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

by Andrea Drew

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  9

  The dark haired man sat in the car several doors down from the crime scene. He looked down at his brown shoes, shuffling them as he waited. The car was comfortable and he waited for the right moment. He had to be sure the detective had left the crime scene and the media pack had thinned before venturing back in for a more thorough search.

  It fucking well had to be in there somewhere.

  When he’d heard the report was in the air, read by not only Joanne Seyers’, dumb fucking administrator, but also that dirt bag Aaron, he had drunk more than his usual couple of glasses.

  His head lifted and he watched as the detective walked into the street. He headed over to his car, unlocking it and climbing in. The man waited as the car started up, lights on and it took off and turned at the end of the street, out of sight.

  Things weren’t great at home. The old girl had picked up on his squirming misery, pushing him for answers he wouldn’t give, not a chance in hell. Why couldn’t she understand that he’d taken risks for her. They needed the money. He wasn’t a complete fucking bastard like she said he was.

  Eighteen months ago, Rachel had lost nearly twenty hours of work per week. When it all happened, they’d figured they could make up the shortfall somehow, but the financial pressure got to both of them. The yelling, the dramatic scenes had drained him.

  So when the opportunity presented itself, he took it. He was surveying the crime scene and it was quiet, not a soul around. He heard a couple of them in the other room. The scene was almost deserted, a large amount of cash, over eighty grand. No one had seen him take it, besides, it was such a small amount it wouldn’t make any difference. Who would miss a couple of grand in the scheme of eighty, and a pinch of dope from a large bag? No one that’s who.

  It had paid a few bills, taken the pressure off for a while.

  However, once the money dried up, the screaming matches began again. She thought he was having an affair and if she wasn’t hurling abuse at him, he might have snorted at the ridiculousness of her accusation. They’d been at each other’s throats for so long that when another opportunity to nab some cash fell into his lap, he took it.

  When he heard about the police administration girl going missing, his gut had dropped. The feeling within his chest, the terror, tugging at him, surging and buzzing, became his own private agony. He figured it would subside in time, but it didn’t. Maybe his name wasn’t on the damn internal affairs fucking report, but maybe it was.

  If it was, not only was his career over, but his marriage too.

  He’d heard about the retired cops, the divorced cops, the depressed ones all on the list. Most of them would probably end up as tragic suicides, an all too convenient gun to the head. He’d be fucked if that would happen to him.

  If he could just find the report, the mess could be contained early, nipped in the bud.

  He pushed the car door open and got out, pointing the remote to lock it.

  He’d perfected the art of blending in. He had his partner figured out. They had been working together for years now and he didn’t have a damn clue. He headed back inside. He’d find the report. He had to, because there was no other choice.

  *****

  I’d had enough of pajamas. Interesting phenomena that—after spending my life wishing I could spend my life in pajamas, when it actually happened, I was much more motivated by the concept of dressing myself and wearing regular clothes.

  Leah had brought in a few things from home, which helped, but nothing could ever make the damn hospital room as comfortable as my flat. I missed my aquarium with fish that I’d practically taken out a small loan to buy, my purple couch with the worn out butt groove patch. I missed my computer, my stereo, and all the little things that made it home.

  Today, I would walk around the hospital ward and smile in at my fellow residents, dazzling them with my progress regardless of their looks of curiosity, and in some cases, resentment. I had graduated from a senior citizen's walking frame to a walking stick, which was much more dignified. Strangely enough, in the past, I’d often gazed at walking sticks with a sense of admiration. Perhaps I found myself the user of said stick because of my too-frequent envy.

  The blinds were up and rays of winter sunlight streamed into the room. I was starting to feel almost human again. My mission for the day was to walk around and cheer up fellow patients, give them hope as they witnessed my walk of triumph. I needed to see regular people, not hospital patients, going about their daily lives. I wanted to see families and partners kissing and hugging, talking about everyday mundane events, living their lives. I’d had enough of the injured and infirm waiting for recovery and discharge. I wasn’t good at waiting. I’d been psyching myself up for today’s walk for at least an hour prior, and as I stood beside the bed, I gave my walking stick an optimistic bounce, the rubber reverberating reassuringly on the hospital tiles. I caught it with what I told myself was a jaunty movement, reminiscent of Gene Kelly in Singing in the Rain. I felt a slow grin take hold, a sign that life was on the way back, almost to normal, if such a thing existed.

  The nurse’s station was about a hundred meters from my door, so the staff knew exactly when I left my room and could stop me to ask a question or usher me back to bed. The way I was feeling, I decided that wouldn’t be a problem. I was ready for an argument, feeling strong and confident. If one more nurse reminded me to be careful of overstimulation, maybe I wouldn’t restrain myself from over stimulating them with a verbal lashing or worse.

  Although my steps were slow and marked by a slight limp at that moment, I was thankful that my left arm and leg did as commanded and would actually propel me forward. I didn’t have complete feeling in either limb, but I knew this was just around the corner, considering the relatively short time it had taken me to get from zero almost to well.

  I opened the door and my ears were assaulted by the unexpected sounds of life, a swirling mass of noise and bodies crammed into a tiny space. Buzzers were buzzing, phones ringing, fluorescent lights lighting and staff conferring. I shuffled past without looking at them, my face hot. I resisted the urge to scratch, not wanting to raise a hand to my face and attract unwanted attention. As it had throughout my childhood and adolescence, my height often meant a sting of self-consciousness. Gestures made by the tall and gigantic seemed more visible. As I turned the corner, I lifted my head, proud at least of the fact that I was dressed and upright. A bright pink headscarf covered the bristles on my head and I had, with a rush of spontaneity, stuck a purple flower behind my ear. A flourish of insouciance, it made a statement that despite the odds, I was still alive. I punched in the code to exit the ward, four short high beeps until the door yielded with a satisfying long blare, followed by a click. My strength had returned and I shouldered the heavy door open, onward and outward. I peered out through the corridor’s floor to ceiling windows, watching the figures chatting and laughing in the courtyard a few floors below. The greenery was bending in the wind, and although it was winter, I felt the surge of energy that was life.

  Eventually, I reached the elevator. Yet another bell chimed and I stepped in. Staring at the closed doors, I remembered hearing somewhere that a rebellious patient once entered an elevator facing its occupants and stared to watch their reactions. I wasn’t quite sure I was up to that level of cockiness, but I was almost back to full battery, my cheekiness level and sense of humor brimming.

  I felt the floor drop just before we landed at ground level. I looked down, twirling the tip of the walking stick to gauge its weight and rhythm. Hell, if I were up to it I would have busted out a soft shoe shuffle. I stepped into the corridor and heard the throng of people in the cafeteria before I reached my destination. As I shuffled down the corridor to reach the hub, I saw the bright lights in the glass cabinets displaying muffins, cakes, and other niceties. My mouth was watering for the right reason today: hunger. It was peak coffee hour, and I queued up to place my order. The woman at the register was wide, the strin
gy belt on her black apron cutting a welt into her middle.

  “What would you like, love?”

  “Ah, latte with two, please, take-away.” I surveyed the double-door fridge stocked with drinks of every possible kind. A sign behind her advertised ice cream, and the blackboard beside her hocked the day's specials.

  I pulled a bill out of my pocket and handed it over. “What the hell, I’ll have a banana muffin as well.” I heard the clack of the register drawer and opened my hand out to catch the change, reveling in the mundaneness of it all.

  Her dark brown curls bounced as she handed me the coins. “Latte with two and a banana muffin, no worries. Name for the order?”

  “Gypsy.” My name rolled around on my tongue, one of a kind.

  “Okay, love, we’ll call you when it’s ready.” She tilted her head to seek out the next customer. I walked over to a table and sank down into a plastic white chair. I checked my watch twice before my name was called. I held the paper cup tightly, and began my shuffling journey back to the elevator. As I hobbled along the corridor, heads above random nametags smiled at me in what seemed to be encouragement for being upright, soldiering on. I stopped to admire the stream of sunshine pouring through the windows and hunched by the closest pane, closing my eyes as the beams hit my skin. I imagined myself on the beach, reading a book with a drink at the ready. The bubble burst, perforated by a particularly loud conversation, so resentfully I shuffled off again.

  Back on my floor, I shouldered the ward door open. To catch my breath, I leaned against the sprawling desk. My head rose, peripheral vision registering the pale blue of a police uniform outside my door. I shuffled with uneven steps, my slippers grazing the carpet as I approached the trespasser. He peered at an internal window, not realizing I was there, before transferring his scrutiny to my eyes.

  “Hello.” His voice was deep and gruff. In a heartbeat, I registered black raised lettering on a gold breastplate: Junior Const. Millar.

  “Yes, madam?”

  Something about the syrupy emphasis irked me. “You could start by explaining why you’re outside my room.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, I can’t really talk about an open investigation.” He looked down at the reflection shining in his black sturdy shoes.

  “You can’t talk about it? You can’t talk about two attempted murders from a slime ball?” There was no other reason he could be there than to protect me from the faceless reptile that hurt me. My eyes narrowed, and I lifted my shoulders to yank at my shirt cuff almost ripping it out at the seams. “Can you talk about the bastard that abducted Joanne Seyers? I wonder if she’s talking.” I snorted, forcing back the urge to shake the stick at him.

  “I’m sorry. You could take it up with the investigating officer.” He spoke at a low volume, his face a standoff, like a bulletproof mask.

  “I would if he bothered to show himself. All care, no responsibility, right?” As heads turned our way, I backed off a little, releasing my breath. He shot a sideways look and moved aside as I retreated, his heels clicking together.

  Turning the handle, I backed in through the door using my heel to pry it open. My back creaked as I lowered my weary body to the bed. Lifting my chin, I looked to the unadorned bone-white ceiling scanning the pictures within. What was Connor doing right at this very moment? I sought him out, but he had shielded himself as if with armor plate. No chance. His empathy and lack of reaction to my abilities struck me in blinding recognition. I hadn’t received any sense earlier that this was the case, but now I knew for certain. He wasn’t just distracted, he was shutting me out, and he damn well knew it. While he may not be able to confront his own abilities, they were real, and sturdy enough to block curious intruders.

  I flicked on the TV, where the police chief's stern face advised of an upcoming press conference.

  What was Connor doing? Would he ever come back? I wish he’d let me in, allow me to crack open the vault of secrets and expose them. I was stymied by my body, although the mind was willing, aggravated by my lack of input in this investigation. The combined effects of a disobedient body were taking their toll, piece by piece. I tapped my finger on the side of the bed, and swore under my breath, hoping to release my pent up frustration.

  I pounded the table wondering if it would break. It held, spinning away slowly.

  Goddamn, I couldn’t take much more of this.

  If Connor didn’t show up soon, I’d be forced to make a break for it.

  *****

  Aaron blew the air out from his cheeks hoping to gain control, glad to be out of there and on the road. The lights from oncoming traffic shone like a flurry of lanterns as he gripped the steering wheel tightly.

  He turned on speakerphone, plugging in the number he had rung a thousand times before, and listened as it rang out through the cabin.

  “Hello?”

  “Tiran, it’s me. I’m sorry about what happened…”

  “What the hell is going on? You just disappeared—where are you?” Her voice was high pitched and rushed, the words tumbling over each other.

  “Don’t worry for now, I rang to warn you something’s up.”

  “What the hell? Of course, something’s up! You pushed me over. My face is purple! If you had any balls, you’d come back and face me. Aaron, what is going on? If this is another crazy idea, I swear…”

  He felt intensely cold, his throat dry, legs restless. “It was an accident. I’m sorry, I really am. I’ll be back to see you and the boy soon.” He’d pulled the car over. His head was tilted in a side-to-side rhythm. He needed to talk to Stewie. Although the guy could be brainless, he’d at least have an opinion on this, on the next step, what to do with the explosive report.

  “Tiran, we’ve had our moments, but I have proof this time. For real.”

  “Proof of what?” Aaron heard the pitch of her voice rise at the end, slowly spinning a tornado of near hysteria.

  “An internal affairs report and I reckon I’m the only one that has it. Proof the cops are dirty—names of suspects, dates it’s all here, evidence. Some of them got their hands filthy stealing the crime scene stash: cash, weapons, drugs. I want you to write these names down. If anything happens to me…”

  “You’re scaring me …stop!”

  “This is real. I’m not kidding around. If you believe nothing else, believe this. These are the scumbags, the bent ones. Go get some paper and write these names down.” He bounced a foot, and stroked an eyebrow.

  Hurry up, Tiran, goddamn it, hurry the hell up!

  He heard the clatter as she dropped the phone to go searching for the post-it notes they kept on the bench.

  “Okay, I’m back. Aaron, you know this is weird, right?” she sounded slightly out of breath.

  “If any of these people contact you, run. Hang up, slam the door in their face, whatever. They might know by now I have the report, and pay you a visit…”

  “Seriously? What the…”

  “Write down these names.” He felt dizzy, his chest tightening. It was all starting to catch up with him. Thank God, he got to her first.

  “Okay, okay, hang on.” He could almost hear her concentrating, and imagined her on the other end—brow furrowed, tongue protruding slightly as she scribbled down the names.

  He’d memorized them and began reciting.

  “David Atkinson. Pete Reynolds. Ian…”

  He heard the doorbell ring in the background, loud and musical.

  “I’ve got to go, there’s someone at the door.”

  “What? Who?” he rubbed at his upper lip. “Keep writing, Tiran.”

  “I don’t know who, but I don’t think it’s a cop. Dark hair, blue car, no uniform. Ring me back.”

  Before he could say another word, the dial tone pulsed loudly in his ear. She’d hung up. He hoped those two names were enough.

  *****

  The dark haired stranger turned the car off in the drive and sat for a minute. Through the window, he could see her in the lounge. Sh
e had left the curtains open with the lights on.

  When the curtain twitched, he knew she had seen him. He took a deep breath and got out of the car. It squeaked and bounced from the release of the weight as he stood. He wasn’t sure what she knew, but he’d soon find out. As he stepped onto the front porch, she opened the door. Curly damp hair clung to her face, and she pulled a strand out of her mouth as she looked at him blankly, waiting for him to explain who he was.

  “Yes?” He heard the edge in her voice.

  “Tiran?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I come in?”

  “What’s this about?” She had obviously been cleaning. The front of her yellow floral top was wet, and her hands were damp and wrinkled.

  “I need some information.” He shoved his foot into the door, and then pushed past her to gain entry.

  “What?” Her voice was loud and shrill. “This is my house! I can’t believe you just−” She chased after him, one slipper sliding off her foot on the way.

  “What’s this?” He had reached the kitchen and held a blue Post-it note in his hand above her head.

  He saw droplets of sweat forming on her forehead. She backed away, her hands feeling for the smooth contours of the kitchen door with her fingers. He needed to strike before she could get the thing open and curl her fingers around a knife.

  “I want to know where you got your information,” he growled, his feet thumping as he stepped closer to her.

  “None of your business. I’m calling the police.” Tiran’s eyes were hard, neck muscles taut.

  “You stupid bitch.” His lip curled in a snarl as he brought his right hand up to her rounded shoulders. With his left hand, he pulled out sickly yellow plastic gloves and she froze, rooted to the spot.

  “Get away from me before I call the cops. Get out of my house!” Her voice was ear splitting, and as she pushed off from her back foot, he strengthened his hold on her shoulder. The phone was only a couple of feet away.