Katherine chose her words carefully. “I tackled him. I don’t think I intentionally disarmed him, but I might have knocked the gun from his hand. I don’t really remember.”
“But you remember seeing his weapon.”
She thought about what she could say. Had she seen the man pulling out his weapon? In her vision she had. Close enough. “Yes, I saw the weapon. It was a handgun. I couldn’t tell you much more than that; I don’t know much about guns. It was black and had a brown handle.”
Detective Bisset frowned a little, tapping a pen on the notepad in front of him. “From behind?”
“What’s that?”
“You saw the gun from behind the gunman?”
She kept her voice and expression even. This was far from the most intimidating interview she’d ever had. That belonged to her first doctoral dissertation panel. “I must have seen it at an angle. Why else would I tackle a complete stranger?”
“Good question.” He looked up. “Was he a complete stranger?”
“He was wearing a CCSU sweatshirt, but I didn’t recognize him. That said, it’s very possible he’s taken one of my general-ed classes. I sometimes have over a hundred students in those sections.”
Detective Bisset nodded. “So you might have known him.”
“Known him would be an overstatement. My teaching assistants—graduate students—would have been the ones interacting with him if he was taking a class from me, grading his papers or answering questions, things like that. I don’t remember him ever visiting me during office hours, but honestly, like I said, it’s possible. I see a lot of students in my general-ed classes.”
“How many of those do you teach?”
“Usually I teach two general-ed classes per semester and two upper-level physics classes as well as supervising a number of graduate students in the department. And then I have a collaborative grant project I’m working on right now.”
“Busy.”
“Yes. But I enjoy my work.”
“So you did not know Mr. McCabe.” He flipped to another page in the folder. “And Mr. McCabe says he has no memory of this incident.”
“Pardon me?”
Detective Bisset looked up. “He says he remembers you tackling him, but he doesn’t remember having any intention of shooting anyone. He doesn’t even remember taking a gun to the gym.”
“That seems improbable.”
“I agree.” He closed the file. “It’s a strange case, Professor Bassi. Very strange.”
Katherine frowned. “Does he have a concealed weapon permit?”
Concealed carry permits were very hard to obtain in their county. She knew that because an old neighbor of hers was a survivor of domestic violence, and even with her ex-husband stalking her, Clara hadn’t been able to obtain a concealed carry permit. She’d eventually moved out of state.
“He doesn’t.”
“So why would he bring a loaded firearm to a gym?”
“Perhaps he was fearful. It’s possible he brought it for his own protection. At the end of the day, the only crime actually committed was Mr. McCabe having a concealed weapon.”
“So that’s it?” What was the detective getting at? Was Justin McCabe accusing her, Megan, or Toni of attacking him unprovoked? “He was going to kill people. I know it.”
Detective Bisset frowned. “Understand, Professor Bassi, I have no doubt that you’re telling the truth and Mr. McCabe was planning violence. I’m trying to collect as much information as possible because we need to give a solid case to the district attorney. What we have currently are three citizens who stopped a crime in progress. But we don’t know what that crime was going to be. Mr. McCabe has no history of violence or radicalism. From all accounts, he’s a pretty normal kid going to the local college.” Detective Bisset tapped a pen against the manila folder. “Do you see my problem?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say. Do you want me to apologize for stopping him before he shot anyone?” Katherine heard the edge in her voice. “I can’t imagine you would. That would be absurd.”
The detective narrowed his eyes. “I’m trying to get a clearer picture of what happened. Did he say anything? Threaten anyone?”
“No.”
“Did he point the gun at anyone in particular?”
“Not that I saw.”
“So you saw a gun, immediately surmised that he was going to shoot someone with it, and tackled him.”
“Yes.”
“It never occurred to you that the man might have had the gun for valid reasons? That he was a concealed carrier or carrying for his own protection?”
No, I had a vision that the man shot around the gym and killed a bunch of people. That’s how I knew he was dangerous.
Except she couldn’t tell that part to a savvy and obviously very perceptive police detective.
“Was he treated by medics at the scene?” Katherine asked.
“What?”
“Was Mr. McCabe treated by medics? Was he checked out?”
Detective Bisset closed the manila folder and leaned forward, his hands clasped on his desk. “Not at the scene, but later, yes.”
“Did they find a bruise or a blister around his left waist from where he was carrying the gun?”
“I don’t see what—”
“Are you a runner, Detective? I used to trail run. I’ve had to cut back to treadmills now, but I used to train a lot.”
Detective Bisset shook his head. “I prefer swimming.”
“That’s a good choice. My mother-in-law is an avid swimmer and constantly tries to convince me to switch because it’d be easier on my knees. I’m trying out the elliptical machine, but I don’t love it like I enjoy the treadmill.”
“I’m not sure what exercise—?”
“That man was running when I tackled him. At quite a high speed. When we hit the treadmill, I flew off the back. His sweatshirt was soaked—he’d been jogging for a while—and the shorts he was wearing didn’t have an elastic waist. They were cargo shorts. He was running and carrying a weapon stuffed in a pair of cargo shorts where it would have rubbed against his skin. After that long at that intensity, the friction would have been painful.”
Detective Bisset nodded slowly. “You’re saying that if he were a concealed weapon carrier, he would have had a proper holster. He wouldn’t have been running with a gun stuck in his waistband that would make him bleed.”
“Did he have a blister or any cuts on his left hip?”
“I believe he did.”
“If Justin McCabe had gone to the gym and just happened to bring his gun because he was going to the range later or even if he was afraid for his life for some reason, he would have had the correct equipment.” Katherine sat back in her chair and folded her hands on her waist. “Did you have any other questions for me?”
The corner of Detective Bisset’s mouth turned up. “Do you ever lose arguments, Professor Bassi?”
“All the time. I haven’t been able to convince my husband that coffee is better than tea or that we should get a little fluffy dog. But I do think I have pretty good instincts about people.”
Especially when I have visions about them.
“I think you do too.” Detective Bisset rose and held out his hand. “My advice? Get the dog. Just pick one out and bring it home. If you make it a rescue, he won’t be able to argue with you.”
Katherine stood and shook his hand. “I feel like you’re speaking from experience.”
“I have a wife and two ten-year-old daughters. Guess how many dogs I have?”
“One?”
“Four.” He shook his head. “When your wife looks up at you with big brown eyes while holding a little fluffy animal, you know you’re not going to win that argument.”
Katherine smiled. “I may take your advice.”
“Take this advice too: please don’t tackle any more gunmen. I really hate the thought of you and your friends out there” —he nodded to the break room— “getting hurt because you’re making
citizens’ arrests. Leave that to the professionals.”
“They’re not my friends. We don’t even know each other from the gym.”
“That’s surprising.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “According to witnesses, you three ladies make one hell of a team.”
Chapter 4
Katherine spoke to a junior officer to finish her official statement, which was routine and mostly consisted of handing over all her personal information to the police and being informed that in the event of a criminal trial, she could be called upon to testify.
Since Justin McCabe didn’t seem like someone with mob connections, Katherine assured them that she’d be available.
As she walked toward the exit, she spotted her fellow crime thwarters still sitting in the glass-walled break room.
“That gun just jumped into my hand, y’all. I didn’t grab it. I didn’t even reach for it. I just thought in my head ‘someone needs to get that gun away from this kid,’ and then it just flew into my hand all on its own, and I don’t know what to think about that. I don’t know what to think at all.”
It didn’t feel right to walk away without saying goodbye. After all, they might occupy wildly different spaces in the world, but they’d been through something together. It wasn’t easily explained, but it was… something.
Katherine veered toward the break room just as Detective Bisset was approaching it.
“Professor Bassi, did you forget something?”
“I was just going to say goodbye to Toni and Megan.” She kind of wished the detective wasn’t going to accompany her, but what could she say? Please leave me to my own awkward social interactions, Detective. I don’t want an audience.
That would probably seem suspicious.
She walked into the break room ahead of the detective and gave a small wave to Toni and Megan. “I just wanted to thank both of you for being there yesterday when everything happened.” She heard the detective behind her. “I’m finished, so I’ll be heading—”
“Oh my God!” Megan exclaimed with a broad smile. “You’re Black!”
Katherine blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
Toni muttered, “What the fuck?” Her eyes darted between Detective Bisset and Megan.
Katherine looked over her shoulder.
Detective Bisset’s expression was blank. “Yes, I am, Mrs. Carpenter.”
“Sorry.” Megan’s cheeks went flaming red. “I am so sorry. That probably sounded strange. It’s just that I’m from Atlanta, and there are like… no Black people around here compared to back home. It’s really strange.” She stood quickly and held out her hand; her cheeks were still flaming. “It’s nice to meet you, Detective.”
The mood in the room had shifted quickly from tense to amused.
Detective Bisset took Megan’s hand. “Nice to meet you too. And you’re right. There aren’t many Black residents in the Cove. My family and I are some of the few. I’m originally from Chicago, so I know what you mean. Love the accent, by the way; my mother’s people are from Georgia.”
“Thank you,” Megan said. “I think most people around here think I’m dumb.”
Toni rolled her eyes. “Whatever.”
Megan’s smile was strained. “Like her.”
Katherine felt the twin urges to walk away quickly and to pacify the situation. After a second of internal debate, she forced herself to go with the latter impulse.
“You know, when people are working from different cultural frameworks, it’s easy for misunderstanding to take hold,” she said. “Kind of like… right now.”
All eyes in the room turned toward Katherine. It reminded her a little of being in a classroom, which set her at ease.
She motioned toward Toni, who was sitting in the corner, glaring at Megan. “For instance, some people might assume that a person working in skilled trades like Toni didn’t excel in traditional education.”
“They wouldn’t be wrong,” Toni said. “I hated school.”
“But your line of work requires you to constantly update your skill set as technology develops, so practically speaking, you’re probably more educated than the majority of college graduates.”
“Maybe,” Toni muttered. “Thanks, I guess?”
“And others” —Katherine looked at Toni, then at Megan— “might assume that someone with a Southern accent conforms to the negative stereotypes about Southerners promoted by mainstream American culture without recognizing that really, all people have accents that are mostly an accident of geography.”
All three of them were staring at her, so Katherine just kept speaking. “In fact, people have multiple accents they use in different situations, all of which have nothing to do with intelligence. I imagine Detective Bisset’s voice sounds very different when he’s interrogating a suspect versus when he’s speaking to his daughter.”
“Depends on how clean her room is,” he muttered.
“I hadn’t thought about that ’cause it’s what we’re used to hearing on the television and in movies,” Megan said. “But y’all have California accents. They’re kind of… flat. Sorry if that sounds rude.”
“No offense taken,” Katherine said. “My husband has a very unique accent since he was born and raised in Hong Kong but educated in England. He also speaks four languages, so that’s changed his accent over time.” She smiled a little. “I was born and raised in San Francisco, so I think my accent is—like you said—very flat.”
Megan was staring at her intently. “You are such an interesting person. I think I could listen to you talk about anything.”
Katherine smiled. “You’d probably disagree if you took one of my classes.”
“I don’t think so,” Megan continued. “I’m not sure I’d understand all of it, but I bet it would be interesting.”
Detective Bisset cleared his throat. “Ladies, I hate to interrupt, but we really need to continue with the interviews. Toni, I know you’ve been here a while, but do you mind—”
“I’m cool, Drew.” Toni had already turned her attention back to the television. “I told the guys I’d be busy today.”
Katherine held her hand out to Megan. “Good luck, Megan. I hope you feel more welcome in Moonstone Cove soon. After all, you’re a local hero now.”
Megan shook her hand vigorously. “It was so nice meeting you. And… um.” She glanced at the detective. “You’ve got a great tackle.”
“Thanks.”
Katherine suspected that Megan wanted to talk more about the odd statement she’d blurted out about the gun leaping into her hand, but not in front of a police detective.
“It was very nice to meet you both.” Katherine nodded at Toni, smiled at Megan, then walked toward the door. “Maybe I’ll see you around town.”
Toni nodded. “Nice to meet you too.”
“Same.” Megan obviously wanted to say more. “Hopefully I’ll see you.”
Katherine walked away from the break room with a more settled feeling in her stomach. The detective had obviously believed her, and as for Megan and Toni?
Whatever strange event they’d shared, it was more than likely she’d never see them again. After all, Moonstone Cove wasn’t that small.
Chapter 5
Katherine ran through the events of the day before while she sat on her front porch and watched the sunset.
A gun that jumped into a person’s hand.
A man who had to have an extreme amount of adrenaline coursing through his system suddenly going limp at the sound of a small woman’s voice.
Telekinesis, telepathy, even ghosts. All of them could exist in theory. She knew science didn’t have an answer yet, but she strongly believed that at some point, a logical explanation would be found for all those traits, likely as evolutionary relics of the nervous system that modern humanity had little use for.
Megan could be a telekinetic whose skill was triggered by an extreme fear for her life.
Toni could be an empath, though Katherin
e suspected the woman would dislike even the idea of influencing anyone with her emotions.
But emotions were chemical reactions in the brain. Telekinesis was the manipulation of energy and magnetic fields. All those things could theoretically be accounted for by science.
Nothing could account for the screams she’d heard in her mind. The blood she’d seen. The scent of gunpowder in the air.
“What do you think about visions?”
“Visions? As in precognition?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible.”
As Megan so eloquently put it, Katherine didn’t know what to think about that. And not knowing how to classify something put her on edge.
Precognition? There was no scientific theory for that. There couldn’t be. Which meant that science couldn’t explain something in her life. Which had never happened before in all her forty-seven years.
It was not a comfortable feeling.
It was Friday night and Katherine was on her third glass of wine. Baxter was in his study, playing evening/morning chess with his brother in London while she was quietly examining her sanity on the front deck with a bottle of rosé.
She stared at the phone number she’d written down months ago. What instinct had urged her to save it? It had been such a random call.
Monica Velasquez was a friend of an old college friend, a woman who was by reputation an intelligent, practical small-business owner and mother. She had no history of mystical thought or questionable mental acuity. She was, as her old friend Mark put it, “solid as a rock.”
But Monica had called—clearly for herself, though she used the “asking for a friend” excuse—and asked Katherine her scientific opinion on predicting the future.
“Oh, I don’t think that’s possible.”
Clearly she’d be eating crow on that statement.
She took a deep breath, another swallow of wine, and called the phone number.
The phone rang long enough that Katherine expected it to go to voice mail.
“This is Monica.”
Katherine had been mentally preparing to leave a message and was taken off-guard. “Mrs. Velasquez?” Was that her voice? She needed to calm down. “Is this Monica Velasquez?”
Runaway Fate: Moonstone Cove Book One Page 3