Angel Angst Read online

  As the air rushed in the open window, she heard the voice again. “I am here,” it seemed to say. “Have no fear.”

  Without searching for its origin this time, she hastily got that key in, turned the ignition, and shoved the car into gear.

  Sunny was more than ready to leave. She’d just seen someone killed. And the fear of knowing that she’d been that close to it, and to someone who could commit murder, rocked her very soul.

  And as you will soon see, her fear was well founded. Because in her haste, and with all of her fumbling, Sunny had dropped the cover for one of her lenses in the soft snow that had fallen around her. Inside of it was a label that read, “If found, please return to Sunny Leibowitz.”

  As you may have guessed, the label included her address and phone number. Making it very easy for Sunny to be found by anyone who cared to look for her.

  Chapter Three

  Are you just going to leave her there?

  “What am I thinking?” Sunny said out loud.

  She hadn’t driven more than four blocks from the “crime scene” when she slammed on the brakes, pulled over to the side of the road and threw the gear into “Park.”

  “I just can’t leave her there.” Shaking her head at her inconsiderateness, she dug her phone out of her pocket. All set to dial 911, she let the backlight go out without even bringing up the dialer.

  “I don’t wanna call on my phone.” She threw the phone down on the passenger seat like it had heated up in her hand, and slumped down in her seat. She bit her bottom lip and tried to think of what to do. “I don’t want anyone to know it’s me reporting it. I can’t get involved with a murder.”

  Sunny thought about the reputation she was trying to build. She wanted to make a name for herself, but being in the middle of a murder, somehow just didn’t feel like the right kind of publicity. Plus, as the couch-potato-television-addict she’d been most of her life, she knew from TV shows how people were blamed for crimes just because they’d been there.

  She tugged on one of the curls on the top of her head and twirled it. A habitual action, usually starting off unconsciously whenever she was thinking hard about something or when she was nervous.

  In fact, Sunny had many habits. Bad ones so she thought. She was attempting to make a new start, and it had become her mission to try and break those habits. Like biting the side of her tongue when she was concentrating. The whole couch potato, watching too much TV thing, or not looking at people when they spoke to her, and overstressing about everything.

  Sunny would probably argue that she only stresses about most things.

  She let go of her hair.

  Without thinking about it, she turned up the radio, an old favorite song of hers by Robbie Williams was playing and started singing the words.

  I sit and wait. Does an angel contemplate my fate.”

  “Okay, Sunny,” she said to herself in a huff, renewed determination she hit the steering with then reached over and turned off the radio. “Get it together.” She took in a breath. “I can find a payphone to use, then no one will know it was me.” She smiled and sat up in her seat, satisfied with her decision.

  Then a thought popped into her head.

  Did I leave my fingerprints on anything?

  She shook her head. “I didn’t touch anything but my camera equipment.” She sucked in, holding a breath. “I think . . . I hope.” She slid down in her seat again, and let out a sigh.

  A payphone would be safe, Sunny reasoned. I could wipe the fingerprints off the receiver. What could go wrong it if I used a payphone?

  “There might be cameras nearby,” Sunny blurted out answering her own question. “They’ll trace the number, look at the security video and then they’ll know it was me. That’s what could go wrong.”

  She picked up a curl. “Maybe . . .” she chewed on her lip. “Maybe, I won’t call. Maybe someone else will find her.”

  Sunny blew out a breath ruffling the curls hanging over her forehead, and blinked hard. Her dark eyes were narrow, making her look as if she was always squinting. And usually those brown eyes had specks that sparkled just like her persona, but at that moment there was no gleam in them. Surrounded by thick lashes and set in smooth caramel colored skin, what was now behind them was a well of confusion and contradiction.

  She had always been quiet, and non-combative. Unobtrusive. But not now. Not anymore. She’d moved to the big city to get away from that person, to spread her wings. To be strong. Brave. Intrusive. But as she sat contemplating, the Sunny she was running from, was catching up with her.

  “Make a decision already!” Her outburst even startled her.

  (Another bad habit that Sunny had yet determined to break was talking to herself.)

  Sunny grabbed her phone and punched in several numbers. Many more than the three it took to get help for “Dead Girl.”

  “Hi, Divit,” she spoke measuredly into the phone not wanting to give away the fear her voice harbored. “You busy? I need to speak with you about something.”

  “Sure,” he chimed back, his voice chipper on the other end.

  “So. What would you do if you saw a dead body?”

  “How dead?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “Well, if they weren’t completely dead, I’d do the last rites, but -”

  “They are completely dead, Divit. Think completely dead.”

  “Okaaay.”

  “Say you found a dead body. A completely dead body. That no one knew was there, and possibly . . .” Sunny cleared her throat. “Possibly one that had been murdered.”

  “Again,” he spoke slowly. “It would be my job to ensure, to the best of my ability that is, that that soul got into heaven. So, as I said, I would say a prayer, one that would probably go like . . .”

  Meet Divit Chowdary. Sunny’s best friend and decidedly – as it appears to be unfolding here – her confidant.

  Divit was a first generation American, his parents hailing from the southern Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. Devout Hindi – their only son, to their dismay, had grown up to became a Catholic – hoping to become a priest no less – and now was working hard to get his Master of Divinity from a local seminary school. In fact, he was graduating with the masters in just a matter of hours. Taking a vow of a lifetime of celibacy, even though his wife had been picked for him at birth, Divit took his calling wholeheartedly.

  Divit was the opposite of Sunny – where she always floated hope, he was the perennial pessimist. And often times she wondered why she suffered through his cynicism, finding after she sought his advice she usually didn’t heed a word of it.

  Like she was doing now.

  “I saw someone get murdered,” Sunny interjected.

  “What!” Divit said. “You okay?”

  “What a dumb question, Divit. Of course I’m not okay. I’ve just seen a person get killed. Shot to death.”

  “And a murderer has just seen you?”

  Sunny drew in a quick breath, and swiped a hand across her hair, pulling it away from her face. There. Divit had said it out loud. The nagging question that had been smacking her in her face.

  “No. No one saw me,” Sunny said and shook her head, confirming it to herself again. “They were too far way. I saw them through the lens of my camera.”

  “So you had to be pretty close if you could see it through your camera.”

  “No. It was a zoom lens. No one knew I was there.”

  “You hope.” Divit said. “But it could be a sign.”

  Sunny let out a silent sigh. “A sign of what, Divit?”

  “Of what’s to come. It may not only be coincidence that you were there when the murder occurred, but it may be providence.”

  “What?” Her voice went up an octave.

  “Moving here to the big city. You know what I mean. Wanting to live the city life. It’s not for small town people like you. Murder and mayhem are around every corner. It could be a sign that you made the wrong decisio
n.”

  “I didn’t make the wrong decision.”

  “Uh, I’m not too sure.”

  “Sometimes, Divit. I don’t even know why I confide in you.” Sunny pulled the phone down from her ear and stared at it. Maybe she should call someone else. Someone that would actually be helpful.

  “Moving here to a big city was good for me,” she said putting the phone back up to her ear. “It’ll help me overcome my fears. It’ll make me stronger.” Sunny let out a huff. “And is that the kind of comfort you’re going to offer to your parishioners, Divit?” she asked. “Because if it is, you’re going to suck at being a priest.”

  “It’s why I decided to become a priest. You know that.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “The doom and gloom badge of honor that Catholicism carries with it appeals to me.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “Just the importance of repentance. The perpetual need for a priest’s services. In Hindi or Buddhism, you needn’t worry about being a do-gooder all the time. You don’t measure up in this life, it’s okay, you’ll get another life, you can do better next time.”

  “I don’t think it’s that simple, Divit.”

  “Basically, it is.” Divit’s voice sounded matter-of-fact.

  “So, Divit, you’d rather that everyone would have to come to you for penitence to make sure they make it into heaven, or just go to hell?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that’s the end of it?”

  “Well, there is limbo, but yes, that’s how it should be.”

  “I’m sure your parents are very proud of you,” Sunny said dryly.

  A low groan was all that came through the line.

  “Well, I’m not Catholic, Divit, and right now that is not what I need you for,” Sunny said wanting to get to the point. “I don’t have anything to repent for, and I don’t even know how we got on the topic.”

  “Well, we were-”

  “It doesn’t matter, Divit,” Sunny interrupted. “I just need your help.”

  “With what?”

  “The dead body. The murder.”

  “And by the sound of today’s happenings, you’ll need help with the murderer too.”

  “Why would I need help with the murderer?”

  “You need to somehow ensure that he doesn’t come after you. You’ll need lots of prayer that the Father will intercede and keep you safe from him-”

  “I don’t know that it was a ‘him.’” Sunny interrupted Divit’s tirade.

  “I thought you saw him?”

  “I did see the murderer, I just don’t know if it was a him.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “Their faces were covered.” Sunny let out another long sigh, her patience wearing thin. “I didn’t even see her face. At least not then.”

  “Well, whether it was a ‘him’ or not, I could pray to St. Michael, the Archangel, for protection for you.”

  “Never mind,” Sunny said and hung up.

  Sunny had had enough of Divit. She needed to help the dead girl in the blue shoes. Well, the little help she could still offer, and she was sure Divit wasn’t going to be able to conjure up the angel Michael to come and save her. She needed realistic help.

  Sunny drove around for what seemed like an hour before she found a payphone, and then sat and stared at it for another twenty minutes before she used it to call 9-1-1. She reported the murder, being as exact as she could about the location and slammed down the receiver before the dispatcher could ask her a lot of questions.

  After she hung up, she stood and stared at the phone, thinking that the dispatcher that had answered might try to call her back, not that she planned on answering it. When it didn’t ring, she turned to look around to make sure no one was watching her. Then she glanced at nearby buildings to see if she could spot any surveillance cameras. Satisfied there weren’t any, she turned back to the phone, pulled the sleeve of her coat over her hand, picked up the receiver and used her hat to wipe away any evidence of her ever being there. Then she stuffed her hat into her pocket.

  She let out a huff. “I wish I could just go and talk to Pops,” she said as if he could’ve been her salvation from the day’s events. She needed help that wasn’t laced in cynicism. And even with his lapses in memory, Sunny’s grandfather, until the very end, had listened to her and with his easy, but lopsided smile, gave her more hope and help than Divit ever could.

  But what Sunny didn’t know was that help had already been dispatched and indeed, had arrived, courtesy of her morning supplication to Divit’s celestial, soon-to-be employer.

  Chapter Four

  Still unsteady, Sunny pulled up into the alley next to the sturdy, nearly one hundred year old red brick two-story walk-up that she called home. She threw the car into park, and glanced into her rearview mirror.

  “Thank you, God, for letting me get back home okay.”

  Sunny grabbed her duffle bag and tripod out of the back seat and clicked the button on her fob to lock the car. She walked past the side door that led upstairs and headed to the front of the building.

  The second floor was her living space, and although recently remodeled, it still maintained its original charm – hardwood floors, crown moldings, wainscoting in the dining room, a window seat in her bedroom, and a cozy breakfast nook – making it easy for her new surroundings to feel like home. Still the furnishings were sparse and didn’t fill the space. She had found that she couldn’t make herself do much more to it because she devoted all of her time and effort to her newly established business.

  The first floor was an urban-planned, updated storefront that she’d made into her photography studio. It boasted a large display window with a brown cloth awning that proclaimed her place – Painted Light.

  Usually, when Sunny pushed opened the glass door to her studio, she was excited at the welcoming tinkle of the small bell overhead. It had been a dream come true, and adding to her happiness, business was good – better than good. But today her hands trembled as she turned the brass knob. She was filled with trepidation as she stepped inside. She paid no attention to the bright cheery interior with its walls filled with dozens of pictures she’d taken. Her mind was focused on one thing – and one thing only – to take a look at the images she’d shot that morning.

  Sunny locked the door behind her and didn’t bother to flip the “Closed” sign. She dropped her gear behind the receptionist’s counter, unzipped her coat, tossed it on the leather office chair, and headed to the back.

  She pushed open the door to her darkroom and flipped the light switch on. The small windowless room was divided into dry and wet sides, with shelves and storage cabinets flanking both sides of the entryway, and a sink on the opposite wall. She pulled the camera from around her neck, laid it on the steel-topped table and stared at it.

  Do I really want to see what’s on there?

  She tried to swallow over the knot that had risen in her throat. She looked at the camera, then with a shaky hand she reached out to touch it, but pulled back.

  And after I develop the pictures, then what am I going to do?

  Blowing out a long breath, she lifted her chin and straightened her back. She grabbed a pair of latex gloves from a box on the shelf. As she put them on, she walked over and hit the light switch on the wall and closed the door. She stood still as the light was sucked out of the room, and let her eyes adjust to the blackness. Then she closed them.

  Sunny walked the three measured steps to her wet station where she’d left the camera, and popped out the film. With her eyes still closed, she worked adeptly in the dark. Moving instinctively, she opened the roll and fed it onto the developing reel, cutting off the end, and wrapping it tightly, she dropped it into the tank that sat exactly eleven inches to her right.

  She screwed the top on and placing her finger at the small opening to mark it, she reached for the glass jar of developer that she kept in a 38.8º Celsius bath. Pouring it, she listened as the s
ound of the liquid hollowed out, alerting her that it reached the top-off point. After tapping the tank on the table several times to ensure there were no air bubbles, she agitated it for a few seconds, then sat it on the table, and pushed the button on her wall-mounted pre-set timer. She reached behind her for the stool and sat down to wait out the three and a half minutes needed for the film’s first bath.

  It seemed like the longest three and a half minutes of her life.

  She ran her hand over her face and opened her eyes. Even though darkness covered the room, she could already see the images she knew were on that film – the blur of white light capturing the activity as those two argued, the blue shoes laying next to that red door. She had used black and white film for most of the shoot, seizing the desolation, but had changed to color after finding that door, and now, as she again closed her eyes, those vivid colors splashed behind her eyelids, making her dizzy as they spun around in her head.

  The harsh buzzer indicating her wait was over startled her. She swallowed hard and reached out for the canister. Wrapping her hand around it, she poured the spent liquid into a recycling tub, and again marking the opening with a finger on her left hand, poured the stop-liquid into the canister. She flipped it back and forth and counted to ten, then poured it out, and added the fixer. Restarting the timer, she sat down and waited impatiently for the last wet step to finish.

  But before the buzzer alerted her that her film had been fixed, a blaringly bright light seeped under the crack of the bottom of the door and around its frame. It raced around the room, pushing itself through, until it seemed to reach a crescendo – an abundant release of energy that emitted sudden firework-like flashes. It lit up the entire darkroom. Then settling in, the light seemed to swirl, bathing her and her equipment in a warm, soft, ethereal glow. And as she inhaled, a sweet, delicate fragrant invaded her senses. It was a light, soothing aroma that sent a sensation of calm down through to her very soul.