Doppelganger Page 10

  The cold steady gaze of Bill’s blue eyes, along with his gruff demeanor, had a way of making people uneasy when he was in disagreement with them, and Greg was no exception. Greg shifted nervously in his chair. Every time he’d had these conversations with Bill, one in which they didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye, Greg had always felt a strong urge to confess everything he’d ever done wrong, all the way back to stealing Harvey Morrison’s lime green crayon back in the second grade.

  “I don’t think James is our killer,” Greg finally said.

  “Oh, really?”

  Greg had been standing outside the door to Bill’s office for the better part of fifteen minutes trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say. He hadn’t been able to come up with a single thing that would make the story more believable for Bill or easier to tell for him, so he had decided just to do what ol’ Bill himself would do in such a situation — get straight to the point.

  “The reason James was at Mr. Youngblood’s trailer was because he saw the thing attacking him in a dream.” Greg spat it out almost as if it was one long word. As he saw the blank look on Bill’s face he suddenly found himself wishing he could get up, walk out of the office, then come back in, and start over.

  “That’s the stupidest damn thing I think I’ve ever heard,” Bill said in a flat tone, without changing his expression or diverting his cold gaze.

  Greg blushed furiously and found it hard to maintain eye contact with the old sheriff, “Just humor me for a second.” Greg took a deep breath and continued. “On the morning Sharon was killed, James told me he’d dreamed that some sort of big animal had killed her. This was before she’d been killed. And while he was staying with me and Sandy, he told me the night his wife and son were killed that he had nodded off while he was on his way to Beaumont and saw something at his front door. That’s why he turned around and came back.”

  Bill leaned forward and grasped the edges of his desks so hard his knuckles turned white, in stark contrast to his cheeks, which were glowing red. “Greg, you’ve always been a little flighty, but up ‘til today I’d never have figured you to be stupid. He tells you about one murder before we find the body and shows up at the other two scenes before we get there. Do I need to paint a picture for you? Hell, I ought to fire your ass right now for withholding information on the Sharon Perrett case.”

  By God, Greg added silently.

  “Let me finish,” Greg said. He had meant to say it forcefully, but it came out somewhere between a whimper and a squeak. Nevertheless, Bill, still red-faced, nodded for him to continue. “There’s more to it than just that. Ever since I’ve known James, he’s had these dreams. Remember when Matt Garret and Bubba Saunder’s wrecked up on eighty-seven? Matt was hit by an eighteen-wheeler while trying to flag it down but he had walked several miles from the accident, and we couldn’t find the Bubba or his pickup. Remember, two days later when said I saw tire marks in the mud going off into the woods and found the wreck?” Greg asked, but continued without waiting for an answer. “Well, that’s not how I really found the truck. There wasn’t any tire marks. Not that could be seen from the road, anyway. James told me he’d dreamed the accident and he went with me and pointed out where the truck was. And that wasn’t all. He knew that Jeff Breaux robbed and burned down Mollie’s fruit stand before we caught him. He also told me about Charles Wellman beating his wife to death then blowing his brains out. I can remember dozens of times that James has just simply known something that there was no way to explain how he knew other than those dreams he has.”

  “Are you trying to tell me he’s some sort a psychic?” Bill said. Greg could tell the old sheriff wasn’t believing a word he said.

  Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  “Yes and no.” Greg continued, “He doesn’t see the future. Sometimes, when he’s asleep, he sees what is currently happening through someone else’s eyes. He hasn’t had any of his dreams in a long time. I think Jeff Breaux was the last one he told me about and that was over three years ago. But now it seems he’s got some sort of direct link to whatever it is that’s doing all this killing.”

  Bill said nothing. Greg could see in Bill’s eyes there wasn’t the slightest touch of belief in them. Greg was probably going to be fired or at least suspended. It was time to deal the one ace he had up his sleeve and hope for the best.

  “Well, now that I’ve got that off my chest. I told James I would have this talk with you if he would agree to allow us to interrogate him without a lawyer present,” Greg paused, then added. “I have to be present though.”

  Bill’s eyes widened just a touch, almost unnoticeably. Other than this minor change, his expression was still hard and unflinching as stone. “When do y’all want to do this?” Bill asked.

  “Now is fine with me,” Greg said. He wanted to get this over as soon as possible.

  “Go get him.”

  * * *

  The lights in the cell stayed on during the day, but James had managed to position himself with his head facing the wall and fall asleep, despite the hard bed and its thin mattress. It had been a long time since James had been able to sleep undisturbed for any length of time. The loud clack of the heavy metal lock opening his cell woke him from a deep, dreamless, sleep. His mind still muddled in a half-awake daze, James didn’t roll over to see who was at his door.

  James had begun drifting back to sleep when he heard, “James, Bill wants to talk to us.”

  He ignored the voice, and drew his sheet tighter around him.

  “James.” Someone shook his shoulder, and he finally woke up. James raised his head; his eyes were still bleary, but he could make out Greg.

  “Damn, you were sleeping like a rock,” Greg said as he sat on the corner of the tiny bed.

  “Glad you noticed,” James replied as he sat up, stretched, and yawned.

  “I had my little talk with Bill.”

  “How’d it go?” James asked, rubbing and blinking his eyes.

  “Well, like you said, he pretty much chewed me up and spit me out,” Greg said with mock cheerfulness. “It gets better. Apparently you were right on both counts; now he wants to meet with both of us so he can chew us both up and spit us both out.”

  “Oh, great,” James said, as he stood up.

  Greg stood up with him and they walked out of the cell and down the row of cells. They passed through the security door separating the cells from the rest of the building. Just past the door, they turned left into the room where James had been booked, fingerprinted, and photographed. The room was furnished much like Bill’s office except instead of a cluttered desk there was a small, neat, folding table with a notebook, a telephone, and a tape recorder on it. The pictures on the walls were different also. Instead of pictures of smiling 4H boys and girls with their prizewinning livestock and various gruff-looking Texas Rangers, there were bulletin boards filled with notices and one enlarged copy of the FBI’s most wanted list. Bill sat across the table, making no effort to hide the scowl on his face.

  As they came through the door Greg closed the blinds which opened into the hall. He motioned for James to be seated in the lone chair across from Bill, then he went around and took a seat on Bill’s side of the table. As soon as Greg pulled his chair up to the table, Bill pressed Record on the tape-recorder.

  Without smiling, Bill extended his hand to James and introduced himself, “Sheriff William Oates.”

  James shook his hand, also without smiling.

  “I believe you know Deputy Greg O’Brien,” Bill said, nodding his head in Greg’s direction.

  James nodded.

  Bill leaned forward in his chair, his forearms resting along the edge of the table, his fingers interwoven. His cold blue eyes bored into James’, keeping direct eye contact as he asked each question. James suddenly felt very small, like a field mouse under the gaze of a hungry red-tailed hawk.

  “Please state your full name.”

  “James Thomas Taylor,” James answered
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br />   “Are you aware that you have the right to demand a lawyer at any time during this interrogation?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And are you in here of your own free will?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Greg had warned James that Bill was a little informal with his interrogations, but so far everything seemed formal enough.

  “Could you explain what happened on the morning of November 2, 2001?”

  James told the entire story of that horrible morning. He told Bill how he had left early in the morning to pick up some parts in Beaumont. He mentioned he had warned Angie about the dreams he’d been having and told her that she shouldn’t let anyone in the house. He mentioned that he had asked Greg to pass by the house while he was gone. Then he told the sheriff about nodding off and catching a glimpse of his front door and how he had sped back through town and arrived to find his wife and son dead.

  While James talked, Bill listened. His eyes continued to bore into James. His expression never changed, not even at the mention of James’ dreams. No emotion was visible, not belief, not disbelief, not even a hint of sympathy as James mentioned finding his wife and child brutally murdered. Every now and then Bill would ask a simple question: Did she always wake up that early? Was there a certain time Deputy O’Brien was supposed to come by? About how long do you think you were gone from the house? But other than this Bill remained quiet and expressionless.

  “Everything is a little hazy after that,” James finished, quite proud of himself for not bursting into tears at having to recall the horrible night.

  “Do you recall shooting Deputy O’Brien?”

  “Vaguely, yes.”

  “So you do admit that it was you who shot Deputy O’Brien?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bill broke his gaze from James for the first time in the interview and jotted down some notes on the notebook. He checked a clock on the wall and made a note of it. James realized what he had said would probably be considered a confession in a court of law; not that he’d ever denied the fact. Still, it made him nervous.

  “Do y'all want anything to drink? We’ve got coffee, water, and a coke machine in the lobby,” Bill asked, although his voice sounded as if this was an official question, not one of courtesy.

  “No, thanks,” Greg answered.

  “No, sir,” James answered at the same time.

  Bill pressed the intercom button on the phone. “Debra, could you bring me some coffee?” They sat in silence for about thirty seconds, then someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in.”

  Debra Duncan, the daytime dispatcher as well as Bill’s secretary, entered the room. She was a well-dressed middle-aged woman with dyed black hair. She handed Bill his coffee.

  “There you go, Bill,” Debra said in a sweet voice.

  “Thank you,” Bill said, and Debra turned and left.

  Bill took a long drink, then returned to his former position. “Now tell me what happened early this morning, November tenth.”

  James told the story, starting with when he decided to go home. He mentioned that his medication had made him sleep heavier, and he didn’t have the dreams while he was on it. But, as soon as he’d stopped taking it, he had the dream of the creature at Mr. Youngblood’s house. He managed to wake himself, go immediately to the house, but he arrived too late. However, he did mention that he thought he had just missed the beast because of the dog he heard yelp in the back when he arrived.

  Again, while James talked, Bill listened. His eyes never shifted away from James’. He asked a few more simple questions during the story: What type of medication was it? Who was the doctor who prescribed the medication? Was Mr. Youngblood’s door unlocked when you got there? Did you see any movement behind the house?

  “All right,” Bill said, averting his eyes long enough to jot down some notes and take a sip of coffee. “Can you explain why you were out at Sharon Perrett’s place on October twenty-ninth, the day after she was killed?”

  “Yes, sir. I saw that thing kill her horse and her the next night. I wanted to take a look around to see if I could find some tracks or anything left behind by whatever it was that killed Mrs. Perrett and her horse.”

  “Did you find anything?”

  “The rain had washed away most of the tracks outside and I didn’t have time to look inside the barn, but I did find some near the barn’s outside wall. Strange tracks - they almost looked human, except for the long claws.”

  “Just like the tracks we saw,” Greg chimed in, but a quick cold glance from Bill told him his input was not wanted.

  Bill turned back to James. “I see. Is there anything else you’d like to add?”

  “No, sir. I think that just about covers it.”

  Bill paused for a brief moment, then leaned back in his chair without breaking eye contact. “You do realize that this all sounds like a king-sized load of horseshit, don’t you?” he said in a flat, matter-of-fact voice.

  This caught James off guard. “Sir?”

  “I’ve heard some wild tales in my years, but this beats ’em all, hands down.”

  James remained silent. Beside Bill, Greg looked briefly like he was going to say something, but, if he was, he must have decided against it because he too remained silent.

  Bill shook his head and then said, “Greg tells me you’ve had these little psychic dreams all of your life. Could you explain?”

  “They’re not exactly psychic, at least I don’t think so. It’s like I’m in someone else’s mind, looking out, watching what they’re doing,” James said. “I’ve had them since I can remember, but I haven’t had as many since I dropped out of high school. And I hadn’t had one in years before I had the first one about this thing, somewhere around the first of October.”

  “Is there anything strange about these dreams? Anything different about them?”

  “Yes, they don’t seem like dreams,” James paused, trying to think of how exactly to explain the difference between the visions and normal dreams. Then he said. “It’s like I’m not really asleep during them. My mind isn’t foggy, and I’m thinking clearly. I’m even tired when I wake up from them.”

  “You’re tired when you wake up from these dreams?” Bill asked.

  James realized what Bill must be thinking. “But I haven’t gone anywhere. I’m not talking about sleepwalking here.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  James started to reply that if he was sleepwalking, he would have awakened Angie, but he knew that wouldn’t help him any. Angie couldn’t verify this; she was dead. “I just know,” was all he could think of.

  Then Greg chimed in, “How about when you saw Charles Wellman kill his wife and commit suicide? His neighbors were outside and heard the shots. They came over immediately and didn’t see anyone. Elbert Flanders even said he’d heard Charles say he was going to do it earlier that night. And what about when Matt and Bubba had their accident?”

  Bill turned his gaze from James to Greg. “That doesn’t have a damn thing to do with what we’re talking about.”

  “We’re talking about James’ dreams,” Greg replied, but was again interrupted by Bill.

  “We’re talking about an investigation involving four recent homicides!” the sheriff snapped.

  Now James spoke up. “Sheriff Oates, I don’t know all that much about law enforcement, but isn’t homicide one person taking the life of another?”

  Bill didn’t answer. The wily old sheriff could probably tell the question was loaded.

  Greg answered for him. “Yes, it is.”

  “Do these killings look like they were committed by a person to you?” James asked Bill. “I went out there and saw those tracks at Sharon’s; they didn’t seem like any person’s I’d ever seen. And do the wounds look like any you’ve ever seen a man inflict on someone?”

  At first, Bill didn’t say anything. James wasn’t sure if he’d really stumped the old sheriff or if Bill was just waiting to see if James had anything el
se to say — something that might be useful.

  Finally Bill said, “Mr. Taylor, I suggest you get yourself a lawyer. A good one.” Then he nodded for Greg to take James back to his cell.

  Chapter 10

  City Limits

  James’ interrogation went as well as could be expected. Of course Bill didn’t believe a word they had said, but Greg figured the interview might have saved his job. And maybe down the line something would happen that would prove to Bill that James really was having those strange dreams. Bill had told Greg he wasn’t through talking with him about withholding information on the Sharon Perrett case, but when Greg arrived to go on duty at 10:00 p.m. Bill wasn’t there to ask for his badge. If Bill was going to fire him, he would have told him that day, or at least before Greg went back on duty. Greg figured he would be suspended without pay for a short time at the most, but maybe, just maybe, he would get by with no more than the ass-chewing he’d already received.

  Greg left Newton city limits and headed north on Highway 87. He was supposed to drive by and check the crime scenes at James’ house and Mr. Youngblood’s trailer. He had also promised James he would feed Lady while he was in the area. At the trailer, Greg got out and had a brief look around. Everything seemed to be undisturbed, so Greg got back in his car and started back up the road to James’ house.

  At James’ everything seemed normal - for a crime scene that is. It certainly didn’t seem normal to Greg. This was supposed to be his best friend’s house, not the scene of a vicious crime. He could only imagine how poor James felt. Greg didn’t go inside the house. He walked around to the back porch and called for Lady. She didn’t come, so he assumed she was out prowling the woods. James kept Lady’s dog food in a large metal trash can on the back porch. Greg scooped some food out and left it in a bowl on the back porch. He filled her water bowl, and then headed back to his patrol car.

  Greg got in his cruiser and started toward town. When he pulled up at the corner of Farm Road 1414 and Highway 87, an eighteen-wheeler was coming, so he waited. Then he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Sandy was coming around from the back of the patrol car, walking briskly towards the driver’s side door.