Gypsy Hunted: a psychic paranormal book with a touch of romance (The Gypsy Medium Series 1)

by Andrea Drew

  After the relief of her task fulfilled, she felt the blood rush back to her chest. Her chair scraped as she pushed it under the table.

  “Thank you for listening to me, Detective Constable Reardon.” She looped the final strap of the backpack over her shoulder. “I better get going, because I really don’t want Mum to worry too much.”

  He nodded thanks, and walked her back to the sliding door.

  *****

  Connor Reardon punched in the security code to head back to the cubicle, slapping paperwork on his desk as he sagged in the chair. This case had become a damn minefield. Not so much investigation wise, since after twelve years, he’d mapped his own course. However, politically, he knew the shit storm was brewing due to the confidential paperwork Joanne Seyers, the administrator, had taken with her the night she went missing. The powers that be were bracing themselves for the media blitz sure to detonate in a case where a pretty young blonde employee of Victoria Police, suddenly disappeared.

  He already suspected how this one would play out. A missing woman, police following up leads with no evidence, overall failure to find a perpetrator, all offering maximum fodder for journalists. The brass would be nervous, particularly as the information in the reports described senior detectives relocating the proceeds of crime, cash, drugs, and weapons. The chief would be in a particularly foul mood, and most of the personnel were giving him a wide berth, Connor included.

  Since the call went out for all suspicious activity to be reported to Crime Stoppers, no matter how insignificant, the team had sifted through the weird and wonderful as par for the course. Something about the solemnity of this child told Connor there just might be a genuine lead at the end of a long and winding road. He’d go past the hospital soon. He wanted to see Gypsy again. He remembered the way she looked at him when he spoke, listening intently like he was the only person in the world. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made him feel that way: important, interesting, and dare he say it, attractive.

  He decided to see her after his shift finished around eight o’clock tonight. It couldn’t hurt and he really wanted to see her again. In addition, he needed to interview her. He wanted to find the bastard that hurt her.

  4

  His heart rate had subsided. He hadn’t planned this one. Aaron had known he’d find the perfect girl soon, someone to love and adore him, no questions asked. When he saw her, he knew at that moment that he would take her to a new life. The monumental fight with Tiran still rang in his ears. He stormed out for a drive, a pressure cooker needing to let off steam. When he saw her after that boring fucking dinner, conditions were perfect. He looked ahead, the white lines on the road a beacon in the darkness guiding him to his destination. He’d told her it would be easier on both of them if she kept quiet, and he wouldn’t kill her. However, she wouldn’t listen, so he swung the steering wheel to veer across to pull over, her screams piercing his brain. She wouldn’t stop, even with the tape across her mouth, so he’d rolled up his sleeves. Frustrated, he’d swung the van door open and he’d yelled at her to shut up, which of course, she wouldn’t do, so he’d been forced to beat her with the crowbar until she went quiet.

  He had thought she would be different, not like the others, her pure, soft skin and perfect face tantalizing, luring him into a tangled web. His body tensed as he thought about that stupid cow that got in his way earlier. If she hadn’t shown her ugly face, he could have shown his new lady some love, shown her how good he could be. As he bent over the steering wheel, he grimaced, spittle building up in the corners of his mouth. The muscles in his face were twitching. He had gotten impatient, which was his first mistake, and his last. It didn’t matter. Things would still turn out fine. He was sure of it. He was on the way to Pop’s place and as soon as he arrived, he could relax and they could settle into their home. It was the perfect base to start a new family.

  Things had started so well when he’d met Tiran. Now here they were three years later, caught in the routine of nappies and work, the constant nagging giving him a headache. He’d thought she understood him. They seemed to have so much in common, making a united front, them against the world. When his son had come along ten months ago, things had taken a turn for the worse. He could feel himself fading away to a shadow, invisible, nothing of his former self was left. Tiran didn’t seem to want him near her anymore. The baby was the center of her world, the bond between them so strong he knew he was useless, no longer needed or wanted. When he climbed into bed at night, there was literally no room for him. She was feeding the baby, sprawled out across the mattress, staking her claim. She looked at him with scorn and he’d snorted off in a huff to sleep in the spare room.

  On Saturday, it had all come to a head. After the heated screaming match, her fingers pointing at him, accusing him, as if reaching inside his head slowly to burn, he knew he’d needed to get out of there fast before he burst a fuse, so he packed a bag and high tailed it. On the way out, he’d shoved her, a gentle push he’d thought. It wasn’t planned, and she’d fallen and hit her face on the coffee table on the way down. Holding his head in his hands, he told himself it was her fault, she wouldn’t leave him alone, and she knew his limits but pressed on regardless. She just wouldn’t leave things alone. He’d told her that, his shoulders curling over his chest, and it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been warned.

  Saturday night, he headed out to dinner and on the way home, he saw Cinderella walking along Lygon Street. Feeling pulled into her trail, as if a magnet was drawing him in, he had no choice but to follow her. She was alone, blonde, and beautiful. Something about the way she flicked her hair back, sending the light shining, before turning into a side street, left him silent with wonder. She’d looked over her shoulder as she turned, the gesture encouraging him. She was seeking him out. They would start a family together, him, her, and Bailey, a fresh start. He knew it, and he could relax and enjoy the life he deserved. Once he had his new woman settled safely at the factory, he would go back and take care of business, and take his son where he belonged. He would tell Tiran he wanted to take Bailey out for a drive, give her some peace. He knew all women loved babies. All he would have to do is give the baby to Cinderella. She would be entranced and instantly know that he was hers and she was his. A new family and a brand new start was all they needed, and he deserved it more than most. This was his time.

  *****

  Today things seemed to be improving. Although still confined in my grey hospital room, instead of my left limbs rolling off me like a rag doll, I had started to feel pins and needles in the lower part of my left leg, and could now feel some of the fingers on my hand. Even if the nurses told me these were phantom pains, I knew they weren’t. Something was happening. Shit, any feeling was better than none, surely.

  I’d started experimenting with pen and paper and was able to produce squiggly, but otherwise legible lettering. When you’ve been unable to speak for a couple of days, the ability to write ‘get me the hell out of here’ is pretty damn thrilling.

  Then there was my onward progress from the previous calving bovine attempt at speech with Nay. Restless, I’d exhaled, continuing my nasal intonations in a quieter tone. I still had some sense of dignity, and didn’t want fellow patients or the nurses suspecting a thirty-year-old woman who hadn’t had sex in a year, had defied nature and was miraculously giving birth to her first child. After a few groans, I managed to work out how to say simple things like look, here, no, and go, without sounding like I was giving birth. I felt a flutter in my belly, a floating sensation. I was expecting applause, as if I’d won a Nobel peace prize for dogged determination, when in reality, all I’d managed to do was enunciate words rather than squeaking, wailing or whimpering.

  I was just scratching out a few more phrases in spidery text when Dr. Hyde sauntered in. Okay, maybe his name wasn’t Dr. Hyde, but I’d had a brain bleed, for crying out loud, and a name that sounded like Nicaragua was well beyond me.

  “Ms. Shields, we meet again
,” he said as he took the usual doctor-like pose, his hands inside his pockets, standing beside the bed I was resting in. I squinted up at him, his certainty projecting across the room as I picked imaginary fluff off my gown.

  “Yes.” I smiled hard, trying to hide the small jittery movements of my right hand and failing miserably. With my index finger, I wiped the sweat from my upper lip, quickly, and I hoped, unobtrusively.

  “I must say, I’m impressed. Usually patients with a brain injury can spend weeks recovering their motor control and speech centers, but it seems your rehabilitation is ahead of schedule. I can quite confidently say that an effective rehabilitation program will certainly speed up your progress. Blood pressure is normal. There’s been no further bleeding in the right lobe, no seizures, and I’m told you’ve had some slight sensation in your limbs.” He grabbed the chart hanging at the bottom of my bed, flicking a page up and glancing at me with eyebrows raised in expectation.

  “Yes,” I said nodding. Stunning how my vocabulary was moving ahead in leaps in bounds.

  Dr. Hyde took out his little hammer thing and the usual small silvery needle to deliver what would otherwise be an annoyance, but right now, was just what the patient ordered.

  He blazed a trail across my left arm and leg. I flinched and managed to murmur a protest as he stabbed me very lightly with his needle. My skin formed goose bumps and I shied away from the stabs to my hand.

  “Excellent,” he said, patting his weapon in his pocket. “I’ll definitely be recommending rehabilitation at the soonest possible opportunity and advise the team of today’s developments. You’re doing nicely, Ms. Shields.”

  I went quiet, feigning interest in a magazine. I knew he couldn’t resist that ever so subtly condescending parting comment, but at present, I’d forgive him almost anything. Hell, after the news he’d given me, Dr. Nicaragua was starting to look even more handsome. I combed my hair with my fingers out of habit, realizing as my fingers made contact that there was only half a head of hair to run through, but I guessed it would grow back.

  As he left the room, I straightened my items and stash of paper on the hospital table with precision. I was just pushing the nib of the pen onto the paper when the door opened a crack.

  “Ms. Shields? Ms. Gypsy Shields?”

  Who the hell was this now? Was it some new character to find as many unique and interesting ways as possible to prod and evaluate me? I pulled up the covers, hoping to look a bit more respectable if such a thing was possible. I decided to give whoever it was the benefit of a slight nod as I sat a little bit straighter, adjusting the pillows behind me to complete the look.

  “My name is Detective Constable Reardon from the Carlton police station. I’m hoping you remember me from our dinner last Saturday. My name’s Connor.” He ventured into the room until I saw all of him. He was taller than I remembered, and of course, much more handsome.

  My heart leapt in my chest and I laughed, fanning myself with a magazine. Nay had come through for me. She’d actually gone to the police station and asked for Connor and now, here he was right in front of me. Then the second realization struck. In front of me was Connor from Saturday night, seeing me with a half-shaved head and staples across my scalp.

  “Ergh. Yes,” I said intelligently, my hand going up in a self-conscious gesture before I waved at him in a wild greeting.

  “A police report has been filed. I’m hoping for more information. Your niece, Renee, told me about your injury and gave the impression you were having trouble talking. Can you tell me about what you saw on Saturday night by writing it down?” Seated beside me, Connor pulled out a writing pad to take notes. His head tilted to one side as his pen hovered over the paper. His smile seemed to build as it slowly lit up his face.

  I grabbed the pen with my right hand and shuffled the paper across my table trolley. It was going to be a whole lot easier to write than speak in this scenario. With Connor only inches away, I didn’t trust myself to speak, even if I could.

  I wrote in my now shaky old lady script:

  Walking home after dinner Saturday night, I saw man in an alleyway attack a girl-hit in head-drags girl away. Connor looked across at me, tipping his head before closing his eyes. I guessed the trembling muscle in his cheek signaled the moment when he fully grasped what had happened to me and he opened his eyes.

  “Is this what happened after you left the restaurant Saturday night?” his tone was grave, voice low.

  I was surprised. After twelve years in the force, surely he wasn’t shocked by something like this? Perhaps he was struck by the nearness of it all. I suppose most of the witnesses or victims are strangers, and while we certainly weren’t the best of friends yet, we did have a prior social connection, a very social connection I hoped. I had spoken to Connor less than an hour before the young woman was abducted, possibly murdered.

  “Can you go through what happened, Gypsy? Did you see the person that did this?”

  I nodded and closed my eyes, shoulders shaking.

  “Yes,” I said, finding my voice a little bit more, pushing the pictures of violence out of my mind. “Horrible. He smelled funny, like acid, metallic.” That was about all I could manage. Unable to speak clearly, I was awash with a mixture of emotions. I felt relieved that I was found and alive, confused and dazed that this was really happening, and frustrated that my body wouldn’t do what I wanted it to. Most of all, the guilt tugged at my chest. Guilt that I was alive and the woman had met a fate yet to be determined.

  I dug the heel of my palm into my chest, foraging around the bed for more tissues. I should be out there fighting for justice, striding by Connor’s side to stalk the abductor, not passively waiting for my damn, disobedient body to heal. The disconnection between my mind and mouth wasn’t helping.

  Whilst in the past, I’d had foot-in-mouth disease, the opposite was worse; knowing exactly what I needed to say, but getting my mouth to cooperate and spit it out was taking a herculean effort.

  “What happened, Gypsy?”

  I scribbled with renewed intensity: Will try my best to write. Computer would be easier. Can you get laptop?

  Connor looked at me, and I gestured for him to move around to my right. Carrying his chair effortlessly, he strode over to that side of my bed. Despite his confident steps, he didn’t face me, his profile pale under his tan.

  I scribbled the words with considerable effort. Although my progress was sluggish, the words came slowly but surely.

  I was taken back to the fateful night at Sophia’s. The memory came forward of leaving the restaurant, coming across the abduction in the alleyway, sensing the terror of the woman thrown into the van, making a frantic call to police, looking at the bottom of the vehicle. Then I focused on nothing but the details of the small identifying plate.

  ZYB, that was it. ZYB, the first three letters of the registration plate. I scribbled them rapidly, tongue protruding in concentration. A dark, older style vehicle, pretty wide, maybe a Bedford van—surely, that should narrow things down. I thought about the voice and the build of the man. I remembered banging on the driver’s window, then standing in front of the car, almost like a sitting duck, before he accelerated and the impact came, my head bouncing off the brick wall before I landed on the ground face-first.

  There was something else, though. Coming back to the present, disengaging from my memories, I turned on my telepathic radar and tried initiating a connection with Connor, but I couldn’t get a read. I desperately needed the information he had. He was holding back. I lowered my head to study him. I knew as soon as I revealed the registration plate details that Connor had retreated. A part of his mind was hidden, curled up and tucked away in the dark recesses that he wasn’t sharing with anyone, especially me. Why would Connor keep this knowledge hidden? What was he trying to hide?

  I would do my best to get it out of him. Secrets were no way to begin if things were ever to go anywhere between us. However, Connor’s face was a mask, solid and impervious.


  He leaned back to look out the window, with his eyes unmoving and licking his lips.

  “Well,” said Connor, fiddling with a pen, “thank you, that’s more information than I thought I’d get. I’ll amend the report and update my colleagues.”

  “Tell me,” I said, facing him with my chin held high.

  “There’s nothing to tell, Gypsy.” He shuffled his feet slightly. Looking away quickly cementing his decision to keep his secrets to himself. He stood up, “The information will help, that much I know. I’ll run it through the database and it will absolutely narrow things down.”

  I wasn’t convinced. I’d been following the news of the kidnapping in the media and knew there was more to the investigation than this.

  “We don’t have much to go on at the moment. We have no CCTV footage, and information hasn’t led anywhere positive at this stage. The pressure is on, so this will really make a difference. Thank you, Gypsy, for sending Renee to find me.”

  He grimaced and then blushed. How I wished this hadn’t happened and we could be carefree and flirtatious, laughing and joking at a café somewhere.

  I pursed my lips and cleared my throat. I’d known what I witnessed would be important, but hadn’t realized the cops had so little to go on.

  “Find him.” Although I could only spit out a few words, my limited vocabulary could only mean hope. With a bit of luck and a whole lot of work with rehabilitation specialists, I would recover my ability to speak fluently.

  “I’ll leave my card. Ask someone to call if you need me. Otherwise, I’ll be back soon with photographs and more info. Oh, yes, and a laptop.” He handed the card over, aiming it at my left hand, and then paused briefly before flushing at the realization that I couldn’t move it. I extended my right hand to him and smiled.

  “Thanks. It’s okay,” I managed to say.