The Transfixed

chapter two

It was a bitter cold day, and the city of Bedford was seeing its first fall of snow for the season. Early December was a time that children looked forward to having school off, and adults spent hours chipping ice from their windshields and plowing frost from their driveways. It was a cheerful stage for business owners; with Christmas decorations going up, and holiday sales.

Not everyone was busily looking forward to Christmas, though, or celebrating the downfall of snowflakes. Crime still lurked in the cracks of the city, and the Bedford Police Department was never idle of emergency calls, or mysterious homicides leaving no evidence.

They were lucky to have Bridget Briggs, a sharp young woman with an abnormal ability to replace confusion with obviousness. She had a seemingly dry-background, with only two years of college education on creative writing, and a part-time job in a bookstore. Hardly anyone questioned her brilliance around crime investigation; not even Darren Redding, the Chief of Police and Bridget's best friend. They called her a “natural”, and had never felt the need to press it further.

On that particular day of the week, as the first sights of snow blew over rooftops, Bridget was busy in the bookstore, dusting shelves and greeting nonexistent customers. As afternoon turned to evening, she locked the empty cash register, turned the front sign to CLOSED, and left the corner shop to the sound of an overhead doorbell.

Bridget hailed a cab and climbed into the backseat.

The driver had a rough complexion, with dark sunglasses and baseball cap. “Where to?”

“Florence Drive, please.” She replied, staring at the steering wheel of the taxi.

Moments later, her eyes blinked closed, and she fell into a trance.

- - -

Horns blared and traffic thickened. A young woman blacked out at the wheel, and her fingers slipped from control. Her right foot fell reflexively onto the gas pedal, and the small, red truck flung forward; colliding into the back of a rusty sedan.

Bridget ran along the sidewalk, in and out of throngs of unaware pedestrians. Her eyes darted towards the red truck, the silver sedan, and several cars that had managed to slam into a pileup. A police siren met Bridget’s ears, and she stopped at an intersection. There was a yellow taxi waiting impatiently behind the lineup of cars.

She saw herself in the taxi, and knew exactly where she was. Her boots met the snow flurry of the street, and she moved with quickness to the scene. The woman Bridget had seen in the red truck was lying sideways across the lane, and the stench of death and a sight of blood could be found near the driver’s seat. The rusty sedan was flipped and two children were being pulled out of the top. Firefighters dove for the cars behind the pickup truck where an oil fire had erupted. A man with white gloves came to check the young woman’s pulse.

Bridget noticed Darren pulling up in his squad car.

Someone was screaming, and traffic began to thicken. Bridget threw one last glance at the victims being led away in an ambulance, and then ran to the sidewalk. She took her store key out of the outer pocket of her purse. A moment later, she was in the store, and her eyes shot open.

- - -

“Miss? Are you alright?”

Bridget glanced up and nodded to the driver. “Yes, fine.” She narrowed her eyes at the traffic ahead of them, and spotted the red pickup truck in the distance. Bridget knew it would only be a matter of time before it roared ahead and a tragedy would occur. She adverted her vision back to the taxi driver. “Better watch out for any explosions up there.” She muttered to him with a bitter humor.

His eyes widened in surprise, but didn’t say anything.

Bridget gazed around the cab, and then out the left window. A group of teenagers were going by, laughing and carrying a bunch of colorful balloons. She watched them about to round the corner; eyes still fixed on their balloons. Instantly, she slipped away.

 - - -

The music was loud, the air was thick, and a cluster of grey balloons lined the ceiling. A mob of party-goers swarmed every edge of a tall mansion. Bridget noticed the guests were middle-aged, well-dressed, and some held wine glasses and wore pearls.

Moving through the crowd, Bridget’s eyes landed on a dark haired man, probably around her age, wearing a tux and acting as though he owned the place. He clutched a glass of vodka in one hand, and shook the hands of high-class party-goers in the other. Bridget took this man in, and felt an overwhelming sense of recognition; almost as if she knew him. But she was sure she didn’t.

She stood in the shadows and watched as the dark haired man smirked at an elderly couple, and then moved on to a younger woman. Immediately, Bridget knew this woman was the one driving the red truck. A brush of ball gowns and suits blurred her view, and by the time her eyes could fall back on the dark haired man again, he was holding out his glass to the woman.

Bridget raised an eyebrow in suspicion. Why would he give her his drink?

Unless, there was more than just vodka in that glass.

She watched the man nod and smile at the woman before walking away. His hand slipped into his right pocket, where he secured a small object there. Bridget hadn’t seen what it was. She knew she didn’t have much time left, so with a quickness in her step, she made her way through the crowd to follow him.

Somehow, Bridget needed to find out what the man had put in his pocket. She followed him up a grand staircase, behind a couple other people. From a distance, she watched him meet another man, possibly a bit older, at the top of the stairs. Whispered words were exchanged. Bridget caught a valuable sentence from the dark haired man, “Right. She’s just a test subject; we’ll see if the drugs worked later.”

Her eyes widened, and she gasped slightly. The man turned his head, almost as if he had heard, and Bridget felt the urge to duck behind the hall table. She chuckled strangely to herself afterwards, realizing his chances of seeing her were impossible.

After a few minutes of the two men talking, and Bridget straining to hear, she went down the opposite staircase away from them, and located the young woman with the spiked drink. From the looks of it, the woman had already sipped it. Bridget hoped it wasn’t too late, and purposely knocked shoulders with her. The glass fell from the woman’s hand, and shattered across an expensive-looking rug.

Then Bridget ran to the entrance of the mansion, and threw open the doors. The smell of a smoky taxi cab enveloped her senses.

 - - -

“We’re here, Miss. That’ll be ten fifty.”

Her blue eyes fluttered open, and she gave the driver a weak smile. After producing the sum, she gazed out the front window. “Nothing... um, out of the ordinary happened on the way, did it?”

The cab driver raised an eyebrow. “No. I even looked ahead like you said, but nothin’ happened.” He sounded almost disappointed.

“Well, thanks. Have a good day.” She grinned, stepping out of the cab and lifting her shoulder bag higher. The flats she was wearing didn’t prove sturdy for the sleet piling up on her apartment staircase, and she almost slipped twice.

In the warmth of her own living room, Bridget tossed her shoes and purse off, and fell into the sofa. An image of the dark haired man she’d seen in her flashback tore through her memory. Why did she feel as though he had seen her? Probably her imagination playing tricks. She wouldn’t be surprised.

“I’ll have to tell Wallace about this, I guess.” She said to herself.

Pickle, Bridget’s fat, orange cat, sauntered into the room, clumsily leapt onto the couch, and planted himself on her lap.

She smiled softly, and stroked his fur. “I saved someone again today, Pickle.”

Pickle let out a sigh.

“And I’ll do it again, I’m sure of it.” There was a new determination in Bridget’s voice; almost as if she knew what was coming.