him, he returned upstairs to report Bobbie's body.

He waited while forensics did their work. Then he returned to his desk while the body was taken for a proper autopsy. Slowly he pulled the journal out again and read the scrawled handwriting. It took some time to discern each word, but as he started getting use to how the letters were formed his speed increased. This was the voice of the Andy he knew, not the Andy who came to him the previous weekend. As he read, all he could think was that he couldn't trust anyone in his department. He put the notebooks in his bag. He left.

Josh went home and scoured the "Other Life" journal. He read detailed dream after dream of horrendous murders and each time she described herself, she was wearing the exact outfit he'd seen her in at the hotel. The outfit she had worn in every dream of this journal so far. When exactly did she start wearing it? How was she able to do her work in such high heels? He paused when he came upon the date of the shooting in Salt Lake City. He remembered that day. It had been raining. He read her entry.

I pulled the trigger. The 9mm kicked back in my hand as the bullet was discharged and the casing was expelled from the chamber. A scream filled the air covering the soft tinkling of the casing landing on the wet asphalt. Smoke rose from the barrel, guiding my gaze to the set of dark brown eyes before me. They were opened wide, staring, as a trickle of blood slid down the right side of his nose. The blood continued to his open mouth. More blood drenched the right side of his face from the gaping hole above his right eye.

The scream continued to fill my ears and the gun in my hand made it's way back to its holster in the small of my back. The man leaned slightly to the left. Sharp metal clattered on the ground as he continued to fall. Gun out of sight once more, I ran before his body could complete the fall. I had to escape, find someplace safe. My heart beat hard in my chest, faces of people blurred as I passed. Rain pelted me, bringing my awareness to my increasing discomfort. Streetlamps were nothing but large stars above me. I needed to find someplace safe. I turned a corner and slowed, but continued to walk quickly.

I was shaking even more now. Where was I? My steps started to slow before I entered the warmth of a familiar Denny's and blinked against the bright interrogating lights. A few customers glanced at me as I made my way—dripping and shaking—to a corner booth. I sat with my back to the wall, where I could face the door and watch the street out the window. Those eyes. Chills ran down my spine and I hid my mouth behind locked fingers. It was just like my other dreams. Horrible dreams of children, the old, fathers, and/or mothers being killed in horrific and inhumane ways. I was still shaking—more now—as my wet body struggled to warm up. The rain was coming down in torrents. Several people were running for shelter and cars crept slowly through the increasing puddles. I didn't hear the employee approach me before she spoke.

Her voice startled me and I turned to her, my right hand automatically reaching behind me ready to pull my gun. Her wide eyes caused me to stop. I apologized and ordered a hot chocolate. I took a deep breath and rested my head against the wall. What was I doing here? Why had I come downtown? Was I having flashbacks because of my nightmares? The scene had felt so real. A man had come out of nowhere, brandishing a small switch blade and yelling at me. His words weren't understandable, nor were they foreign. I could still hear the scream of a woman coming out of a nearby shop, as my hands had fired a true shot to his head.

My hands were shaking more now. The tremors strong enough to match those of withdrawal symptoms. The man's eyes filled my mind again. No longer a flashed image, but more of a photo. They bore deep into my soul. There had been no malice in those eyes. Slowly, I drew my gun out and held it under the table. I checked the magazine, just in case. I was short one bullet. I clicked the mag back in place and returned the gun to it's concealed home. The employee returned and set the hot chocolate in front of me with a napkin and spoon. She left once more.

I sat up and wrapped my shaking hands around the warm cup. Ripples moved through the hot liquid as my nerves continued to spasm and release energy. Several chills ran down my spine before I dared lift the cup from the table. Ever so slowly I tipped the cup and let the chocolate sear my numb lips. The heat numbed my tongue and burned my throat. It was too hot to drink. Carefully, I set the cup back on the table so I didn't spill any. Picking up the spoon, I stirred the liquid and turned to look out the window. No more people could be seen on the street, just the blurred lights from the cars and the star-like streetlamps.

What was happening? Why was I still here? I had just shot someone. My stirring stopped and I rested my hand on the table. I shouldn't be here. But I didn't move. I couldn't move. Those eyes. I killed them. The scream. Shuddering I stared into the hot chocolate. The brown was slightly lighter with the cream mixed in. Picking up the cup again I let a little more liquid enter my mouth. Still hot, but perhaps it was what I deserved. I had killed someone. Slowly, I sipped the liquid, not setting the cup back onto the table.

The noise of conversation finally reached my ears and my gaze shifted from table to table. No one was watching; no one glanced in my direction. An employee stood by the register waiting to ring someone up. Another was serving food and another was busing tables. Beneath it all was the elevator music coming from the speakers in the ceiling. Shivering again, I set the half empty cup on the table and opened my trembling hands. They were pink from holding the hot cup, yet I felt like they were a blackish-red—like the blood that flooded from the bullet hole I created.

Sirens sounded distantly and increased in volume. The flashing lights of two police cars sped down the waterlogged streets and faded into the distance. They were likely headed to the place where I had killed the man. What should I do? I had vowed not to use any weapon like that. That was until my parents were taken. Fisting my hands, my head lowered as tears stung my eyes. The dream I had the night they were taken was horrendous, too. Several tears slid down my face as I recalled the dream. I took a shuddering breath. I couldn't make a scene. I needed to know what to do. My already shaking hands shook more as my tears continued to fall. What should I do?

My heart constricted and I felt ill. More tears slid down my face as I picked up my hot chocolate. The next sip tasted sickeningly sweet. What should I do? Perhaps I had taken the wrong step already and it wouldn't matter what I did. More sirens passed—an ambulance and a fire truck. My arms crossed my chest. The warmth of the restaurant was no longer enough to stave off the chill that settled deep into my bones. What should I do?

I felt trapped. Stuck between wanting to forget it and knowing I needed to tell someone. Shivering, I reached once more for the hot chocolate. I knew I should have worn a thicker jacket. My hands still shook, but not with the previous intensity. No sooner had I wrapped my fingers around the cup then my phone vibrated. I jumped sloshing hot chocolate over my hand. Fumbling with the napkins, I got my hand wiped off before reaching for my phone. It was Josh. Why did it have to be Josh?

I lied to him. Josh couldn't know what I had done. Though a very good friend, he was a cop. He could read my voice better than my expressions because of all the hours we spent talking on the phone when he wasn't working. I hung up on him. I had never hung up on him before, but I didn't want him to read into my situation more than he had. I stood and paid for the hot chocolate before stepping back out into the rain. I ran for the bus stop further down the street and got there just as the bus was pulling up. I heard Josh call me over the pouring rain.

He must have seen me running from Denny's. Ignoring his call, I got on the bus. Tapping on before sitting in the back of the bus, away from the windows. I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. My eyes closed. I wanted to disappear. Slowly, I raised my head. Only a few others rode the bus—an obese, balding man in a wheel chair; a frail, middle aged woman on oxygen. A nurse sat by her side; and a few teenagers with their music blasting through their ear buds to drown out the engine of the bus.

But I felt, despite my avoidance, that Josh would follow me. My phone rang again, but I silenced the ringer. I didn't want to talk to anyone. I had killed someone. Those brown eyes, the gaping hole. Everything blurred as more tears filled my eyes. I pinched my hot cheeks with icy fingertips to tell myself it was a dream like all the others, but the pain was real and I was still on the bus headed to the nearest Trax station. What I wouldn't give for a warm blanket right now. No one else got on and no one got off. Not that it would have mattered. I was alone and cold.

Bright lights lit up the Trax station, only casting shadows where the furthest cars were parked. To ask for an empty station was too much. Business men and women stood huddled by the covered benches, while others gripped their umbrellas tightly, so they wouldn't be pulled from their grip in the wind that accompanied the torrential rain. UTA police were patrolling the platform, making sure everyone had their ticket before boarding the train. I was relieved that Josh's car was not in the parking lot. I showed the UTA police my pass as the next southbound train pulled into the station. The sooner I got home, the sooner I could dry off.

Warm air left the train as the doors opened. Very few people got off and nearly half the platform got on. Despite the heater, and the nearly shoulder to shoulder group of people in the train car, I was still cold. I hung onto a bar close to the door and several people crowded in behind me. One man, a whole head taller than myself, stood directly behind me. His broad chest reminded me of Josh, but I didn't look up. I kept my gaze on the red and green speckled gray floor as the train left the station. The train car was silent save the laughter of a group of men and rap music coming from someone's ear buds. I was still dripping, but trying to wring out my clothes would be a worthless endeavor since I still had a short walk home once I got off the train.

'Next station. Old Greektown,' the automated announcement said.

Eleven stops. Then a two minute walk in the rain. I'd be…

"You've done well despite your break," Jag said, running his fingers through my hair.

"I don't know what you are talking about," my cover said, not recognizing the man and shifting away from him as best she could.

J

osh paused. Andy had told him she didn't know who the man was on the Trax. But he had noticed the voice he'd started with was not the voice that spoke about drinking hot chocolate in Denny's. Nor was that terrified voice detailing the events now. He continued.