Disturbing Images
The full moon shone on the young woman's pale blond hair, which shimmered like spun gold as a soft breeze blew the long, silken tresses around her angelic face. Her eyes, the soft blue of the sky on a clear summer afternoon, looked to the horizon where a new day was about to dawn. Gareth McConnell slowly reached out to touch the woman's arm. She turned toward him ....
The dreamer's piercing scream rent the air and woke him from his troubled slumber. He trembled, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, and a thin layer of perspiration coated his forehead and upper lip. His eyes opened wide, for he was anxious to see the harmless, mundane surroundings of his room. The mismatched, second-hand furniture he had purchased at the Salvation Army Thrift Store was a welcome sight. This rented studio apartment on the third floor of an old Georgian home on Washington Street in Grandview had seen better days, but it had become his home, his comfort zone, his refuge from a harsh, cruel world where beauty and innocence were so often defiled and destroyed.
To calm his shattered nerves, Gareth reached for the open bottle beside his bed and gulped the last of the cheap whiskey down. He had promised himself he would stay sober—oh well, there was always tomorrow. A lot of cops drank. Alcohol numbed their senses and helped them forget the horrors they witnessed while on duty.
Gareth knew a lot about cops, more than most people did. From the first Irish-born McConnell to step foot on American soil there grew an abundant crop of policemen, several of whom achieved high ranks in the Boston Police Department. There were several detectives, a sprinkling of chiefs and one who made it all the way to the lofty pinnacle of Superintendent of the Bureau of Investigative Services.
Not all the McConnells had the intelligence or the ambition to climb up the chain of command, however. Gareth himself never rose to the heights his more illustrious forebears attained. In fact, he had never gone beyond the rank of beat cop. He did not mind being low man on the totem pole. His job was easy and certainly not very hazardous. The only injury he had ever sustained in the line of duty was a black eye he received while directing traffic outside Fenway Park. He had been a rookie at the time and was foolish enough to come to the aid of a Yankee fan who had the audacity to shout "1918" to a group of drunken Red Sox fans after a New York victory. Thankfully, after Boston broke the "Curse of the Bambino" and won the World Series in 2004 tempers quieted down a bit, visiting New Yorkers became slightly less obnoxious and there were fewer altercations to contend with.
Gareth shook his head, attempting to rid his brain of the vestiges of the nightmare images that plagued him. Ever since he discovered the mutilated body of the young blond woman, he had been tormented night and day. He suffered what people often referred to as a nervous breakdown, and he was given a medical leave of absence from the force. He was instructed to get some rest—a euphemistic way of telling him the Boston P.D. didn't want any crazy, drunken cops on the force, not even assigned to directing traffic at Red Sox games.
"I'll show them!" Gareth drunkenly vowed. "I'll quit drinking, and eventually the nightmares will pass. I can forget all about her in time. Then I'll return to work as good as new."
Meanwhile, the bedroom light burned brightly, temporarily keeping the horrors that lurked in the shadows at bay.
* * *
Gareth walked down Washington Street toward the center of town. The Common in Grandview was a far cry from the one in Boston. A fraction of the size of Boston's famed park, the one in Grandview contained a bandstand (sometimes referred to as the gazebo), decorative shrubs and flower gardens, a fountain, a scattering of park benches, a public restroom and, of course, the statue of the town's founding father.
Had he not been under severe emotional stress, Gareth might have enjoyed living in the quiet, picturesque little seaside town, but such was not the case. He missed Boston, he missed walking his beat and he even missed the occasional altercation between the Red Sox fans and those who drove up from New York or Connecticut to cheer on their hated rivals, the Bronx Bombers.
"Here I am living in this one-horse town instead!" he groaned with frustration as he passed the Main Street Bookstore where a couple of mystery lovers were drinking lattes and cappuccinos at the coffee bar and discussing the latest Patricia Cornwell or Christopher Greyson novel.
As he strolled down Main Street in the direction of the Atlantic Ocean, he passed the Spiritual Seeker, a New Age shop that attracted teenagers, Wiccans, aging hippies and curious tourists. Gareth usually avoided the place. There was something about the owner, a woman with a pentagram tattoo, that bothered him. If this were the seventeenth century, he was sure she would be accused of witchcraft.
This place is almost as bad as Salem when it comes to weirdoes, he thought, as a woman in a long black skirt and purple peasant blouse emerged from the shop.
When she turned in his direction, Gareth literally stopped in his tracks. The long, pale blond hair and sky-blue eyes were unmistakably those of Cherylynne Greenwood, the dead woman whose image haunted his dreams. The beautiful blonde then passed by him without stopping. There was not even a hint of recognition on her face.
"Why should there be?" he asked himself. "She's never seen me before."
Gareth had never actually met Cherylynne, not in life anyway.
The sudden, terrifying realization that a dead woman walked the streets of Grandview left him shaking with horror. Feeling a panic attack coming on, he reached into his pocket, took out a pill bottle and popped a Xanax into his mouth. It took several minutes for him to regain some measure of composure. When he did, he tried to find her, but she was nowhere to be seen.
On the long, circuitous route back to the old Georgian home on Washington Street, Gareth had time to reflect on the situation. Despite his initial fear, he concluded that the beautiful blond woman couldn't possibly have been the murder victim he had discovered. Ghosts simply did not exist. Either she was a woman who bore an uncanny resemblance to the dead girl, or, more likely, his imagination was playing tricks on him. Perhaps his subconscious mind had superimposed the dead woman's features onto a stranger who only superficially resembled Miss Greenwood.
That sounds reasonable, Gareth concluded. Given the way my mind has been preoccupied with her, it's only natural. The girl at the witch store probably didn't look much like Cherylynne, at all.
By the time he walked through the door of his third-floor studio apartment, Gareth had managed to convince himself the encounter was nothing more than a simple case of mistaken identity.
* * *
Although the ghost of Cherylynne Greenwood may not be walking the streets of the quaint New England town, it was still very active in Gareth's dreams. After initially discovering the young woman's body, he experienced only three or four nightmares a month. The number escalated to at least twice a week when he first arrived in Grandview, but now it was a rare night when he did not wake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding with terror.
Lack of sleep and improper diet took their toll on Gareth's health. He lost close to fifteen pounds, and there were dark circles beneath his lackluster eyes. He still took his daily constitutionals, but it was as though a zombie walked the streets of the small New England village.
Then one day, while he was walking down Main Street with his head cast down, his mind dulled by alcohol and anxiety medication, he bumped into someone coming out of the bookstore.
"Oh, excuse me," the woman apologized.
"No problem," Gareth replied.
Looking up, he was astounded to see the blond-haired, blue-eyed countenance that had become so familiar to him.
"Cherylynne," the startled policeman mumbled with astonishment.
"Do I know you?" the young woman asked with a nervous voice as she eyed the haggard stranger.
"You're Cherylynne Greenwood, aren't you?"
The wild look in the man's eyes frightened the young woman. She was certain he was a complete stranger to her.
"I'm sorry. I have to go. I'm in a bit of a rush."
She hurriedly walked across the street and got into a white Subaru Forester that was parked nearby. As she drove away, she checked her rearview mirror to find Gareth McConnell standing in the middle of the road, staring after her.
From the time of that chance meeting, Gareth's dreams changed. It was no longer just a corpse that preyed on his sleep. A living, breathing young woman taunted him as well. Worse yet, the new images evoked more than fear. Like a succubus, the blond temptress awakened a yearning in him that did not vanish with the morning light and his return to wakefulness.
I have to find her, Gareth concluded. Only then will I be able to break this power she holds over me and finally get some peace of mind.
Thus, Gareth's previous preoccupation with the young murder victim blossomed into a dangerous, full-fledged obsession.
* * *
During the following month, Gareth spent his days from midmorning to late evening loitering in town, hoping to catch a glimpse of Cherylynne Greenwood. He would often sit at the coffee bar of the Main Street Bookstore, dividing his concentration between The Grandview Independent and the people who passed by on the busy street.
Once the counter began to fill, he vacated his seat and walked to the Common where he sat on a park bench until dusk. During his long hours of surveillance, Gareth daydreamed about the beautiful Cherylynne. After much consideration, he concluded that she was neither a ghost nor a succubus. He further surmised that she had never been murdered, that the killing had been nothing more than a hoax. Yet why would she fake her own death?
It was quite possible that she was in the Witness Protection Program. That would explain why she had looked uncomfortable when he recognized her in town. She might be living in the tiny Massachusetts village under an assumed name for her own safety. A more likely scenario was that Cherylynne was hiding out from an abusive husband. The latter idea appealed to Gareth's male pride as well as his personal and professional mission to serve and protect. It brought out in him a desire to shield the defenseless damsel from the monster she'd had the misfortune of marrying.
As he daydreamed about Cherylynne lying in his arms, grateful for his strength, his protection and his undying devotion, Gareth failed to notice the blond woman who left the library and crossed the street toward a white Subaru Forester. It was only when she unlocked the driver's door and got inside that he saw her.
"Shit!" he cursed, jumping up from the bench and running toward her car.
Cherylynne pulled out of her parking space and headed north on Main Street. On foot, Gareth had no hope of catching up to the moving vehicle, but he was able to get a good look at the license plate, and a smile of satisfaction crossed his face.
* * *
Cherylynne Greenwood was sitting in a reclining chair in front of her bay window absorbed in Philippa Gregory's The White Queen when the doorbell rang.
"I wonder who that can be," she said as she marked the page and placed her book on the end table.
She opened the front door and was dismayed to see the haggard stranger she had encountered outside the Main Street Bookstore the previous month.
"Can I help you?" she asked uneasily.
"Actually, I came here to help you," Gareth replied with a smile that turned Cherylynne's blood to ice water.
"Sorry, but if you're here to save my soul ...."
Gareth chuckled.
"No. It's your body I've come to save, not your soul."
Cherylynne moved quickly to shut the door, but Gareth blocked her.
"You don't have to fear me," he cried. "I'm a policeman, one of Boston's finest."
"What are you doing in Grandview, and what do you want with me?"
"I'm here to protect you."
"From what?"
"From that animal of a husband of yours."
"You must have me confused with someone else; I'm not married."
"There's no need to pretend with me. I know you're on the lam."
Cherylynne's eyes darted toward the phone on the kitchen wall. It was too far; there was no way she could outrun the intruder. He would be on her before she could dial 911. Her only hope, she realized, was to try to humor him.
"Look, Detective ...."
"Patrolman, not detective. Gareth McConnell of the Boston Police Department, badge number 1572, at your service."
"Officer McConnell, I appreciate your concern, but I assure you I'm quite safe here—honestly. The members of the local police force keep a close eye on me," she lied. "You can go back to Boston now and keep the peace there."
Gareth's eyes narrowed.
"Do you mean to tell me you actually trust some Bozo at the Grandview P.D. with your life and safety?"
"Yes, I do. Detective Winslow is no clown."
Gareth's imagination, which had been working overtime for the past year or so, made another giant leap into the realm of fantasy.
"So, who's this Winslow guy, anyway? An old boyfriend, or are you two-timing your husband with a flatfoot?"
"I really don't think that's any of your business. Now, I'd like you to leave."
"And if I refuse to go?"
"I'll call Detective Winslow and have him run you off."
Gareth leaped forward, catching her off guard. His hand quickly went up to her mouth to stifle her scream, and he dragged her, struggling, into the living room. He howled with pain as Cherylynne bit down on his finger in an effort to escape. Instinctively, his arm went up, and he backhanded her across the face. Her lower lip split from the force of the blow and started to bleed.
"Now look what you made me do!"
"Please don't hurt me," Cherylynne whimpered as she wiped the blood from her chin with the back of her hand.
"I don't want to hurt you, silly! I'm a cop. It's my duty to serve and protect the public, and I'm here to protect you."
Cherylynne stared at her menacing attacker, her sky-blue eyes vainly pleading for mercy.
* * *
Gareth McConnell vomited in the bathroom sink. Then he took a Xanax, showered and wrapped his bloodstained clothes in a Hefty trash bag. He would dispose of all the evidence on his way out of Grandview.
For the first time in several months, he slept soundly that night. There were no more bad dreams, no more beautiful, enticing succubus stealing his soul in the darkness of night.
The following morning, he telephoned his brother, a homicide detective in Boston.
"Where are you, Gareth?" his bother asked with a heavy sigh.
"Nowhere special."
"We've been looking for you—the family and Dr. Zelinksi."
"That quack!" Gareth exclaimed. "What does he want with me?"
"You need help, Gareth. We both know you do."
"That's a lie! I'm as sane as you are. I just had some bad dreams after finding that dead girl. That's why the force put me on medical leave."
"Don't you see what's happening? You're fantasizing again. You're not a cop, and you never were. You were kicked out of the academy seven years ago."
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"Gareth, are you still there?"
"Yeah."
The voice was weak, strained.
"I'm here, but not for long."
Gareth looked at the garbage bag full of bloody clothes.
"I gotta get out of here now. I ... I saw something yesterday."
"Oh, no," his brother groaned.
"She was such a pretty girl. I don't know why anyone would want to hurt her."
"Look, Gareth, you have to turn yourself in. Just tell me where you are, and I'll come get you. We'll get you help. I promise you won't go to jail. You're not responsible for what you do."
"I didn't do anything. I just wanted to protect her—like I always do. I didn't kill her. It must have been her damned husband. Yeah, that's it! Her abusive husband killed her."
The Boston detective put his hand to his forehead and pressed his fingers to his temple. He had heard the abusive husband story before.
"Then you have nothing to worry about, Gareth. You can come home."
The line went dead, and Detective O'Connell put an all-points bulletin out for his brother.
* * *
The full moon shone on the young woman's auburn hair, which shimmered like the embers of a dying fire as a soft breeze blew the short curls around her face. Her eyes, a dazzling green in color, looked to the horizon where a new day was about to dawn. Gareth McConnell slowly reached out to touch the woman's arm. She turned toward him ....
The dreamer's piercing scream rent the air and woke him from his troubled slumber. He trembled, his heart pounding furiously in his chest, and a thin layer of perspiration coated his forehead and upper lip. His eyes opened wide, for he was anxious to see the harmless, mundane surroundings of his room. The threadbare furniture he had purchased from Goodwill was a welcome sight. The basement apartment in a rundown row house in Paterson, New Jersey, had become his home, his comfort zone, his refuge from a harsh, cruel world where beauty and innocence were so often defiled and destroyed.
To calm his shattered nerves, Gareth reached for the open bottle beside his bed and gulped the last of the cheap whiskey down. He had promised himself he would stay sober—oh well, there was always tomorrow.
Talk about disturbing images! They don't come any more disturbing than Salem!
