Blood Memories

Wade didn't know how to respond and thankfully didn't have to. Two squad cars with blaring, screaming sirens flashing red and blue lights pulled up. Uniformed men were running all around them.

"Where's the body?" someone asked.

"Right there," Dominick answered coldly, pointing to the burning spot on the grass.

"What happened?"

"You figure it out."

Dominick looked back at the house. "We have to go back. Can you walk?"

"Yeah," Wade answered, "but you aren't going back in that house. The cavalry's here now. Let them check into it."

"If you won't come with me, I'll go by myself."

"It can't be the same man. Think about what kind of a coincidence that would be. The same murderer from New York living in Portland-after you've transferred to the local police force-and you just happen to be on duty the morning he decides to cash his own ticket? I don't think so."

"Then come back inside with me."

Wade was exhausted, almost beyond caring. He needed to sleep this off. But something in Dominick's voice made him listen. Dom could be aggressive and high-strung and difficult to know, but he wasn't irrational.

"One condition," Wade said.

"What?"

"You let me in your head the whole time. If I feel you losing it, we leave."

Dominick's face darkened. For a moment, Wade thought he was going to hear the usual "No way."

"Okay," Dominick answered.

"You'll leave if I tell you?"

"Yeah, just come on."

For months Wade had wanted permission to read his friend's mind, explore his thoughts. Now that it was actually happening, he felt almost too drained, too numb to go through with it.

Upon reentering the house, the first thing they heard was one of the other cops choking in the kitchen.

"There." Dominick pointed to a large photograph over the hearth. He walked right over and put his hands on it.

The girl in the picture was different from anyone Wade had ever seen. She reminded him vaguely of a stalk of wheat. Her age was difficult, impossible, to peg. She might have been thirteen or twenty-eight. Her huge hazel-brown eyes complemented her pale face and blond hair. She sat on a forest-green velvet couch, with shelves of leather-bound books behind her head.

"Who is she?" Wade whispered.

Dominick's eyes remained closed. When he didn't answer, Wade gently reached into his mind and was blocked instantly.

"Stop it, Dom."

No answer.

"Hey, you guys," a middle-aged officer blurted out, running into the living room. "Hurry up. Jake found something downstairs."

"What?" Wade snapped.

"Loose boards and a stink you won't believe."

Dominick opened his eyes.

"Bodies," he said. "Jake found bodies."

Wade stared at him. "How do you know that?"

Dominick pulled his hands off the photo and moved quickly toward the stairwell. The first thing Wade noticed in the cellar was the smell-different, sweeter than the stench from the kitchen. Dominick dropped down to help Jake tear at the floor.

"They're here, under the boards," he said to Jake. "You smelled them, didn't you?"

Wade had completely lost control of the situation. He'd lost control of Dominick, lost control of reality. Then he looked up from the sight of the two men pulling at the floorboards to a painting resting against the wall, a misty, ethereal oil painting.

"Dom, come look at this."

His friend ignored him and kept on digging like a man possessed. Wade walked over to the painting. Her face was unmistakable: the girl in the photo upstairs. Her eyes stared out at him as though she were right here and alive.

Down at the bottom of the portrait was an unintelligible signature and a date: 1872. Was it authentic? How could this girl be the same one in the photo upstairs? Her great-great-grandmother perhaps? He looked closer. No, it was the same girl. No two people could share eyes like that.

Jake began choking. Without turning around, Wade let his mind drift into the young, retching policeman's. He saw through Jake's eyes and found himself staring at a half-decomposed woman with red hair. He wasn't surprised.

"Dom, please stop digging and come look at this."

A moment later, he felt his friend standing next to him.

"Touch it," Wade whispered. "It's the same girl, isn't it?"

Dominick stared at the painting for a long time. Then he reached one hand out and placed it over her face.

"What the hell are you guys doing?" Jake managed to spit.

Wade ignored him. "Is it the same girl?"

Dominick's china-blue eyes somehow seemed even lighter than usual. His fingers ran softly over the painting as though in a caress.

"Yeah, it's her. I can't tell anything else. She's like a wall. Maybe the painting's too old."

"Will you two get away from that picture and call the coroner? We've got a mess over here." Jake's voice had grown stronger.

The room seemed small. Wade had turned to answer when Dominick's hand closed over his wrist. It hurt.

"They aren't going to believe us, Wade. They'll say we're crazy or put us on vacation."