BOOK EXCERPT

THE HANGED MAN

by T.J. MacGregor

The immediacy of the noise enveloped her, surrounded her, a whispery sound, the voice of wind through leaves. But outside, absolute stillness gripped the darkness, a waiting stillness, as if nature held her breath.

Mira pushed upon her elbows, blinked hard to dispel the darkness, but it remained, as black as India ink. She strained to hear the noise again. There. It seemed distant at first, faint, then grew louder, urgent murmurs punctuated by angry staccatos. Somewhere in the house, two men argued.

In her house.

Her thoughts flew to Annie, asleep across the hall. Blood pounded in her ears as she slipped out of bed. Where had she put Tom's gun? The bureau? The nightstand? No, no the closet, on a high shelf in the back where her daughter couldn't reach it.

The voices grew uglier and louder as she groped her way through the dark. She stumbled over one of the cats, curled up on the rug, undisturbed by the intruders. Only then did she realize the voices originated in her head, stronger than echoes, brighter than memories.

- Take it easy. Careful with that thing.

- Shut up. Move back nice and slow.

- Look here…

- Move!

She wrenched back, patting the nightstand for a pad of paper, a pen. She dropped to the edge of the mattress and listened hard, eyes shut.

External sounds: frogs, crickets, an isolated splash in the lake behind the house. More distant still, traffic hummed. She focused on a dot of light inside her head and willed it to expand, to open. The light brightened and melted like butter across her inner vision.

She saw them now - not their faces, just their legs, two pairs of legs in a dimly lit room. Two men. One of them wore running shoes with lime green laces, the other was barefoot, his muscular legs covered in very dark hair.

Mira could no longer hear them, but somehow knew they continued to argue. Without opening her eyes, she scribbled down what she saw. It wasn't enough, she needed more details.

A child appeared in the left-hand corner of her vision, a young boy of three or four. Sleepy eyes, black hair. He clutched a teddy in the curve of his arm and peeked out from behind a door. Mira was sure the man didn't see him. Sound suddenly clicked back in, the hiss of air conditioning. She couldn't tell if it came from her room or belonged to the awful scene that unrolled across her inner vision.

A sharp, abrupt pain pierced her chest and she gasped and doubled over, the pad and pen slipping to the floor. One of the men had been shot. She was locked into him, zipped up inside of him. Blood rushed out of him, out of her. He slammed into the wall and air blasted from her lungs.

He wheezed and so did Mira. She saw through his eyes, saw blood pouring out of him and across the floor. She heard what he heard, soft, low laughter and a voice: "Tough luck, Sherlock."

The connection ruptured.

Mira slid to the floor, her body collapsing like a beach chair. The hot, bright pain in her chest began to subside. She sucked at the air and rubbed at her chest, just below the sternum where the first bullet had entered. She didn't feel any blood, any hole.

She lurched for the lamp, hit the switch, and rocked back on her heels, rubbing frantically at the front of her t-shirt. No blood. She jerked the shirt down, certain she would see blood, exposed muscle and tissue, a gaping hole just below her breasts.

Her skin bore no marks.

She felt only a phantom sensation now, a terrible numbness that spread across her chest, as though she had been injected with Novocaine. The man, she thought, had known his killer and had died with that low laughter rumbling in his ears.

***