"What's that supposed to mean?" Donna Lee asked.
"Well, think about it, darlin'. They're dropping like flies, ain't they? Maybe I better put in a call to the mental ward, see how my mama's doing. Maybe she choked on a fish bone or something. I can always hope."
"I th-th-thought you s-said that w-w-women don't hate."
"Oh, Joel, honey. That's regular women, not me. I was brought up by the master hater of all time. I learned real good how it's done. Why do you think I'm here? I'm trying to unlearn some of it, that's all. Take some of mine and give it to you-all." She winked conspiratorially at me. "How about you, Cassidy? You got some good ol' hate inside you? Or are you all torn up inside and too much of a wuss to get mad?"
I felt myself blush. "A little of both, I guess."
"Do tell," Mrs. Bombay said, turning in her chair to face me.
"Maybe she don't want to talk her first day," Harold said.
Everyone's eyes were trained on me. Even Maylene had quit crying.
I cleared my throat. "I guess I agree with what Donna said about being able to love and hate at the same time. If you love someone first, and then they hurt you, you don't just quit loving them, even if you get mad enough to hate them. It's complicated, I guess." I could feel Maggie's gaze as if it were fire and my cheeks burned.
An eternity of silence ensued. Finally, Maggie saved me by changing the subject. Gratefully, I sat back and watched as they took turns alternately knocking one another down and then helping one another back up. They were like sparring partners, I thought, dancing around tender topics, jabbing, but seldom hard enough to draw blood. Little by little, they were opening old wounds, and I reluctantly began to see the merits of group therapy.
Finally, Maggie told us that time was up. People looked up, as if surprised that so much time had already passed. I felt like we'd been there for hours. Maggie pushed back her chair and walked to the door, opening it wide. "Cassidy, you can finish that form in my office, if you like," she said, ushering us out.
As they filed past me, Donna Lee squeezed my shoulder. "Glad you joined us, Cassidy. See you on Thursday." For a brief second, I almost found myself looking forward to it.
I walked into Maggie's office and quickly filled out the form while I waited for Maggie to join me. When she came in, she sat down beside me.
"Well, what did you think?"
"Lots of emotion in there, that's for sure. Mrs. Bombay's a piece of work, isn't she?"
"Poor thing. You should hear her childhood stories. And poor Joel. I was hoping the others would help him open up, but I'm not sure it's working. That was about the most he's ever spoken."
"I take it his mother's the problem?"
"And he still lives with her," she said, nodding. She was staring at me intently. "You handled yourself pretty well, I thought. I think they bought it."
"Yeah, well. I had to think fast for a minute there. I wasn't expecting to talk."
"Well, you convinced me. Sounded like words straight from your heart." She let out a short, pained laugh.
"Maggie, don't. "
"We've got to talk about it sometime, Cass."
Before I could answer, we heard a shriek from the other room.
"Buddy!" Maggie said. We raced for the door.
She was lying face down, sprawled motionless beside her desk. Another shattered vase littered the floor. The outside door was wide open. Maggie rushed to Buddy's side and I sprinted out the door to the parking area, looking frantically in all directions. Mrs. Bombay's station wagon was just pulling out onto the highway. It seemed everyone else was already gone.
Back inside, Buddy was sitting up, rubbing at the lump on the back of her head.
"You didn't see them?" Maggie was asking.
"I thought everyone was gone," she said. "I was bent over the filing cabinet and wham, I got whacked. Looks like I owe you another vase," she said, trying to smile despite her obvious discomfort.
Maggie pressed a tissue to Buddy's head and it came away red. "Let me look at that," she said.
"It's okay. Really." Buddy pushed herself to her feet, swaying a little. "Hey, I think they took the file."
"What file?" I asked.
"The one I was putting away. I'd just added your name to the group folder so I could put your form inside and now it's gone." She was looking around the room, but it was obvious the folder was missing.
"What was in it?" I asked.
"Well, the billing information, for one thing. And the original paperwork. Nothing special. I've got most of it on disk already. Damn, this thing is really bleeding." The new tissue was already soaked through and at the sight of it, Buddy started to sway again.
"Sit down," Maggie ordered. "Cass, come here. Do you think she needs stitches?"
I moved Buddy's hair aside, looked at the half-inch gash and nodded. "Come on," I said. "We'll take my Jeep."
Once we'd determined that Buddy wasn't going to bleed to death, Maggie let herself worry about the missing file. While Buddy was getting stitched up, Maggie walked me out to the Jeep.
"You think someone in the group took the file?"
"Probably. I saw Mrs. Bombay leaving in her station wagon. Everyone else was already gone. Or hiding," I added.
"But there's really nothing much in those files. Nothing confidential about the cases, at least."
"Maybe they didn't know that. Or maybe someone wanted your clients' addresses. Maybe someone's planning ahead for the next murder."
"Don't say that," she said. She was trying to sound brave, but her eyes told the truth.
"Hey." I grabbed her hand and held it with both of mine. Suddenly I was aware of how close we were, and how intensely we were gazing at each other.
Buddy's voice startled us both. "You weren't going to leave without me, were you?" she shouted, jogging across the parking lot toward us. Her hand was pressed against the rectangle of white gauze taped to her head, but otherwise, she looked quite cheerful. I dropped Maggie's hand and stepped back, acknowledging the slight smile that had passed between us.
"I guess you'll be headed back for the lake?" Maggie asked.
"Just as soon as I drop you two off," I said, knowing I sounded much more aloof than I felt.
Chapter Ten
The rain was at it again Wednesday morning. The sky was a dull gray for as far as I could see and the house was cold. I got the coffee pot going, then arranged kindling in the fire place. Once the flames took hold, I threw on a few logs, and poured myself a cup of coffee.
"What happened to spring?" I said grumpily to Gammon who was looking disconsolately out the sliding glass door. She meowed in answer and turned tail, heading for the laundry basket that I kept piled with towels for just such occasions. She leaped in, circled three times and then burrowed down inside the towels for the duration.
I hadn't had a chance to tell Maggie about the Z written in Hector Pena's blood. I hadn't told her I'd put a tracking device under Harold Bone's truck either. I picked up the phone and then, remembering the look we'd exchanged, hung up before I even dialed. Instead, I booted up my laptop and checked my e-mail.
Psychic Junkie had left me two messages, the latest a few minutes before nine. I checked my watch and realized that I'd just missed her. Apparently she'd waited for me to join her on-line last night and felt I'd stood her up. This morning, she said she had something important to share with me and asked me to e-mail her. What the hell, I thought. I wrote a brief note, telling her I'd been tied up with other things and asked what important information she had to share. As before, I'd barely sent the message before my own e-mail chirped. Apparently, either PJ. had access to a computer at work or she sat around all day at home waiting for e-mail.
"Hey, J.C. Let's get on a private chat line so we can talk! Same place as before. Meet you there! — RJ."
She was waiting for me when I got there. "Hey. Nice to see you!"
"Hi. You said you had something important?"
"You don't waste time with pl
easantries, do you? Okay, but first, did you have a chance to ask your 'friend' how she feels after the 'dreams'? You did remember to ask."
"Yes. Like you suggested, she said she felt strangely satisfied. How did you know that?"
"Yes!" I could just picture her, wherever she was, whatever she looked like, pumping her fist in the air. "I knew it!"
I wrote back, "I realize that. The question is, how did you know it? And why would she feel that way?"
"Because your friend isn't clairvoyant at all. She's telepathic. She feels what someone else is feeling. The satisfaction comes not from whatever she sees or, in her case, 'dreams,' but from what the other person, the sender, feels when they realize they've sent the message successfully. Do you get what I'm saying?"
"Not really," I admitted. "You're saying that someone is deliberately sending my friend these dreams? Can people do that?"
"Not many, J.C. Most people think receivers have the greatest talent, but that's because they don't understand what a really good sender can do. Imagine being able to project your thoughts onto someone else. To make them see what you're thinking, without them knowing that you're doing it! Mind-control experts have toyed with this for centuries, but of course, very few people have the advanced skills and natural talent to actually do it. What do you think the really talented witches and wizards were doing in the good old days?"
"How do you know all this?" I asked.
"I'm a sender, J.C. Like all good senders, I can receive a bit too. Multi-talented, I guess, though nowhere near as talented as your friend's sender sounds. I'd like to meet him or her. Any chance of that?"
"Sorry. I'd like to meet whoever it is myself. But I appreciate the info, PJ. You said you had something important to tell me?"
"It's just a premonition, really. Maybe nothing. I've had this feeling, though, ever since we started chatting, that your 'friend' may be in some danger. Thought I should pass it along, just in case."
Talking to Psychic Junkie didn't exactly quell the anxiety I was beginning to feel about this case. If someone was sending Maggie these dreams, there was little doubt in my mind that the sender was also the killer. Someone who left the letter Z, however subtly, at the scene of the crimes. None of Maggie's clients had a Z in their name, as far as I knew. But, except for Donna Lee, I didn't know their middle names, and for all I knew, Mrs. Bombay was Zelda. I punched in Maggie's number and, as usual, got Buddy instead.
"She's with a client right now. Can I help?"
I couldn't exactly ask Buddy to download the information and send it to me. I was supposed to be a friend and client, not a EI.
"That's okay, Buddy. How's the head?"
"The stitches already itch, so I guess it's healing just fine. You want me to have her call you back?"
"If you wouldn't mind." Before I could hang up, she went on.
"Hey, we've got a kayak lesson this afternoon, right after her last appointment. Getting ready for the Rogue. You wanna join us? I can teach you easy."
"In the rain? You're going to practice in the rain?"
"Sure. You're not afraid of a little rain, are you? We're going to get all wet anyway. Part of the practice is learning how to flip the boat over and roll right-side-up again. It's called an Eskimo roll and it's a blast. You sure you don't want to learn?"
I didn't tell her I already knew how to do an Eskimo roll. Maybe not in white water, but I could do one. "I'm sure," I said. "Just tell her I called, okay?" Before Buddy could regale me with any more of her cheerfulness, I hung up, wondering at my sudden bad mood. Jealousy? Or was I just miffed that while I was here trying to figure out who was killing people, Maggie was going to be off playing in the water with Buddy.
Just to prove I wasn't afraid of a little rain, I hopped in my boat and motored to town. I parked at the county dock and jogged all the way to the hardware store where I rented the new release of The Mask of Zorro. Then I jogged back, careful to keep the video dry inside my raincoat pocket. By the time I was back home, it had really begun to pour. I fixed myself a cup of hot chocolate and checked my tracking device for the umpteenth time. If Harold was out there roaming around, he hadn't come within five miles of Cedar Hills. It looked like I'd have to make a habit of crawling underneath his truck.
I built up the fire with a few good-sized logs, grabbed the old yellow and blue afghan off the rocking chair and pulled it around me, marveling at how it still smelled of my grandmother's house after all these years, then settled in with my cats to find out what I could about Zorro.
Maggie didn't call me until the next morning and by then I was so miffed I'd forgotten half of what I'd wanted to ask her.
"Late night?" I asked. I'd spent the whole evening cleaning house to the sounds of Phantom of the Opera while I tried to ignore the fact that she wasn't calling. I did laundry, vacuumed, dusted, shined mirrors, waxed floors and scrubbed showers, singing at the top of my lungs. By the time I finished, the house sparkled and I felt better. But I was still ticked the next morning.
"Sorry. I did get your message, but I was so exhausted by the time I got home, I just fell into bed. Kayaking's not as easy as it looks. What's up?"
I told her about the Z found etched in Hector Pena's blood and my theory that the killer may indeed picture himself or herself as some kind of avenger, a modern-day Zorro with a twist.
"But I thought Zorro was a good guy. A fun-loving, daredevil type. Not a bloody murderer."
"Think about it, Maggie. This person may see himself as the good guy. Avenging wrongs, just like Zorro. Instead of a sword, he used a bat."
"Delusions of grandeur?" she asked.
"Yeah. Picture Zorro with a nasty temper."
"I don't need to," she reminded me. "I was there."
I told her about the tracking device on Harold Bone's truck that so far had yielded nothing. Then I told her about my conversation with Psychic Junkie.
"This is the gay psychic? The weird one?"
"She's not that weird, really. She says that what you're experiencing is telepathy, not clairvoyance. She thinks someone is sending you these dreams. If so, it's probably the killer."
"The killer is sending me the dreams? Can people do that?" She sounded skeptical.
"She says it's pretty rare but not impossible. She also says you may be in danger. Oh. And that feeling you get afterwards? Like you're satisfied? She says that may be how the sender is feeling about having sent you the message. Weird, huh?"
"Creepy is more like it. Have you got any more ideas about who it might be, now that you've met them?"
"It's way too early to tell, Mag. Maybe I'll know more after today's session." I paused, letting my mind work something out. "You know, Martha pointed out that violent crimes are most often committed by men, and it's true. But I've always thought of women as being more psychic than men. If the killer really is sending you these dreams, then we're either dealing with a man who's more psychic than most or a woman more violent than most."
"Man or woman, Cass, I think it's safe to say this person is both more psychic and violent than they want anyone to know."
"So they hide their real identity. Like Zorro behind his mask."
"Maybe," she said. "The Z could mean something else entirely, though."
"Yeah, I know. I don't suppose anyone in your group has a middle name that starts with Z?"
"Just a minute, let me look." When she came back on, she sounded worried. "Joel Zachary Harris," she said. "Damn it!"
"What?"
"I haven't wanted to admit this because I genuinely care for Joel, but of all my clients, he's the one I think is most likely to have psychic abilities. He's very intuitive. Almost painfully empathetic."
"And you didn't think you should mention this?"
"I wanted your objective impression first. I didn't want to influence your opinion. Besides, I just can't see Joel being that violent."
"They say Bundy was a real nice guy, Maggie. Dahmer was a regular sweetheart. You should have told me."
"Find out everything I can about him as fast as possible." I hung up, already planning my next move. The problem was, I couldn't be everywhere at once. How could I monitor all of them at the same time? I didn't really like relying on electronic gadgetry unless I had to, and I already felt guilty about the tracking device under Harold's truck, but what else could I do? Sometimes, part of being a snoop required snooping. Assuring myself that this was a necessary measure, I gathered a few key belongings and headed for my boat.
Joel lived with his mother in one of the older sections of Kings Harbor. The houses were two-story, built in the 1930s when brick was in vogue. Once upon a time, these places had housed the city's elite, but now they seemed more quaint than grand. The front yards still showed a pride of ownership, though, despite the curled wooden shingles on the roofs and the cracked sidewalks. The Harris place was at the end of the block and had a splendid rose garden in front. It was immaculately tended, and already the leaves were turning red, signaling an early bloom. "Thank you, Lord," I murmured, stepping out of the Jeep. I'd been hoping for a way to get my foot in the door.
I was wearing my strawberry blond wig, glasses and lime green jacket, but I was afraid it wasn't enough. Joel had seen me up close, had heard my voice. It was time to whip out the English accent.
Luckily, the mother answered the door. About an inch.
"Yes?" She was a slight woman, with a ramrod spine and steel-gray hair combed back away from her rather prominent forehead. She wore no makeup, and I doubted she ever had. She was much older than I'd expected for Joel's mother. She had the bearing of a Quaker, I thought, breaking into my best British accent.
"I say. I wonder if you could tell me who takes care of these lovely roses out here? I'm putting together a portfolio, you see, of the loveliest roses in Oregon, and I'd very much like to include these, if only I could talk to the tender. I imagine in three weeks or so, these will be quite ready to bloom, and I'd like to have my photographer here, if it's all right. Is the mister in?"
6th Sense Page 8