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Wherever You Go
Fragment
taken from:
The Storyteller, Volume VII
I opened my eyes when I heard a couple of secretaries laughing loudly. I looked around again and felt goose bumps at the same time I saw a man climbing up a staircase.
It was Tom.
I slowly stood up.
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My dead brother casually climbed each step without any hurry, walking among other people. I began to walk toward that same staircase, without taking my eyes off Tom. He looked just like I remembered him; it was him all right, but he was somewhat transparent … like a ghost or a hologram.
I climbed up and took a right at the end of the staircase, just as he had done a second before. I saw Tom going through a closed door; it was the third door on the left. I walked down the corridor and stopped in front of the same door my brother had gone through. It had a letter ‘C’ on top of it.
I entered the room and saw a few police officers—dressed in civilian clothes, but armed—gathering around a table and discussing something. They all looked down at the table and pointed at something on it.
I saw Tom standing between two of them; he, too, looked down at the table and listened to what was being said.
Tom’s face lacked expression.
I felt like I was in some sort of a trance. I couldn’t take my eyes off Tom; he wore the same clothes from the night of the party, when he died.
A chill ran down my spine.
I slowly walked toward the crowd, and my brother.
“I say we cover this area, too. It’s hunting season; someone must have seen something…,” one of the men said.
“Charley, I don’t think we have enough manpower to do this; three days have gone by already. She could be elsewhere, for all we know!” another one complained.
I stood next to the table and saw a map on it; it was a map of a wooded area. I realized that was what they were looking at while talking.
“Huh? Who are you?” the man next to me asked, noticing me there for the first time.
They all turned to look at me.
Tom was the only one still looking down at the map; still, no expression in his face. He then began to walk toward me but he didn’t look at me, not once. He stood behind me, and just when I was going to turn around to look at him—and maybe speak to him—the strangest thing happened.
Tom’s right hand went inside the back of my right elbow; I felt his forearm getting inside my own at the same time I felt paralyzed and unable to think or speak, but I was fully aware of what was going on.
“What are you doing here, boy?” another officer asked me. “Are you hurt? Why’s there blood on your…?”
He couldn’t finish the sentence; we all saw my right hand slowly closing into a fist, leaving only my index finger stretched out. I watched my own hand, mesmerized; I couldn’t feel it and I was certainly not the one making it move.
My index finger came to rest on one spot on the map at the same time I heard myself say, “They have her here, in a dirt hole. There are two men involved; one is the one abusing and torturing her, the other one is a lookout. You will need two teams; both men are sharpshooters because they are professional hunters. Your best time to get her alive will be tonight. Both men are heavy drinkers; they only drink at night.… May God be with all of you tonight.”
