Page 13 of In Her Sights

The figure remained motionless, a specter whose presence offered neither comfort nor terror—simply indifference. Sarah’s plea hung in the air, unanswered. Her body slumped against the boiler, the iron cuffs around her ankles clinking softly—a discordant lullaby for the weary and the broken.

The figure’s hand withdrew, and the penlight snapped off, plunging Sarah back into darkness.

She felt the air shift as the figure moved, the sound of footsteps echoing hollowly against the earthen walls. The door creaked open, and before it closed again, she heard a faint raspy chuckle. Then the door closed, and Sarah was alone again in the awful dark.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The sky was a canvas of twilight hues, colors muted as if the world was holding its breath. Jenna watched as buses shot by on either side of the highway, blurred streaks of color and motion. Yet no gust of wind followed their passage, no thunder of engines broke the stillness; they moved in silence, like specters racing toward oblivion.

“Waiting for the bus?” The question sliced through the quiet, startling Jenna more than the sound of a voice should.

Her gaze shifted from the silent, speeding buses to the young man standing beside her. A buzz cut crowned his head, a distinct contrast to a well-trimmed red beard that seemed almost aflame against his pale skin. He carried a green duffel bag slung over one shoulder and a fishing rod in a case in the crook of his arm.

“No,” Jenna said, finally finding her voice. “I’m not waiting for a bus.”

The man looked at her with curiosity, his brows knitted together beneath the brim of his cap. “What are you doing at a bus stop, then?”

She looked around. Yes, she realized for the first time, she was standing at the bus waiting area outside a familiar truck stop called Hank’s Derby. She searched for an answer to his question, but her memory of why she was here seemed as fleeting as the signs on the buses that blurred past.

“I… don’t know,” she confessed, feeling uncertain.

“Sure you do,” the man said.

In that instant, clarity pierced the fog of Jenna’s mind, sharp and unwelcome. The realization dawned on her: the impossible silence, the eerie stillness of the scene before her—they were all constructs of her own subconscious. Jenna knew she was experiencing a dream.

When she became lucid like this, she had choices, up to a point. She could walk away; she could find a mirror to see how her dream self looked; maybe she could even get on a bus to see where it went. But right now, she knew she needed to listen to whatever this man had to say, because the only voices that spoke to her in this world were those of the dead. Although they were seldom easy to understand, their hints from the beyond were important. They often offered her clues that no sheriff could find with just a badge and a gun.

With that perception, her dream senses sharpened, and the details of the man standing beside her crystallized into focus. She could see the fine grains of stubble on his cheeks, the frayed edges of his duffel bag, and the subtle tension in his posture.

“Obviously, you’re here because there’s something you’re supposed to find out,” he stated confidently.

“All right then,” Jenna said as she took a deep breath and let the dream’s reality take over. As soon as she had spoken, a single bus materialized from the blur of motion on the highway, its hulking form grinding to a halt in front of them. The door swung open with a mechanical sigh, revealing an empty vehicle awaiting a passenger. The man at Jenna’s side stared at the idling bus and muttered, “I need to get on this one.”

“Are you leaving?” she asked.

“Yes, I am,” he said firmly. But there was no movement toward the open door, no shift in his stance; he remained anchored to the spot beside her.

“Why don’t you get on the bus then?” Jenna suggested.

The man’s gaze lingered on the bus, a mix of longing and frustration clouding his features. “I don’t know,” he admitted, helplessness creeping into his voice. “I’m trying, but I just can’t seem to do it.”

With a mechanical groan, the door of the bus clamped shut, severing any possibility of passage for the man whose handbore the inked image of a pair of angelic wings. Jenna watched as the vehicle pulled away from Hank’s Derby. The man stood stationary, as if his feet were rooted to the cracked pavement, his eyes trailing the retreating bus with a mixture of longing and defeat. The other buses resumed their silent ballet, zooming past in both directions, blurs of motion that seemed disconnected from any reality she understood.

“Can’t you see? There’s no point,” the man said, his voice brittle as dry leaves. His eyes met hers, and Jenna saw the desolation within them, a chasm so deep it threatened to swallow him whole. “No one can help me now. But someone else is in terrible danger. And there isn’t much time.”

She wasn’t surprised by the odd situation or by the lack of explanation. Part of her understood that the dream might never yield the straightforward responses she hoped for. Dreams were landscapes of symbols and metaphors, more mysterious than most of the leads she uncovered in waking life. But in both waking and dreaming life, Jenna had become skilled at extracting information from silences, from the things left unsaid.

The young man turned slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder, his expression forlorn. “Maybe Sheriff Frank can help you.”

That startled her for a moment. She caught the expectation in his words, the belief that Frank Doyle—her predecessor—would have answers or guidance for this man in her dream. She was sure she had never met this young man in real life, and yet he was naming the man who had taught her most of what she knew about enforcing the law and keeping the peace in a small town.

“How do you know Frank Doyle?” she asked him. “What do you think he could do to help?”

But the man didn’t answer. His expression contorted, a sudden rawness apparent in his features. “Thirsty,” he croaked,voice sandpaper rough. The simple declaration sounded oppressive, filling Jenna’s senses with the acrid tang of dust and the parched crackle of drought-withered leaves.

“Thirsty,” he repeated, his throat working visibly as he swallowed. “But maybe Sheriff Frank can get me a drink.”

“Water,” she echoed thoughtfully, aware that in this place, the simplest things could hold profound significance. Was water a clue, a sign, or merely a stray detail in her subconscious? Was the thirst a fact or a symbol?

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