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The Hunting Grounds( Writing as B.D. Dillon) Mystery/fiction non romance
Copyright ã B.Dian Addair 2007-2008. All rights Reserved.

The Hunting Grounds

B.D. Dillon

CHAPTER ONE

B randi Gilliam stared at the sheet of company stationary. Johnny’s name stared back at her. The satisfied feeling she expected hadn’t surfaced yet and she’d been at work an hour already. Her kid brother Johnny died at age nineteen. Why was she suddenly unable to get him off her mind?
Day one at her new job. She’d made it down town, the sixteenth floor corporate headquarters, for one of the largest real estate companies in DC and Northern VA. Her section was on the top floor, between conference rooms, off the Vice Presidents plush workspace. On her left the elevator sighed open and closed unobtrusively. Expensive teal carpet lined the corridor, the desk, black lacquer, sat on section of real marble, situated in the lobby area, with the hallways leading to other offices flanking it. A wall of windows at her back, with mauve drapes, ending where the discreet convector wafted cool central air.
She was fielding calls for a C.E.O. for Christ sake. Only a person who’d worked low wage jobs for managers, with Napoleon complexes could understand the significance of that. Hell, she’d seen enough restrooms and dinky offices to last a lifetime, places where the elevator shuddered and rumbled like a freight train coming through the floor, and laminate desks were so dingy after five years she’d never got them clean. She’d had enough of managers in mid life crisis, screwing some guy on the cleaning crew. So where was her euphoria at having achieved her objective?
As one of hundreds of sophisticated, Washingtonians, walking around with a brief case and cell phone, carrying her morning cup of cappuccino. She’d gotten out of receptionist hell. She was dressed in a chic, black business suit. They called her ma’am here, instead of hey you!
Her gaze touched on the sleek flat screen monitor, humming with the newest software. Computer programs had been like cutting her teeth again, half her old employers had obsolete dinosaurs, where back up files meant, go get the paper ones out the rusted filing cabinet. But she’d learned how to make herself indispensable. She was out of the burbs now. Brandi heard a psst over the soft sounds of a Mozart sonata wafting through hidden speakers. Glancing up, she saw Angela Deloche waving her into the break room. She clicked on the answering machine to pick up calls for a few moments and headed her way.
When the door closed behind them, Ang whispered, “What’s up, you don’t look so happy for someone who’s landed their dream job.”
Purchasing a bottle of water from the vending machine, Brandi leaned her hips on the cafeteria style table. Ang was her neighbor, a transplanted country girl like herself, and the only one who knew something of her past. They carpooled to work together. She didn’t have to pretend with Ang, so she blurted, “I’ve been having nightmares…about Johnny.”
Ang’s blue eyes were instantly sympathetic. “Memorial Day,” she said understanding. “You should let go of this guilt, Brandi. You couldn’t have imagined he would die so young.”
“I left him there, Ang, in that hell. Not keeping in touch when he was alive was bad enough.” Brandi stared at her. “I was all he had, and I ran out…abandoned him.”
Ang shook her head. Her blond curls shifted against her shoulders. “You likely saved your own life getting away from your stepparents.” She stepped over to the snack vendor and dug some change out of the pocket of her tan slacks.
Brandi absently watched her eat a granola bar and brush crumb from her white silk blouse, while her mind drifted in a sudden flash back to the only call her step-mother had made to her before she died. In that horrible twang Shirley had said, “Johnny is dead. I just thought you’d want to know. We went ahead and buried him cause we know’d you wouldn’t bother coming back for a funeral.” The answering machine had beeped and Shirley Gilliam said, “Always had to be a little bitch about things. I guess you got snotty friends now that probably don’t know where you came from. Well, I’m not calling no more. Johnny’s dead, that’s all I called for.” “I was up most of the night,” Brandi confessed, “on line, trying to find out where he’s buried. Something is off. No one seems to have any information on him. Yesterday I talked to a Mr. Hopkins from the Vital statistics office, and he said they went two years back from 2000. There’s no record of it in Sullivan County. How can that be?”
Angel snorted. “Jesus, girl, you know how things work in those small towns. Someone overlooked it when they were uploading data. Happens all the time. It’s nothing to get freaked about.”
“No,” Brandi wanted her to understand how bizarre it was. “I can’t find the obit in the Kingsport Times archives. I can’t get a confirmation on his death from the office of vital statistics. I can’t even find him in the list of cemeteries. “Brandi moved away from the table and paced.” I know it sounds crazy, but I have to find him. I go to sleep, get up, and even dream about him. I haven’t done anything for days but stay on line and search.”
“You’re not thinking of going back there, are you?” Angela glanced at her with mingled worry and surprise.
“I don’t want to,” Brandi admitted “but today of all days, I should be on cloud nine. I’m not. All I can do is hope the day flies by so I can go home and finish.” Brandi crossed her arms tight and stared down at the toe of her expensive pumps. “I woke up feeling Johnny’s presence this morning.”
Ang’s brow rose. “It’s the stress. New job,
e—”
“God, Ang, I love you, you know that,” Brandi cut her off. “But you’d have to live like we did to understand how close we were, how much we depended on each other. When I feel him…I really feel him. I think he’s talking to me.”
“Okay.” Ang came over and touched her arm, looking closely at her face. “I believe you. I’m from Kentucky, remember. My grandma could raise hair on your arms telling prophecy. But I’ve known you awhile, and I know how you killed yourself working, and going to night class to get this job. I’m simply saying, its Decoration time back home, and maybe that along with the stress.”
Covering her hand Brandi gave her a short smile. “Sure. That’s likely it.”
Ang knew her. She could see that Brandi wasn’t sincere. She stepped back and offered, “I’ll come over after work. We’ll search together, okay?”
“No.” Dropping her arms, she leaned against the papered wall. She’d make Ang nuts going over and over the same lists, which is what Brandi admitted she’d be doing that evening. “I’ve looked through every available public record.” She said, “I’m just obsessing.”
Ang started to say something. Her gaze shifted as one the female exec’s walked in and smiled at them. On her way to the coffee machine, she crossed in front of them.
Brandi gave her a polite greeting, then glanced at Ang and shrugged. They couldn’t finish this conversation here.
Ang nodded, acknowledging her hint.
Back at her desk, she caught up on the calls and worked steady past lunch. One of the secretaries paused on her way to the elevator and invited her to a sports bar, where all the suits and pentagon crowd hung out. Brandi declined graciously; conscious she didn’t fit in with the BMW and Versace pack. The elevator hissed closed behind the woman.
Her brother would have, though. Johnny would have owned a company by now, not be panting to upload files and answer phones for one.
By the end of the workday she’d written his name a dozen more times on the sheet of company stationary. Her stomach was one tense knot. Ang and Brandi met their carpool group in the underground parking lot. Most people rode the metro. No one could afford parking in DC.
On the ride to the suburb of Alexandra, she felt Ang give her arm a pat, but Brandi was in her own world, hearing Johnny as she had all month. She laid her head back against the minivan seat and closed her eyes… and saw his face.
Arriving at Brook Stone, the fairly new high rises, squeezed between two sections of prefab townhouses, they waved off the van. The others were heading on to historic old town for dinner. Ang and she rode up on the elevator together. She always got that dipping sensation when riding an elevator, aware of the muffled clunk of passing floors and the vibration under her feet.
On the tenth floor, the doors opened. They shared a small laugh at the off key ding. Stepping out they smelled the overwhelming aroma of frying leeks and Mr. Krozner’s cigars.
“I’ll come by later and help you out,” Ang offered again, switching her briefcase and purse around to dig out keys.
Brandi said all the right things to assure her it wasn’t necessary, and was beginning to wish she’d kept her mouth shut anyway.
One of the tenants came out into the hall with a dog to walk. Ang waved at her, nodded and headed in the opposite direction. Brandi went into her apartment, six doors down, one of the smallest and so expensive she couldn’t afford much furniture. Locking the door behind her, she took off her jacket, glancing at the mess by the little computer desk, scraps of paper with phone numbers, bits of information on everything from candy wrappers to envelopes. There were three coffee cups and two water bottles, a chip bag with gum wrappers in it.
She headed for the only bedroom, a minuscule space containing her few boxes of possessions and an ugly salvage dresser, purchased at a yard sale. She changed into faded blue sweats and an Old Navy T-shirt. Eyeing the reflection in the mirror, which was propped against the stark white walls she grimaced, unaccustomed to the burgundy tint of her hair, the result of letting Ang drag her into a day spa for a makeover recently.
Her once brown hair was cut to her ears with long bangs, veddy French. She was too old for it. She’d said so, lost the argument. The image consultant assured her that being petite and trim, with only a few lines at the corner of her eyes, Brandi didn’t look thirty-two. Yes, it did occur to her, they got paid for saying things like that, plus a commission on all the stuff they load you down with. But being tense about the new job, also max’d out her credit card in boutiques she couldn’t pronounce, for a new work wardrobe.
After cleaning up the desk, back to the living room, Brandi put on coffee. A chipped freebee Christmas mug in hand, she sat at the computer and got back on-line to search cemeteries again. Maybe she missed something the first time? Someone had to have some information on her brother. It would be a stretch to believe that none of the places a person usually gathered information had anything.
Typing in the city page, Brandi scrolled down listings. It would take her all evening but she couldn’t sleep tonight if she didn’t try again.
There had been no mention of where he was buried that time Shirley had called. She was dead now—too late to ask her. Brandi had no idea where her stepfather was, being a trucker, the man could be anywhere. Not—that she wanted to talk to him again. For Johnny though, she would have.
She scribbled on her pad, (check funeral homes).
What Brandi did know, was that he’d been in college when he died. She recalled that from an invitation to an awards ceremony she’d received from him, and a few short notes he’d sent her about his classes. She hadn’t been hard to find, and knowing his knack for computers it was probably a kick for him to track her down. When she’d first bought her used computer he’d hacked into it. But she hadn’t gone home to see him, she’d had another new job with zero vacation days.
Eventually Brandi turned on a cheap desk lamp, fixed a tuna sandwich and opened a Diet Dr. Pepper. With her bare feet on the arm of the mission design futon, functioning as both sofa and her bed, she mentally sifted through her memories of Johnny.
She’d just known he’d be someone famous someday. A budding genius was Johnny boy, bright, with a mind that absorbed things like a sponge. While she’d been struggling to stay awake in school after her stepmother’s all night parties, Johnny had his head in some book. He won awards. His walls were covered with certificates from various teachers. He’d been fourteen when she ran off, just two years younger than herself, a tall lanky boy with a shock of silky brown hair and gray eyes like hers, handsome, two grades ahead of his peers, computer crazy. He loved chess. Brandi stank at it. He worked part time after school, and was athletic, ran track, played basketball. An incredible kid, considering the environment they lived in.
The contrast between them was glaring. She’d slipped further behind everyone else, skipped school to avoid getting called to the counselors office, ran with the wild crowd, hanging out by the tracks, partying in some barn—ended up screwing her life up.
Brandi grunted, well, she wasn’t going that far, though she had been forced to catch up after Rusty what’s-his-name divorced her, and ran off with an older woman, a hotel manager old enough to be his grandmother.
Brandi sighed and leaned her head back against the cushion. She’d been here sixteen years, the same number she’d lived in Tennessee. And she was already feeling burned out. The only person who related to her was Angel, the rest she knew were native city girls who thrived on nightclubs, one night stands, and living ninety miles an hour. They had money, or friends with money. She couldn’t keep up. Brandi could barely pay the rent and feed herself. She’d never been hip. They didn’t know her. They were people to just hang out with, a little more superficial than she could afford to be.
Having drifted into her own self-examination, and having no desire to—Brandi pulled herself in mentally, and tossed her soda can in the trash then went back to the computer, trying several sources, and spent two hours on an exasperating genealogical site and another one on a bunch of linked homepages of locals. Nothing.
“Piece of shit! I hate computers.” Brandi smacked the monitor. Damn, she was getting frustrated. She shoved back her chair and went to the bedroom, dumping out a box to find her old address book. There were precious few names. She’d gotten rid of any ties and buried any memories.
“Bingo!” Brandi muttered, holding her finger on the faded number. A soda can ring had nearly obliterated it from the page. Ida Lewis. She grabbed up the phone, dialing with her thumb while she flipped through the book. “We’re sorry, the number you have dialed has been disconnected.” Frowning at the phone, punching the number in again, putting sevens in for ones, just in case the soda rings had erased it. She got the same message.
“This is unbelievable.” Brandi threw the phone onto a bean bag chair and sat down on the futon, where her legal pad was laying with her pen. She wrote down on her already growing list Check to see if Aunt Ida is in the phone book. She tossed the pad aside, narrowing her eyes at the computer screen— feeling discouraged- yet compelled to keep searching.
“Johnny, where in the hell are you?”
The computer screen started blinking.
“Shit.” Her heart thudded. Brandi rushed over to it, clicking the mouse. A hint of a picture—then— the screen went blank. It wasn’t him. Was it? OK, it wasn’t. But she’d been dreaming lately, hearing his voice.
Maybe, she was having some sort of emotional melt down? Ang said these things happen to people who suppress memories. Sometimes, when they have reached a crossroads in their lives—the door just bursts open. Oh. Hell. She hoped not. Brandi muttered her opinion about psychoanalyzing in four letter words, walking back to the futon, seated again, writing in the pad, glancing over now and then. She’d put the computer on stand by. If only she’d written him back. Christ, she didn’t even know how he’d died. Guilt. No, something oppressive, always hovering, like a dark cloud. There was a gloomy space, the one she’d closed the door on when she’d left her dysfunctional youth behind. The cloud insisted on creeping out like a specter, every holiday, every birthday, it terrified her with its persistence, its intent. She didn’t know, but it was somehow... threatening. It stretched, opened into a bottomless void in her dreams. Then she would scream for Johnny until her own voice awakened her.
If she went back she’d relive it all again. But she had to admit it—something stronger than guilt was replacing the occasional nightmares.
She sat again circling his name, his presence, so strong Brandi could feel her scalp tighten. If she listened closely, she could almost hear him whisper.
Every day, the following week when her phone rang, like clockwork when Brandi picked it up, a voice called her name.

~~

Friday night, Brandi was in bed, half asleep when the phone rang. She shot up against the headboard and fumbled to answer it. Her heart pounded in her ears. She’d been dreaming again...
“Hey girl, it’s Ang.”
Her heartbeat slowed to normal. From the noise in the background Angel was calling from her cell phone, at a dance club if the loud throbbing music was any hint.
“Wassup?”
“I got worried about you. How’s the hunting?”
“Nothing so far.” Brandi rubbed her eye. “I’ve got some more numbers to check.”
“You were pretty distracted at work this week?”
“I know. I called three people Johnny, and got some concerned looks in the break room when someone saw my list of cemeteries. I’ve been having some strange experiences lately, Ang.” She told her about the computer, about her phone ringing and her hearing, what sounded like Johnny’s voice. At work Brandi had found herself staring at one of the mail room guys—he’d looked like her brother.
“Oh, Brandi. What are you going to do, hun?”
“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I might go home.”
“You’re joking, right? Home, as in Tennessee? I don’t think so.”
Only Ang was aware what going back would mean for her. But she told her, “I can hardly hear you. Look, I’m fine. Go, enjoy, K. I’ll talk at you as soon as I decide something.”
Copyright ã B.Dian Addair 2007. All rights Reserved.
Cover art. B.Dian Addair















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