Serial Saturday: A Touch of Fear by Zach Grant, Chapter One

Chapter One

Her eyes are wide and petrified as if frozen by a haunting spirit. Rachel chalks it up as a muscular release in her eyelids triggered by the end of rigor mortis. It’s a probable conclusion, yet I can’t help but feel that our victim is trying to tell me something. 

“Strange,” says Rachel, joining me next to the corpse. “No signs of trauma. No stab wounds, no gunshots. What do you make of it?”

I run my gloved hand over the pale cheek. “Do I have clearance?”

Rachel gives a hollow chuckle. “I don’t know, man. RCMP took the case, so this isn’t our scene. Want me to ask?”

“I can do it.” I manage a smile. “Just give me a second with her.”
The girl is no more than thirty. The long curtains of her blonde hair spread over the sidewalk like golden waves, shimmering in the morning sun. Her body seems untouched, like she simply fell asleep and would wake at any moment. But she won’t, and that thought roots itself in my heart like a six-inch dagger. I’ve never seen this woman before, but the thought that those beautiful eyes will never see the sky again makes me feel hollow.

Part of me doesn’t want clearance. Every time I perform the ritual, it chips at my soul with a blunt pickaxe. One day, it’ll be too much. But until then, I have a duty. Someone killed this girl, and no matter how much it hurts me, it’s my responsibility to discover who.

“Detective River.”

I look up when the man arrives at my side. He’s an important-looking officer with an ironed black suit and tie to match—a spectacle compared to my wrinkled dress shirt. 

“Yes, sir. I’m with the Vancouver Police Department.” I rise from my knee and feel my bicep bounce as the man shakes my hand.

“I’m Commissioner Wilson, RCMP,” he says. “Gathering data?”

“Yes,” I say. “I was going to ask…”

“Your clearance?” Wilson raises his eyebrow. “I’ve heard some scary stuff about you, River. Is it true?”

Scary—a simple word that nearly makes me laugh. Of course, it’s scary to me most of all. I don’t dare inquire about the rumours, but I imagine how distasteful they must be based on the expression of my superior.

“It’s true,” I say.

“Then, by all means.” He gestures to the girl. “I’d like to see this.”

My knee cracks when I kneel on the coarse sidewalk. My morning bagel wriggles in my stomach like a tangle of centipedes. The first time I officially performed the ritual, I vomited on the deceased victim—a grotesque mistake I haven’t repeated. I take a deep breath, my hand shaking with anticipation. Sweat clings to my palm as I peel the latex glove from my fingers. Then, the words I’ve uttered so many times flow from my mouth:

“Grant me permission to see—to share in your pain. Allow me into your soul so I might catch the one who did this to you.”

I place my bare hand on her forehead, her skin warmed by the morning sun. But the warmth lasts less than a second as a jolt shoots through my veins like a heroin injection. I stumble back, and my eyes snap open. White flaws in my vision circle the girl, like the centrepiece of a watercolour painting. Tears drip down my chin, and my breath picks up. This feeling is unlike any ritual I’ve performed before. 

“What is it?” Wilson demands.

I take a heavy breath and shake my head.

I’m gifted or cursed, depending on who you ask. I can feel the final moments of a person’s life—sadness, denial, fear—all emotions that provide insight into who committed the murder. Once, I solved a cold case simply by touching the victim—a young man murdered by his uncle. The feeling of betrayal narrowed down a small list of three suspects. 

The most common emotion I feel is denial—a mix of fear and sadness in a way that seems fictional. But what I feel after touching this girl isn’t even close to that kind of fear. It’s sheer terror, like someone experiencing the worst moments of their life all in one second. 

“Well?” Wilson prompts when I don’t answer.

“I don’t know,” I mutter.

“I thought you were supposed to be a magician, River,” he says. When I remain silent, he pats my shoulder. “Let me know if it makes sense in time. The victim’s brother is quite distressed. He could use some good news.”

I freeze, a chill crawling up my spine. 

“River?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Good. Thank you for your work. It pays to have a man who speaks to the dead. I’m sure my unit would kill for that ability sometimes.”

He chuckles and strides away.

I stopped correcting people long ago on the specifics of my abilities. It gets frustrating to repeat, “I don’t actually speak to them,” and, “It’s more of an emotional connection,” over and over again. No one could understand the weight that comes with my responsibility—how it feels to be overwhelmed by the emotions one feels before their life ends. Even those who studied me in the lab didn’t understand. No, it’s easier to play the part of the wondrous magician. 

“You okay?” 

I hadn’t heard Rachel return. Theories swarm my mind—synapses connecting words with emotions. One in particular prickles my skin—brother—to go along with another horrible yet familiar feeling that surfaced during the ritual. 

“I’m fine,” I say.

Rachel helps me to my feet.  “Did you get anything from the victim?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s hard to tell.”

She claps me on the shoulder, nearly sending me face-first into the body.

“Think about it, man. I’m sure you’ll figure it out,” she says. “Coffee?”

“Sure, lead the way.”

***

Coffee with Rachel always lifts my spirits. She is the only one I talk to besides my cat. Being alone with this gift is enough to drive anyone crazy. The familiar hum of the café and distant ruckus of downtown Vancouver always provide a comforting backdrop to our meetings.

Rachel sits across from me, her thin fingers intertwined around the white mug as steam fogs her youthful face. She tells me about how her kids refuse to go to summer camp and how her husband’s car was scratched by a reckless teenager. I love listening to her stories. They’re a gateway into her world that seems so peaceful. I know she’s happy despite her complaining. She had a rough upbringing and, like so many of our trade, let it harden her. That being said, she is still the kindest person that I know.

“Sorry, I’ve been ranting about me.” She places her mug on the table. “What’s new with you? How’s your sister?”

I avoid her eyes and stare out the window at the busy street. 

“Nothing new,” I say. “She’s good.”

“Getting up to anything fun tonight?” 

“Nope.”

Rachel laughs. “Careful. If you give any more detail, I might just learn something about you.” She sips her coffee. “Ah, you got it simple, Alan. Sometimes, I wish I had a little apartment with my brother. Just the two of us with no drama, like when we were younger.”

She playfully punches me on the shoulder when I don’t answer, sending drips of coffee down the side of my mug.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, using her napkin to clean my cup. “Is it the vision?”

A magician never reveals his secrets. Rachel is my only friend, but even she wouldn’t understand. I would never burden her with my curse.

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. So, what do we know about this girl?”

Rachel seems to want to push for more information, but eventually, her shoulders sag, and she gives in.

“Her name is Lara Henderson. She was missing for three days before a biker found her last night. Forensics will confirm the time of death, but the estimate is around twelve to twenty-four hours ago.” 

“So, she can’t have been killed on the sidewalk,” I say. “She was dumped there.”

“Seems so.” Rachel sighs and rubs her brow. “We don’t know how she died, who killed her, or even where it happened. All we know is that she’s dead.”

“Who reported her missing? Her brother?”

Rachel nods. “Conrad Henderson. Reported her missing yesterday but claims she’d been gone for two days already.”

“He waited two days to report?” My coffee sends bubbles of acid up my throat.

She shrugged. “I dunno, man. We could go talk to him if you want?”

“Might be our best shot.”

A brother who failed to notice his sister was in trouble for two whole days—I’ve never wanted to speak to anyone more.