Murder Out By Caster Bridge

Chapter nine

Following the black truck down the road until it disappeared in a puff of black smoke over the Caster Bridge made me slam on the brake rather roughly. This was quite surprising. This was one of the town's most haunted areas. At least, according to some of the stories you read on the Caster Vally website. People came up with the dumbest ways to attract tourists.

I stepped out of the Jeep without turning off the engine. What was I thinking? What was I even doing this for? I could simply be hallucinating. I mean, for crying out loud, I just saw a truck turn into a puff of smoke.

Carefully and cautiously, I walked over the bridge. It was still daylight. Just a little past noon, and yet I shivered. The sun shone high and I was freezing. This place was utterly creeping me out. As soon as I put my weight against the old iron railing, I gulped. I wasn't afraid of heights, but the thought of someone about ready to jump up, point a camera at me, and shout out that this whole ordeal was a prank flashed into my head. As I started to look over the side, a honk startled me so much that my head jerked up.

After raising my head, a red Camaro skidded to a stop. Then, my cousin stepped out with his door wide open. "What are you doing out here? This bridge hasn't been used in years."

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," I said. "What are you doing here? Did you follow me?"

"You bet your ass I did," he said. "I wasn't about to let you get into a huge amount of trouble."

"Like that would ever happen."

"It does happen," he argued. "You know damn well it does."

"Well, you didn't have to get involved by following me. I didn't ask you to be here. I specifically told you not to."

"I know," he said. "And I did let Melinda know. Besides, what did you expect? You were acting like a crazy person. What the hell is going I? You told me about the whole empathy thing. The least you can do is explain to me what is happening now. Does it have to do with your empath thing?"

I shrugged. "To be honest, I don't know. I think it may, but I'm not...sure," I said, trailing off as soon as my eyes wandered to the bottom of the hill like something was beaconing to me. Near the bottom was a black truck--the same black truck that I had been seeing--crashed into a tree.

"Carter!" I shouted.

Carter ran over to me with concern radiating from him. "What is it?" he asked, looking at me.

I pointed.

He looked. The concern faded only to be replaced with horror and terror and shock. "Oh, my God!"

"We need to get help!" I suggested. "Call the police station. I am going to see if anyone needs help."

While Carter called the police, I carefully hiked down the narrow slope to the truck. I didn't know what I was thinking. I wasn't a detective or with the police department, but I knew I needed to do something. This truck led me here for a reason.

Opening the door, a horrible odor hit my sinuses. I gagged and then covered my mouth. Then a limp arm brushed against my skin. Goosebumps spread throughout my body and an electric sensation rippled through me strangely. I became accurately aware that the arm was way too cold. Suddenly, it felt like I was choking on something.

With an unintended yelp, I leaped away only to start hacking which had me gripping the side of the truck tightly. Under my palm, leaves crunched. After gaining my composure and clearing my throat, I looked in the cargo bed of the truck. It was covered in a bunch of fallen leaves that gave it the impression that it had been out here for a long while.

Panting, I managed to block the strange sensation and looked back inside.

Oh, God! It was Barry.

By the time the police got here, Carter helped me back up to the top and helped me over to my Jeep. By the look of it, the head detective was on the case. Of course, he was. This was just great. He was the last person I needed right now.

Detective Bradley Forrest was famous. Not literally. He was just one of the only four detectives to care about what was happening in this town and get on the ball. He was a great detective. He had solved dozen of cases. True, the cases they solved were small and usually involved minor fender benders or small robberies. This time was different.

But the detective wasn't the problem. It was the police officer--the same police officer that was called in about the museum flooding. As soon as he saw me, he immediately started ranting and raving about how I was bad luck.

I pretty much ignored him, but I couldn't stop my thoughts or the vision of seeing Barry. This was the first time I had ever seen a dead body.

This was officially going down in my notebook as one of the worst days of my life.

Detective Bradley was an older gentleman in his mid to late fifties I presumed from the fact his brown hair had gray and was thinning at the edges. He bore a black mustache. He was dressed in a black trench coat holding a small notepad and taking notes with a fountain pen as he talked to someone who I believed was the coroner.

Suddenly, a motorcycle pulled up behind the detective's black Mustang. The young man yanked off his helmet and hung it on the handle. The young man was about my age. He had short brown hair and hazel eyes and was wearing a brown jacket and khaki jeans with neon green sneakers. He walked over and touched the detective's shoulder.

The detective turned around. "What are you doing here? How did you hear about this?"

"I listened in again and overhead everything that you said," the young man said. "I am telling you right now that you don't know what you're talking about! He... He wouldn't do this. He wouldn't! He may not have been perfect, but he was turning his life around!"

Detective Bradley moved forward and went to place his hands on the man's shoulders. "Norman, listen..."

The young man named Norman pushed the detective's hands away. "No!" he shouted. "Why aren't you listening to me? He. Wouldn't. Do. This."

"I hear what you are saying, but the evidence..."

"Screw the evidence!" the young man retorted. "Evidence is sometimes mistaken!"

"Norman, that's enough!" yelled Detective Bradley distressed. "Go home this instant. We will discuss this later."

The man named Norman growled and threw his hands in the air. As he pulled away from the detective, his gaze wandered over to me. Our eyes met briefly before I turned away and shoved my hands into my pockets.

My cousin placed his hand on my shoulder and patted it before moving his hand back to his side. What was that all about?

It was then that the detective walked over to us. "Weston Brooks, you and your cousin will need to come to the station with us. You both are key witnesses since you found the body of Barry Bloomsdale."

I thought so.

Barry Bloomsdale. The same man who always drove the bus I rode on. The same man who hadn't been present in days.

Now I knew why.

He was dead and from the sound of the conversation, they were pretty sure it was something he did intentionally.

But something about that wasn't right.