Sidekick’s Bar wearing black jeans and a white Twins jersey. He was a fan of Torii Hunter, the former Minnesota center fielder, and that name was stitched on his back.
I’d picked up the phone that first day to call the police, but hesitated. What was I calling to report? A dream? A coincidence? Would they think I was a lunatic? Yes. But how could seeing the name “Hunter” be a coincidence?
Someone was missing a family member.
Someone was about to understand.
I dialed 911. Told the woman who answered what I’d seen. Where they might find Donald Grayson’s body.
When Denise and McKenna died, time stopped.
I lost track of the months after their deaths. The days, the endless hours of darkness when I was afraid to sleep—almost as afraid as I am now. But back then, I didn’t fear visions. I feared dreams.
New, unlived, frighteningly real dreams. Wishful dreams of scenes of a life I would never have with them. Scenes of a secret life played out under the cover of sleep.
I feared the disorientation of waking from those dreams. Waking to find that it had all been an illusion. A vanished, vanquished dream.
A lie born from the inherent cruelty of the subconscious.
Was I punishing myself? For what? For not saving them? For not dying with them?
I lost track of time. Time I’d measured by other people’s lives.
When Denise was due home from work.
When McKenna was due home from school.
When I had to be home for dinner if I was out on my bike.
When McKenna had to turn off the TV if it was a school night.
When Denise and I would go to bed.
When Denise and I would make love.
An hour after I dialed 911 that first time there was a knock at my door. Two men in tired suits standing on my front stoop.
“James Enright?” said a tall, thin man in a concrete gray suit. His hair was closely cropped and receding, leaving a black, wispy peninsula that reached down to the top of his forehead. His upper lip protruded slightly over his bottom lip, which made his face look unusually long. His teeth never showed when he talked.
I opened the door wider. “That’s right.”
“I’m Detective Phelps.” He turned his torso in the direction of the man standing behind him on the step but kept his eyes on me. “This is Detective Lewis.”
Where Phelps was maybe fifty, Lewis was no more than thirty, still bearing a youthful pudge on his cheeks. He combed his brown hair straight down. His suit was a slightly darker gray than his partner’s.
Phelps stuck out his arm as an afterthought. We shook hands like children, weak and awkward.
“I understand you phoned in a tip this afternoon regarding the whereabouts of a missing person.”
I nodded. “I know it sounds crazy, but it just came to me. I thought I should call.”
“May we come in?”
“Certainly.” My heartbeat quickened. Was I a suspect? When I had called, I hadn’t considered the likely assumption that knowing the location of a body meant I might be the killer. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’d simply called because I thought it was the right thing to do.
Then again, what did I have to hide?
I opened the door to let them in.
Denise and McKenna did not drown.
They died on solid ground.
They had just reached the north end of the bridge heading south when the main span gave way, leaving the span they were on with nothing to hold up its south end. That end fell, but the north end held, creating a sudden, sharp incline toward the ground.
Not a long incline, maybe fifty feet, but nearly vertical.
The medical examiner determined that they had survived the initial fall—the steep slide down.
What killed them had come after.
From above.
An SUV.
A semi.
Other vehicles.
Other people.
It wasn’t until I let the detectives in that I first took a good hard look at where I was living. Took the time to see what others saw.
The outside was three stories of bricks, tall arched windows, and a front stoop. Part of a new building fronted to look like old
I’d picked up the phone that first day to call the police, but hesitated. What was I calling to report? A dream? A coincidence? Would they think I was a lunatic? Yes. But how could seeing the name “Hunter” be a coincidence?
Someone was missing a family member.
Someone was about to understand.
I dialed 911. Told the woman who answered what I’d seen. Where they might find Donald Grayson’s body.
When Denise and McKenna died, time stopped.
I lost track of the months after their deaths. The days, the endless hours of darkness when I was afraid to sleep—almost as afraid as I am now. But back then, I didn’t fear visions. I feared dreams.
New, unlived, frighteningly real dreams. Wishful dreams of scenes of a life I would never have with them. Scenes of a secret life played out under the cover of sleep.
I feared the disorientation of waking from those dreams. Waking to find that it had all been an illusion. A vanished, vanquished dream.
A lie born from the inherent cruelty of the subconscious.
Was I punishing myself? For what? For not saving them? For not dying with them?
I lost track of time. Time I’d measured by other people’s lives.
When Denise was due home from work.
When McKenna was due home from school.
When I had to be home for dinner if I was out on my bike.
When McKenna had to turn off the TV if it was a school night.
When Denise and I would go to bed.
When Denise and I would make love.
An hour after I dialed 911 that first time there was a knock at my door. Two men in tired suits standing on my front stoop.
“James Enright?” said a tall, thin man in a concrete gray suit. His hair was closely cropped and receding, leaving a black, wispy peninsula that reached down to the top of his forehead. His upper lip protruded slightly over his bottom lip, which made his face look unusually long. His teeth never showed when he talked.
I opened the door wider. “That’s right.”
“I’m Detective Phelps.” He turned his torso in the direction of the man standing behind him on the step but kept his eyes on me. “This is Detective Lewis.”
Where Phelps was maybe fifty, Lewis was no more than thirty, still bearing a youthful pudge on his cheeks. He combed his brown hair straight down. His suit was a slightly darker gray than his partner’s.
Phelps stuck out his arm as an afterthought. We shook hands like children, weak and awkward.
“I understand you phoned in a tip this afternoon regarding the whereabouts of a missing person.”
I nodded. “I know it sounds crazy, but it just came to me. I thought I should call.”
“May we come in?”
“Certainly.” My heartbeat quickened. Was I a suspect? When I had called, I hadn’t considered the likely assumption that knowing the location of a body meant I might be the killer. It hadn’t even crossed my mind. I’d simply called because I thought it was the right thing to do.
Then again, what did I have to hide?
I opened the door to let them in.
Denise and McKenna did not drown.
They died on solid ground.
They had just reached the north end of the bridge heading south when the main span gave way, leaving the span they were on with nothing to hold up its south end. That end fell, but the north end held, creating a sudden, sharp incline toward the ground.
Not a long incline, maybe fifty feet, but nearly vertical.
The medical examiner determined that they had survived the initial fall—the steep slide down.
What killed them had come after.
From above.
An SUV.
A semi.
Other vehicles.
Other people.
It wasn’t until I let the detectives in that I first took a good hard look at where I was living. Took the time to see what others saw.
The outside was three stories of bricks, tall arched windows, and a front stoop. Part of a new building fronted to look like old
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