The vision came as usual, with one exception: it started as a dream this time. A lush and green forest, secluded from prying eyes, stretched before me, its allure both foreboding and inviting. The boy, youthful but street-wise, pierced my dream, causing me to awaken to the familiar wash of the vision. The girl, frightened and unwilling, fought to preserve her life and future but ultimately failed. The primal anger and savage sexuality of the encounter gripped me with slight nausea. I floated in that terrible space as a final degrading act was performed. A locket bearing her picture was opened, and he spat on the smiling face, then closed it. 

I slowly withdrew from this unwanted vision and realized that I had slipped out of bed and was now seated on the floor. I was breathless and shaken. Remnants of the nausea that I felt earlier remained. I slowly rose and went to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face. I stood with my forearms on the sink for a moment, thinking I might throw up, but the wave passed. I put on my robe and was met my wife. Laura, who was awakened by my unsettling reaction to the vision. She was naked and gently caressed my face before embracing me, her nipples pressing against my chest.

"This was a bad one, wasn't it?"

I nodded as I gently kissed her, feeling her caress my balls and stroke my thickening erection. She grabbed my hand and led me to the bed. She climbed on and, putting her hands behind her knees, spread her legs wide. I climbed on and began stroking myself when she said simply, "Take me." The sex was intense and lengthy. The visions had that effect now. My stamina seemed endless. We ended with her legs and arms wrapped around me as I finished inside her and gently drifted off.

The ominous chime of the grandfather clock in the corner awakened me. A product of a visit to Heidelberg Castle, an impressive structure of two different worlds, Gothic and Renaissance, dark and light. I put on my robe and entered the den. The last deep chime faded as I poured two fingers of Macallan scotch into a glass and sat in the dark, gripping it tightly. I admired the reliable sturdiness of the clock, intricately carved from black walnut, its presence stoic and unyielding,

Her name was Patricia Skinner, a young thing who had barely experienced adulthood before her life was stolen. The town where she was born tried never to forget her, reviving her story on the date of her disappearance every year, but it was now 15 years, and the memory of her remained only with those closest to her. The one who had taken her was now only an hour away, having left this small town behind for college and then a surprising occupation: law enforcement.

The scotch had a bracing effect on me, and I resisted the urge to have another, instead choosing a hot shower and a brisk walk in the brisk autumn pre-dawn darkness. The most beautiful times are dawn and dusk, with a special fondness for the twilight. I sat against a massive oak tree, watching as the sun slowly spread its blanket of light. I replayed the vision, painful as it was, and formed a plan. 

The letter, accompanied by a map, was carefully constructed to leave no trace of myself, and it arrived at the Morgan County sheriff’s office with specific instructions, three days before I walked into the Georgia Bureau of Investigation offices in Atlanta. I had conducted research into my man and found that he was working a joint task force with the FBI regarding a series of bank robberies across the greater metropolitan area. The entryway opened into a lobby with paneled walls and several receptionists to handle the traffic, both in person and by phone. 

“I would like to speak to Agent Leach, please,” I stated in response to the receptionist’s query. 

“What may I say this is in reference to?” she replied, picking up the receiver and tapping in a number. 

“Jeff Staley,” I replied with the name of a person of interest in the bank robberies I had read about in my research.

“Agent Leach is out in the field but is expected back soon; his partner is coming down to speak with you.” 

I nodded and took a seat. In a few minutes, a woman appeared. She appeared to be in her early thirties, brunette, with brown eyes, and had the flat affect of someone trying to appear professional.

She extended her hand and introduced herself as Agent Duncan, and I rose to accept her greeting.

She indicated that I should follow her, and, following the weapons check, we took the elevator to the third floor. The floor was a beehive of activity as we passed through to a small cubicle at the end. I declined the offer of a beverage, and we sat facing each other.

I held up my hand just as she began to speak. “No offense, but I would rather wait for Agent Leach.”

She frowned and shrugged her shoulders, stating, “As you wish. He should be here shortly.”

The silence was broken by a phone call, apparently from the agent himself, because I overheard her say, “He says it's about that Staley guy you’re looking for in that Conyers robbery.” She listened for a minute and then said, “Okay, see you soon.” 

She turned to me and said, “He’s almost here.” She turned her attention back to some paperwork on her desk, and we sat in silence. 

Fifteen minutes later, he appeared as I expected. He moved quickly and forcefully, looked at me with a combination of disdain and arrogance, and said, “Let’s go.” 

His partner knew what he meant because she stood and ushered me to an interview room. He was checking his weapon with a clerk, and she did the same. We entered, and they sat on one side of the table, and I sat across from them. 

I looked him in the eye and saw that same anger, seething below the surface, that Patricia had seen and that I had seen in my vision. He gave off an aura of tightly controlled violence, and I wondered if Patricia had been his only or just his first.

He went through the usual introduction for the recording of the session, such as his and his partner’s names, my name from my ID, date, and time, etc. Then said, “So tell us about Jeff Staley," he said in a tone that already implied disbelief.

I sat back and said, “Well, he’s a guy I knew in high school. He was a bit of a wild child and, unfortunately, died of a drug overdose last year, so come to think of it, he couldn't be your guy.”

They both sat there for a moment, a look of shock and then annoyance on their faces. He erupted, “ What the fuck are you talking about, you got us in here and then tell us about a guy that died last year?”

“I apologize. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight, but since we’re here, Marcus, why don’t we discuss something of more importance?”

I could tell that my use of his first name caught him off guard because it wasn’t on his name badge. 

He sat with a confused look on his face for a moment and said in a more subdued tone, “Like what?”

“I think it’s time to come to grips with Patricia, don’t you?”

The expression was instructive, bringing to mind the psychologist, now my wife, who carried my child as I revealed a vision to her at an earlier time. The internal struggle that comes when someone knows something that they couldn’t possibly know. The droop in his facial muscles was noticed by his partner, who had a frightened look on her face as she looked back and forth between us. The air had become thick, and the power base had definitely shifted.

“The Morgan County sheriff found her body, you know, under the gardenia bush by the huge oak tree that was bent by the ice storm. I read that her locket necklace was intact because it was closed. They swabbed it for DNA and got an intact sample.

The change in his demeanor was striking; the arrogance and anger were gone, replaced by a panic that threatened to lead to a loss of control. His gaze was on me and then off in the distance as he was playing out the few options he had in his mind.

“The fact that you were young when it happened might help. You should turn yourself in now and seek legal counsel,” I said to encourage him in the right direction.

He was breathing rapidly, his palms flat on the table, and began moving back and forth. His partner touched his arm and softly said, “Marcus...” He suddenly stood bolt upright and kicked the chair away, leaving the interview room with long strides.

She stood up and shouted, “Marcus!” to no avail. She had a frightened and confused look on her face as she looked back and forth between me and the door. 

“I’m afraid Marcus is in a bad place right now. You’ll be needing a new partner,” I said as I stood up, and almost on cue, the sound of a single gunshot reverberated throughout the office. I followed her out into the chaos of the moment and quietly walked past Marcus as his comrades applied CPR. The lobby was clear, but paramedics were rushing through the door, and I stood away and let them pass. 

Laura was waiting for me on the bench outside, her green eyes and red hair glowing in the autumn sun. 

She greeted me with a hug and a kiss, saying, “Did it have a bad ending?"

“Depends on your perspective, but at least it’s over now,” I said as we strolled away, hand in hand.