Beyond Reach (4 page)

“How was the snow?”

“Awesome. I wish you could've come, Sam.”

“Me too,” I admit. But I don't admit that the real reason I passed on the invitation was because of finances. I know Olivia would've offered to pay my way. But I also know that she does that too much. And as Mom likes to remind me, I need to accept that our family's finances are not the same as the Marsh family's. And while I try to save when I can, it seems that I'm usually pretty broke. Maybe I really should look for a serious part-time job.

“Good luck on your finals,” I tell Olivia as we part ways to go to class.

Then I try to devote my full concentration to my finals. For the next couple of days, I try to block out the fact that God seems to be blocking me out. Okay, I know that's not true or even fair. But it's how it feels.

Maybe I should get used to it. Maybe this is simply the way it's going to be. I'll have a “normal” life and live the way other people do—trusting and serving God whether or not He communicates to me through supernatural means. Okay, fine. I can do that. I'm sure there've been times when that's all I wanted to do, times when the pressure of hearing God felt overwhelming. So why not just get used to this?

Finals week passes, and on Friday (a teachers’ workday) I'm considering getting some sort of job. I pray about this but don't feel any strong inclination one way or another. I've asked Mom's opinion, and naturally, she thinks it's a great idea.

“Unfortunately, we're cutting back due to budget problems at the park district,” she tells me. “Or else I'd suggest you try there. But even the day-care center is overstaffed right now.”

The truth is, I'd rather work someplace where Mom doesn't anyway I mean, I've always liked working with the kids there, and I might even consider applying for something similar to that somewhere else. But it would be cool not to work where my mom is everyone's boss.

So I'm perusing the rather skimpy employment section of the classifieds, realizing that January isn't exactly
the best time to be looking for part-time work. I jump when my cell phone rings, probably because it so seldom does these days. But that's mostly because I use it primarily for things related to Ebony and the local police department, although Olivia occasionally calls me on it when she can't get me on the landline. This morning Ebony's on the other end. I'm surprised at how happy I am to hear her voice.

“How's it going?” she asks in an offhanded manner.

Okay. How about you?”

“I'm doing well. Had a nice break over the holidays. Now I'm back at work, and things are fairly quiet here.”

“I guess that's good, huh?”

“In some ways, it is.”

I can't think of anything to say now. And despite being glad to hear from her, I suddenly almost feel like crying.

“Well, I hadn't heard from you in a while, Samantha, and I sort of wondered if anything new is developing for you. Anything you want to talk about.

It sounds like she's fishing, like she thinks I've been having some incredible crime-solving dreams and have been holding back on her. Yeah, right.

I force a pathetic laugh. “Nothing new here. Just finished finals week, and it's a no-school day. The truth is, I'm just sitting around in my pj's reading the paper.”

“And you're really doing okay, Samantha?”

“I guess so…”

“You sound a little down.”

“Well, I suppose I'm kinda worried about something.”

“Want to talk?”

Do I want to talk? I'm not sure. What would I even say?

“Hey, got any plans for lunch?”

I sort of laugh. “Not really.”

“How about if I take you to Rosie's?”

“Sounds good.”

“Great. There's something I want to discuss with you.”

“Cool.”

A couple hours later, we're sitting at Rosie's, our lunch is history, and Ebony is telling me about a cold case she's working on. Apparently there has been a renewed interest in a young man who died from a gunshot wound to the head several years ago.

“His name was Peter Clark,” she tells me. “At the time it seemed pretty cut-and-dried. Everyone assumed it was a suicide—there was a note and the wound appeared self-inflicted. But some new evidence has surfaced that suggests possible foul play” Then she goes on to tell me that Peter's mother suspects that someone murdered her son. And while this is kind of interesting in a very sad way, I'm confused.

“I'm not sure why you're telling me this,” I finally say.

She looks uncomfortable now. “Well, I was hoping you might be able to help us.”

“How?”

“Well, I thought if you looked at some photos and things…maybe you'd get a message from—”

“Ebony,” I say a bit harshly, “you know that I'm not a medium. I don't connect with the dead and hear their—”

“I know,” she says quickly, “But I thought if you were thinking about this boy, his circumstances and everything, maybe God would want to use you—to show you something.”

“Usually the dreams and visions come as God gives them,” I point out, thinking that maybe I should be speaking in the past tense since God hasn't given any for weeks now. “I can't just force them to come.”

She nods. “I know… I shouldn't have asked.” ‘ Now I feel mean, like I've hurt her feelings. And then I think of all she's done for me, and I feel guilty.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “To be honest, I don't really know how this gift works. I guess I shouldn't be so quick to say that God couldn't help me if I looked at some photos or things.” I force a smile. “Anyway, it's probably worth a try.”

Ebony looks relieved. “It's not like we can force God's hand.”

I consider telling her my worries about God having removed His hand, but then maybe this is a turning point. Maybe God brought me to Ebony's mind because He is up to something. Anyway, I hope so!

A
s Ebony drives us to the police station, I am unexpectedly excited, sort of like something good is about to happen to me. And okay, I'm torn because I also feel really guilty for feeling like this. I mean, how can I be happy about the prospect of learning more about some guy's death? Whether it was suicide or murder or whatever, it's still extremely sad, and there must be a family somewhere that is probably still mourning the loss of their loved one. Not unlike how I feel when I consider how my own dad was murdered while working on the police force about five years ago.

And so, as Ebony parks in the employee parking area, I decide I'm definitely
not
happy about this. I'm simply enthusiastic over the prospect of being used by God again, to think that I might be a tool in the possible resolution of what could turn out to be a murder case.

I really want to make myself totally available to God today. I pray silently a§ we walk up to the back door of city hall. Once again, I tell God that I'm here for Him. I'm ready and available for whatever He'd like me to do. I ask Him to help me tune in to His heart and His Spirit and to use me however He sees fit.

Ebony leads me downstairs to the crime lab, and soon we are looking through a cardboard box of “clues.” Even though things are sealed in Ziploc bags, I have this very eerie feeling as I stare at them. To be honest, I feel like an intruder, like a voyeur who's peeking into private things, at personal items that I have no right to view.

“Are you sure this is okay?” I ask Ebony, my voice shaking just slightly.

“As long as
you're
okay.”

I pick up a plastic sealed package of what I'm guessing was once a pale blue hand towel, now stained mostly brownish-red with dried blood. And suddenly I feel sick to my stomach.

“I need some air,” I tell Ebony. She follows me back out of the stuffy lab, and I lean against the wall and attempt to calm my insides.

“Are you all right, Samantha?” She puts a steadying hand on my shoulder.

I nod and take in a deep breath. “Maybe this isn't such a good idea.”

“Maybe not. Evidence can be pretty grisly.”

“I hate to be such a baby. I mean, I saw some gnarly things in my dreams and visions when God was leading us to find Kayla. But somehow seeing these
real
things, up close like that, the dried blood and all…well, it's a little overwhelming.”

“Trust me, you shouldn't feel bad. I've seen grown men come unglued when looking at various pieces of evidence or at a crime scene. That old saying The bigger they are, the harder they fall,’ is really true.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't be sorry…” She pushes her bangs away from her forehead. “How about photos? Do you think that would help?”

I give her an uncertain look as I imagine reviewing some gruesome crime scene photos of a dead kid on the floor. “I—uh—”

“I mean photos of Peter when he was still alive, Samantha.”

Oh. Well, sure.”

Ebony gets me a glass of water, and we go up to her office, where Peter's file is already on her desk. She peruses through it and finally produces a couple of color photos. Just random shots, it seems. One by a lake and one in front of what I'm guessing was his parents’ Christmas tree. Sad. Peter Clark was a nice-looking guy with straight dark brown hair and what appear to be blue eyes. Not movie star handsome, but not a loser either. He does have what seems a sincere smile, and it makes me sad to think this guy is dead.

“How old was he when he died?”

“Eighteen.” She hands me another photo. This one looks like a senior picture. He's standing in front of a tree, arms casually folded across his chest, smiling like he doesn't have a care in the world. “He died just a few weeks before his graduation.”

“That's so sad.”

“His family agreed that he hadn't been himself the month or two before he died. His mother chalked it up to
pregraduation stress. But we recently learned that he might have been dabbling in drugs as well.”

“Too bad.” I study that sincere smile. What is it that makes some kids gravitate toward drugs? If I only had this photo to go by, I would've guessed that this was a guy who knew better. But then I could've said the same thing about my own brother. You just never know.

“A suicide note was sent to the family by way of a website Peter belonged to. He prearranged to have the note sent through e-mail, if you can imagine that.”

“E-mail? How impersonal. But wouldn't it have arrived
before
Peter killed himself? Why didn't the family do something to prevent it?”

“It was all set up by Peter through this suicide website so it would arrive
after
his death.”

“A
suicide
website?”

Ebony nods. “I know it sounds bizarre, not to mention gruesome. But there are sites that actually assist those who want to end their own lives.”

“Assist
them?” I am stunned. “How?”

“Oh, by giving information, handling suicide notes through e-mail so that they're sent after the fact, as in Peter's case. It's all very carefully set up, everything you need to know to check out.” Ebony makes a disgusted sigh. “This wonderful age of information just keeps getting scarier and scarier.”

“I guess.” I hand her back the photo. What am I doing here? Why do I think I can possibly assist Ebony with
solving this crime? Well, if it was a crime, which is beginning to sound more and more unlikely.

“Sorry to sound so hopeless,” she says. “But sometimes I just get angry.”

“I understand. But like I keep telling you and everyone, I'm not a medium, Ebony. I'm really not sure how I can help…”

“I know. I just thought it couldn't hurt to try.”

“And like you know, God works in His own ways…His own timing. I don't control Him or His messages.” I want to add, “And lately He doesn't seem to be speaking to me anyway,” but I don't. I can't bear to say those words.

“I realize that. But He also tells us to ask Him. The Bible says
we have not because we ask not.
So I thought I'd just ask.” She smiles. “Can't hurt, can it?”

“I guess not. But still, I don't totally get this. Why is Peter's case suddenly being reopened? It sounds like a clear-cut suicide to me.”

“It did to everyone else too. Back when it happened. But now we've learned some things that cast a shadow of doubt over it. Consequently, we promised the mother we'd look into it again.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Well, for one thing, there's that bit about drugs. No one even suspected that Peter was involved with drugs.”

“But couldn't that explain why he killed himself?”

“Definitely. But according to his mom, there's something about Peter's good friend Brett Carnes that doesn't quite add up.”

“What's that?”

“Well, it turns out he was involved in drugs too.”

“Big surprise there.”

“Yes, I know. But apparently he continues to be quite heavily involved—it seems he's actually been selling meth, for years now according to our source.”

“Who's your source?”

“Peter's old girlfriend, Faith Mitchell.”

Oh.”

“She e-mailed Peter's family around Christmas, coming forward with some information that could change everything.”

“What made her come forward?”

“I guess she was into drugs too. According to Faith's note—it was sort of a confessional—she got hooked before Peter ever tried anything. Brett was her supplier. Faith had felt guilty for years, assuming she was the reason Peter gave in and tried drugs and eventually killed himself.”