The Psychic, the Cop and the Killer

by Annette Morris

  I shivered as I recalled my reactions to that kiss, and wondered if the attraction we felt back then, would still be there. As he came closer to the shop, I unlocked the door to let him inside.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement. I turn quickly and see a man running towards the detective from behind. He's carrying a bucket of red paint. I scramble to get out the door fast enough to warn him. I fear I'll be too late. "Look out," I yell." Too late, I stare in disbelief as the man throws the red paint over the detective.

  The detective stops walking and turns to watch as the man runs away. He runs his hands through his short hair and flicks off some of the paint. It splatters on the ground.

  "I'm sorry," I tell him. "I yelled a warning, but I was too late."

  He turns back to me. His eyes widen as he gets his first look at me. His mouth twitches in amusement. "They got you good."

  "Yeah. They did." Self-consciously, I move my hand up to my hair, but stop myself from touching it just in time, and let my hand fall again.

  I cringe as I watch some of the red paint run down his hair and onto his face. Even though they'd only hit him from behind, the paint was running down his face from his hair. "Same as you."

  "Yeah." He gives a long drawn-out sigh and shifts on his feet.

  I can only imagine what the paint would feel like as it soaks into his t-shirt.

  "Do you have any idea who that was?" he asks me.

  I shake my head. "No idea. All I do know is there's more than one guy." I take a breath. "Look. I have to get home. I have to get Anna out of here. And get a shower to get this paint off. Is there any chance you can take us in your car? My car's undrivable." I point over to my paint splattered car. I take note of the paint covering the windscreen. I'm unsure how I'm going to get the paint off.

  He looks over at my car. "Yeah. I'd say it's out of commission for a while." He looks over at the shop. "So's your shop."

  I turn and see the red paint splattered over the glass door and windows. "Yeah. That is going to take a lot of cleaning." I take note of Anna peering through a clean part of the glass door. "So can you take us home?"

  Glancing over at Anna, he nods. "Yeah. Let's get her out of here."

  I nod and turn to head quickly towards the shop.

  He follows along silently behind.

  Anna opens the door as we near and lets us inside. "Anna," I begin. "This is Detective Williams. He's going to give us a ride home."

  Anna starts to put out her hand for him to shake, then stops when she sees her hand is covered in red paint.

  The detective waves her away. "It's okay," he tells her. "We don't have to shake hands."

  Anna looks up at him. "Mum always says it's polite to shake hands when meeting new people."

  I smile at her words. Pleased to hear her manners.

  "But... that doesn't mean when we're covered in paint," he comes back with.

  Anna frowns, trying to work that out.

  While they're talking, I grab my purse, the shop books, and the keys and push the detective and Anna both outside. I lock the door securely, check to make certain it is locked, then turn to walk to the detective's car. I see the detective and Anna staring at the detective's car... which is now also covered in paint. "What happened?" I blurt out.

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  "A guy just ran up and threw a bucket of paint over it," Anna commented blandly.

  The detective shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "At least it's not over the windscreen." He starts walking forward quickly glancing around as he does. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

  Anna and I rush after him, eager to be away from this mess as well. Arriving at his car, I'm hesitant about sitting on his seats. I'm certain the paint will rub off onto his seats. The detective points out that he's just as bad as I am, and sits calmly onto his seat. I shrug and sit as well, and within a few minutes we are on our way. Anna sits in the front seat and I sit in the back.

  "Where am I going?" the detective asks.

  Anna gives him the address then asks, "So how long have you been a police officer?"

  "Anna!"

  Anna is a chatterbox who will ask a million questions if she's allowed to. We try to answer the most important ones she asks, but with strangers, it's difficult for them to refuse to answer her questions.

  "No. It's okay," he tells me. "I don't mind answering kids questions. It makes a change for me."

  "You don't look like a cop," Anna's interrogation continues.

  "That's because I'm a detective," he replies smoothly.

  "What does a detective do?"

  I tune the words out and rest my head back against the seat. I'm suddenly overwhelmed with worries about all the things I have to do.

  I have to remove the paint from the shop windows and door. I have to do something about my car. I'll have to try to do as much as I can myself. Money is tight. I'd borrowed money from my parents to start the shop and this was the last thing I'd needed to happen. And just when I'd thought I was starting to get ahead a little.

  The car stops suddenly breaking me from my thoughts. I look up and see mum standing out in front of the house. Not realising we'd already arrived, it takes me a few minutes to gather my thoughts. Anna and I are living with my parents. I can't afford to rent or buy a house yet. I was hoping within a few years it might've been possible. But with these extra expenses, it will set that back even further.

  "Mum," Anna asks as she opens my car door. "Aren't you getting in the front?"

  I stare at her blankly. "Why would I get into the front of the car? We're home."

  "Mum. You have to go to the police station and report the damage."

  "What? Oh..." I knew I would have to do that at some time. I just thought I'd wash the red paint off first.

  "It won't take long to write up a report," the detective leans over the front seat to talk to me. "Then you can spend the rest of the day scrubbing red paint off."

  I watch as his mouth twists with amusement again. I frown at him in warning and he turns his head away. "I suppose I could go to the station now. I haven't got a car now, anyway. And the sooner the report's in, the sooner I can claim the insurance." I step from the back of the car and into the front. As I sit, I call out to Anna, "Tell mum I'll be back later okay Anna."

  "I will Mum. Have fun." She turns and runs towards my mother.

  "Fun ... right," I mumble.

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  The detective laughs as we pull away from the house.

  "What?" I reply surly.

  "You obviously didn't listen to our conversation on the way here." His lips twist again as he tries to keep in laughter.

  "No. Sorry I was thinking about other things."

  "Yeah. Well. Your daughter is a planner."

  "A what?"

  A laugh bursts out from him. "A planner. Apparently I'm to make a date with you before I drop you back home."

  "Oh." I blush in embarrassment. "You don't have to... I mean... Anna can be rather demanding and..."

  He interrupts my stammering by stating blandly. "But I want to."

  I frown in confusion. "You want to what?"

  "I want to make a date with you."

  "Oh!" Well... what do I say to that?

  He nods. "I do indeed."

  "Oh. Well." I mumble.

  "So. Are you interested?" He leans over and nudges me on the shoulder.

  "Um... well." It's been a while since I've dated. But I could give it a go. "Okay. Yeah. I suppose if you want to."

  "Oh. I want to." He smirks and his lips twist again.

  I glance over. We're stopped at a red light. His eyes flick over me. I read desire and interest in his gaze. I gulp noisily and look away.

  He hears it and laughs. "So perhaps you could start by calling me John," he replies smoothly.

  I gulp again, and swear I was going to have a talk with Anna when I get home.

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  Chapter 4

  We stop at the police station. John comes round to open my car door. He holds out his hand to help me out.

  I put my hand in his and electric tingles race up my spine. My hand jerks.

  He grins at me.

  His hand feels warm. And so big. It surrounds my smaller hand, engulfs it and smothers it.

  I take a breath to centre myself, then together, we turn, still holding hands and walk towards the police station.

  John leads me to a solid steel back door and releases my hand finally to insert a key card. He pushes the door open, and gestures me to precede him.

  I walk inside and stop at the sight in front of me. My eyes widen in disbelief as I try to take it all in. This is obviously the pit area, the place where the police officers work. It is literally wall to wall police. I look around with wide eyes as I take in the fact that the desks are snugged back to back and side to side. My eyes widen further as I comprehend that the computer monitors are even shared between desks. Paperwork is piled high everywhere. It is on the desks, on top of filing cabinets, on the floor, even balanced on top of monitors.

  "We need a larger station," John whispers in my ear.

  I agree with him. I am having trouble believing what my eyes are telling me. I glance around the room for a pathway. There is none. I frown as I try to work out where we can go from here. While we'd been standing here, the police officers had taken note of us. Eyes lifted from monitors, and widened as they took in our appearance. I belatedly remember the red paint covering us. We must look like we're covered in blood. No wonder they're shocked at seeing us.

  John ignores the stares and begins leading me through the mess of desks.

  I follow behind him as we step over electrical leads and slither sideways around desks. One officer has to actually get up from his seat, move his chair to let us through and sit back down again. I shake my head in disbelief at the mess. How on earth can any work get done like this? How can they concentrate and work?

  I hear movement and glance up. A large group of detectives walk towards us. I know there isn't enough room to pass. John moves around a desk to let the group go by. I start to follow, but a detective steps between us and blocks my path. Another detective stops behind him to block John from getting to me.

  I panic slightly. But I'm not overly concerned. We're in the middle of a police station after all. It couldn't get much safer than this, right?

  I hear John yelling with someone. The other detectives circle us and block us off further. I am now well and truly boxed in. My fear rises. I can't escape. I look up and ask, "Could you move out of the way please?"

  The detective in front of me is huge. The guy is tall, really tall, like seven feet tall. Added to that is he's totally bald and has muscles on top of muscles. This is one huge guy. He must spend a lot of time working out at the gym, I thought irreverently. I stare at him. His eyes are black. Mean black.

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  "Well, well," he drawls softly. "Who do we have here? Could this be our very own psychic?"

  A few of the men laugh.

  I can't see or hear John anymore. He's been shoved further back outside of the circle. I ignore his comments and continue to stand and stare at him.

  "What are you doing here witch?" Tension in the room escalates at his words.

  I flinch at his words and curl my fists. My eyes harden. My chin firms. I can't help it. I hate being called a witch. I guess the history of the witches being burned alive, still has impact. I stare up into those mean black eyes and croak out, "What?" I hate to admit it, but this guy scares me. There's something about him that sets off all my inner warnings.

  He leans down closer to my face, "We don't want your kind here," he spits at me.

  I try to stagger back a few steps, but someone has blocked my path from behind as well. I'm well and truly hemmed in. I simply cannot move in any direction.

  "My kind?" I retaliate in anger at being caught like this. I push the fear away. Courage and determination causes my back to strengthen. I'm not going to let this guy cause me to feel fear. I'm a strong person, I tell myself. I can stand up for myself. This guy thinks just because he wears a uniform that he can browbeat me. Well, not me. Not this time and not now. I take in a sharp breath. "You mean you're sexist? You don't like women here?" I finally reply.

  "Ooh!" Someone cries. "That's a good one!"

  The guy's face flushes in anger. His huge fists clench. I would not like to be on the receiving end of those fists, I thought. One hit and I'd probably be dead. This guy could step on me and squish me like a bug. He has muscles on top of muscles. This was one mean son of a bitch.

  "You little shit," he hisses at me like a snake. "I'm talking about you being a witch. I'm not talking about you being a woman." His black eyes rove over my body boldly, assessing and discounting me as not worth his time.

  "Oh! So you don't like women then? You prefer men?" I replied cockily. I came back at him straight away. It never pays to bow down to bullies. And this guy was a bully.

  A deafening shocked silence roars through the station. His eyes almost pop out of his head at my question. He steps closer to me, pushing me backwards hard. I nudge up against the guy at the back, who shoves me unceremoniously forward again.

  As I hit the guy in front, our bodies touch. I can't escape. I'm trapped. I'm hemmed in by all the detectives surrounding me. "You listen here, you little cunt," he begins quietly ..., but he's interrupted by a louder voice. One who is more authoritative. I'm thankful for the interruption and relief flows through me.

  "Let me through," the commanding voice demanded. "Get out of my way. Now!"

  I tune back into my surroundings. I could now hear angry loud voices yelling. There's a lot of pushing and shoving. Desks are shoved to one side to clear a path. Papers fall to the floor unheeded. Through it all though, the detective in front of me never moves. I was convinced that nothing would make this guy budge. He was beyond any kind of reprisal. He'd gone too far to the other side. I could sense the hate emanating from him.

  I realised I only had one option left to me. I hesitated, but decided to take it. Gamely, I took a small step forward towards him, getting up into his face.

  His eyes widen as I step into him. He hadn't been expecting me to do that. He was used to people bowing down to him, retreating from him.

  Our bodies are smothered together. I don't hesitate. My fingers reach out like claws and grab a tight hold of his shirt.

  Too late, he realises the danger and tries to pull back. It's too late. He tries to break my hold on him, by pulling my hands off. But my fingers grip tighter, refusing to release. Now it's his turn to try to escape. But it's useless. There's not enough room for either of us to escape. He's trapped. With me.

  I grasp his shirt tighter. He can't back up. He's as trapped as I am in the circle. That gives me the advantage. I take it and use it mercilessly.

  Visions from touching him hit me hard. I see him repeatedly punching someone inside a jail cell. I see him with fists pounding on another guy on the street. Him slashing someone with a knife. The visions continue faster. My stomach churns with the violence I witness. He plunges a knife into someone's stomach and runs away. A woman is raped, by him. She screams for help, and he puts his hand over her mouth to silence her. He kills her. He kills others. Over and over again. He might be a cop. But he certainly isn't a good cop. A young girl screams. He's raping her in the back seat of a police car. She's just a child. My heart weeps. I don't realise there are tears running down my face. I watch as she's raped and then killed. She's wearing a school uniform. Our eyes meet in the vision. I flinch at the pain I see in her eyes.

  She looks at me. She really sees me. I am astonished. This has never happened to me before. Usually I can only witness events happen. I can never be a part of a vision. But this time, it's as if I'm thrown into the vision with the young girl.

  "Trudi Whelan," she screams at me. "My name is Trudi Whela
n. Help me!"

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  Pain suddenly grabs me. My hands jerk. The visions stop.

  I'm left floundering and panting. My head is filled with the images I've seen. I see Trudi Whelan screaming at me. Help me! I can't get it out of my head. It's like it's on repeat. "Help me," she's screaming. "Help me." I bend over and inhale swiftly. I'm going to throw up. I need air. I can't breathe. I feel someone rubbing my back repeatedly... over and over. The repetition helps me to calm, to take deep breaths, to push the sickness back. I come back to myself with a jolt.

  I remember where I am. I remember what happened. I take a deep breath in, and stand. The first person I see is John. He's standing protectively in front of me. His hands are the ones which are rubbing my back.

  The other detective, the one I'd read the visions from was standing off to one side. Another man was shoving his finger repeatedly onto the detective's chest and yelling at him.

  John gives me a little shake. "Caitlyn ... why were you yelling Trudi Whelan just now?"

  "He killed her," I replied simply. My voice is raw and hoarse. I must've been screaming and not realised it. Sometimes that happens when I see visions. I took another breath in. "He raped and killed her," my voice rasped. My eyes look over at the detective whose shirt I'd been holding.

  My words seem to reverberate around the station. All noise stops. The silence slams into me like a freight train. Where before there was yelling, fighting, arguing. Now there was nothing. A stillness which echoes.

  Then, without warning, pandemonium breaks out.

  Cops are suddenly pushing and shoving to get at the detective. Men are swearing and yelling.

  John shoves me behind him and pushes me back further and further.

  I almost lose my balance when I stumble over papers, knocking them to the ground. My hands reach out and grab hold of a desk. John keep pushes me back further. I clamber over desks and shove chairs out of my way as he keeps pushing me backwards. My back slams into a door.