Dangerous Connections

DANGEROUS CONNECTIONS

By

Patricia Bruening

© Copyright by Patricia Bruening, January 2009
© Cover Art by Alex DeShanks, January 2009
ISBN 978-1-60394-261-4
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Rachel Mackenzie stared into her mirror, dread churning her stomach. The reflected face, hers, yet not hers, had the same luminous green eyes, the same wild mane of dark red hair, but it was somehow harder, more world-weary than Rachel ever believed herself to be. Her breath caught in her throat as she stared at the reflection. Her heart beat a frantic rhythm against her ribcage. Fear—no, pure terror—tormented those other green eyes—eyes that pleaded for help.

A loud clap of thunder snapped Rachel’s attention to the bedroom window and the storm raging outside. A brief flash of lightning blinded her for a second. Her ears rang from the thunder that followed. She looked back at the mirror and her own nervous reflection. She studied it carefully but only her face stared back at her. Realizing she held her breath, she exhaled slowly. A trick of the storm, she told her pounding heart. But even her thoughts lacked conviction, as they always did.

Denying the phenomenon, Rachel shook her head and backed away from the mirror. It was not the first time she had seen that oddly altered reflection. She often experienced thoughts, even feelings, that didn’t seem to come from her. For as long as she could remember, Rachel had been plagued by a faint sense of someone else in her life, a presence never seen or heard, only felt.

“Get your neurosis under control and get to work,” she ordered herself, striding purposefully out of the bedroom. “Put your overactive imagination on paper.”

She sat at the computer and gave the power button a determined jab. Waiting for the machine to cycle through its power-up procedure, including the virus screen, she looked around the living room she had converted into an office. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined every wall. The only empty space existed where the large window took up a large portion of the outside wall. She had custom-built shelves under the window. There were no keepsakes, knick/knacks, or pictures—only the books that made up her world.

The computer beeped at her and she typed in the required password. She inserted a clearly labeled disc and called up her personal journal. For the next several minutes, she typed an account of the morning’s strange sensations, describing that odd reflection in great detail. She never mentioned the strange experiences to anyone though she knew instinctively one other person would believe her.

Rachel shook off her fanciful notions and replaced her journal disc with another one. The disc file opened to a page of text as she opened a spiral-bound notebook. After a brief glance at her written notes, she typed steadily until her entry buzzer sounded. Scowling, she went to the intercom and pressed the button.

“Who is it?” Her tone left no doubt of her displeasure at being disturbed.

“Mail—I have a package that requires your signature.”

“I’ll be right down.”

With a groan of frustration, she yanked open her front door and stalked down the hall to the building entrance.

She paid a hefty rent to live in the secure building but that did not deter interruptions. She gave a wry smile. Only the mailman ever buzzed her. No one visited. She had no relatives she was aware of and no friends. So, who sent her a package? She already had the galley proofs of her last book. She keyed in a digital code and opened the outside door. The mailman stood on the step, a stack of mail in his hand.

“Morning, ma’am,” he greeted her with his ever present smile.

“Morning, Sam,” Rachel returned his pleasant greeting, careful to keep the irritation out of her voice. “What have you got?”

“The usual, plus a package. Sign please.” He handed her a clipboard with a pen attached and pointed to a blank line next to her printed name.

She signed with her customary flourish. He handed her the day’s mail and touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Ms. Mackenzie.”

She nodded absently as she removed the large brown envelope from the bottom of the stack. Studying it closely, she returned to her apartment. The plain brown ten-by-thirteen envelope looked like the ones she used to mail manuscripts. Her name and address had been written in the very center of the envelope in the spidery handwriting she normally associated with elderly women. Rachel frowned at the Tucson, AZ postmark, with only a post office box return address in Wilcox, AZ.

“Wilcox,” she muttered. “I don’t know anyone there.”