by Pandora Pine
DEAD SILENT
By
Pandora Pine
Dead Silent
Copyright © Pandora Pine 2018
All Rights Reserved
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.
First Digital Edition: March 2018
For my amazing work family.
Water truly is sometimes thicker than blood.
PROLOGUE
Tennyson
June…
With the Justin Wilson case in his rearview mirror, psychic Tennyson Grimm needed a little down time to relax and find his Zen. The Wilson case had brought up an issue or two that hit a little close to home for him and he needed some time away from the hustle and bustle of life in Salem, Massachusetts.
Brothers, Carson and Cole Craig would be manning West Side Magick, the psychic shop the three of them owned and managed together in the Witch City, while his Cold Case partner and lover, Boston Police Detective Ronan O’Mara, got back to work without him for the next two weeks.
Tennyson had been perfectly happy in his life as a medium, reading customers in the Salem shop, until six months ago when the most gorgeous man Ten had ever met in his entire life strolled in asking for his help on a cold kidnapping case. Ronan O’Mara wasn’t used to people saying no to him and Tennyson hadn’t been about to break that streak.
He’d agreed to partner with the surly, skeptical detective to help find Michael Frye, who’d been five years old when he’d gone missing from his South Boston front yard. During the course of the investigation, Ronan had become a believer in Tennyson’s gift and Ten had fallen head over heels in love with his grumpy partner.
Now that Tennyson had a few minutes to reflect back on things, his and Ronan’s trajectories had been lining up to intersect long before that day back in January when Ronan strode into the Magick shop looking for Tennyson’s help. He’d been getting visitations from a spirit who’d been unable to communicate with him using dead speak since November of last year.
When the young man, Justin Wilson, finally figured out how to talk through the use of images, it was to ask Tennyson to find the man who murdered him. That one spirit led to another, which led to another, and before Tennyson and Ronan had known what was happening, they were hip-deep investigating a serial killer who was targeting gay street kids.
One way or the other, it seemed he and Ronan O’Mara were destined to be a part of each other’s lives, which made it odd that Tennyson had chosen to come to Maine alone. Ronan had understood his need to be alone and find himself after the investigation that nearly cost his boss, Captain Fitzgibbon and his son, Greeley, their lives.
Great Diamond Island, off the coast of Portland, Maine, was everything the travel websites played it up to be, and then some. The only people who were on the island were those who lived there or who rented cottages. There was one inn over on the other side of the island, but the non-residential side was fenced off from the private side.
The island was semi-private and unless you were renting a cottage or visiting the Inn at Diamond Cove you weren’t allowed to get off the ferry. For Tennyson, the quiet of the place was an absolute haven for him.
His little cottage was just off the beach. It was painted light pink and had one bedroom. It was the perfect size for a honeymooning couple or an exhausted psychic looking to come to terms with himself and his past.
Every morning that Tennyson had been here started with an egg white omelet and a piece of wheat toast. After the dishes were cleaned up, he’d head out to the beach for an hour of meditation. Usually, he’d only get in a few solitary minutes of deep breathing and a few simple poses before the voices and visitations would start. Ten knew there was no way he could truly take a vacation by himself; the spirits of the departed were everywhere.
The one thing he should have done before hopping on the ferry, was a bit more research on Fort McKinley. Built in the early 20th century, the fort was an active U.S. Army base until after the end of World War II. Over the course of the week he’d been here, dozens of the spirits that had visited him had been those of soldiers who’d been stationed at the fort before being shipped off to fight in Germany. Many of them had come back to the fort, the place they’d been the happiest in their lives, after they’d died.
Instead of having hours of uninterrupted time to spend on himself, he’d used it all up helping spirits cross over or come to terms with the fact they were actually dead. At the end of most days, Tennyson was more tired than he should have been, leaving him with no time to work on himself.
Not being able to work on his own issues only made him miss Ronan more. He’d gotten in the habit of sending his lover one email a day, right before he went to bed. He never mentioned the fact that he was spending more time working with the dead than on himself. His emails were instead filled with details about the island and always included a picture of the beach or of some bird or flower he found interesting.
Ronan, for his part, followed the unwritten rules Tennyson had set. He would respond to Ten’s email the next morning. He’d talk about the progress Fitzgibbon and Greeley were making, among other mundane things. He’d close with a picture of Boston, usually a sunrise shot from Carson Beach, which told Ten that Ronan had started running again.
Captain Kevin Fitzgibbon had been injured during the course of the Justin Wilson investigation and was continuing to recover from his injury. In his last email, Ronan had written that the captain would be cleared to go back to work within the next week. Ten knew how anxious the captain was for that day.
Greeley, the captain’s foster son, had a brief run-in with the killer and had managed to escape. The teenager had developed a drug habit after the violent encounter. He was now entered into a rehab program in Swampscott, Massachusetts. According to Ronan’s email from yesterday, Greeley had just been accepted into a GED program set to start in two weeks.
Tennyson had sent back his love and encouragement to both men and to Ronan in his return email.
Day nine on the island dawned rainy. There would be no meditation on the beach this morning. After breakfast, Ten set up his yoga mat on the living room floor in front of the cold, stone fireplace and started his deep breathing. He was about to move into the “greet the day” pose when he was interrupted by a stream of voices talking at once.
“That’s it!” Tennyson shouted. “I’ve been more than patient, but you all have to go!” His breath was ragged, his voice high-pitched. “I came here to relax and find myself, to heal! I haven’t had one damn second to myself since I arrived. Can you all just give me that? One damn minute? I wish I never had this damn gift! Now go!”
Tennyson fell back to his mat and let all of his emotions flow out of him. He cried for his childhood spent denying who he was, gay and psychic. He cried for the boys back home in Boston who’d lost their families and lives for being born gay. He cried for Ronan and the precious time they were missing together because he’d run away from his problems to this god-forsaken rock to find himself when he’d never really been lost in the first place. Ten cried and cried until the tears were gone and sleep took him.
When he woke, the cabin was dark. Ten sat up and all of his muscles screamed in protest. “That’s what I get for falling asleep on the hardwood floor,” he muttered to the empty room. He walked to the dining room table and grabbed his phone. Hitting the home button, he saw that it was 7pm. Christ, he’d slept for twe
lve straight hours on his yoga mat.
Guilt hit him like a boulder. Yes, he wanted a little time to himself to get his head on straight again after the Justin Wilson case, but he never should have yelled at those spirits like he’d done. Ten turned on the heat under the tea kettle and took a seat at the dining room table. Reaching out with his sixth sense he sent a message to all of the spirits around, welcoming them to speak to him. Oddly enough, none responded.
When the kettle started to boil, he got up and made his cup of green tea. Ten took it out onto the deck, where the moon was rising out of the ocean. He sat in one of the Adirondack chairs and let the rhythm of the tides soothe his troubled soul.
The first thing he was going to do when he got back to Massachusetts, after he kissed Ronan’s lips raw and begged for his forgiveness for not taking him on this trip, was to jump in feet first with Carson’s husband, Truman, on his We Are Family charity.
The charity would be geared toward gay youth who were homeless. Part of the proceeds would also go to fund the funerals of the boys who’d been murdered by the serial killer. Tennyson had been kicked out of his own home the day after he graduated from high school for being gay. If not for his gift, he could have ended up on the streets selling his body to survive, just like the killer’s victims had done. Giving back to the adopted hometown that had welcomed him with open arms was just what his aching soul needed to feel whole again.
After Ten told Truman about his intentions, he was going to book appointments with clients looking to have private readings with their loved ones, and then he was going to get back to work with Ronan solving cold cases for the Boston Police Department.
He knew damned well that not all cold cases were going to turn out like the Michael Frye and Justin Wilson cases, with violence and gunfire. For most of them, it would simply be a matter of speaking with the victims and hearing the stories of how they died. Ronan would be able to find evidence or get the suspects to confess from there and be able to wrap up those cases lickety-split.
Tennyson laughed into the twilight. There! All he’d needed was five uninterrupted minutes to figure out what was next for himself and his life. That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?
As for what was going on with his past colliding with his present, he needed to let his parents and their narrow-minded religious beliefs go. He wasn’t that scared seventeen-year-old boy anymore, twisting his hands together and telling his parents he was gay and psychic. He was a grown man with a career, two of them, in fact, and a man who loved him to the moon and back.
He hadn’t spoken a single word to his parents in thirteen years. After the notoriety of the Frye case, his parents surely knew how to reach him, but they hadn’t. If the book hadn’t been closed on that relationship before, it should be now. “No, fuck that!” Tennyson shouted to the sea. The book was closed. He was closing it now.
“You hear that, Bertha? Erin? I’m done with my parents and thinking that they’ll ever want to get back in touch with me.” Tennyson was all smiles as he waited for a response from Carson and Ronan’s mothers.
All he got in return was silence.
Tennyson stood up and walked to the edge of the deck and looked up at the stars. A million of them winked back at him. For the first time in his entire life, all he heard were the sounds his ears were picking up: a barking dog, the crash of the waves on the beach, a car horn, the sound of his breath getting faster with each passing second.
“Bertha? Erin? Anyone?” Tennyson shouted. Silence. It was dead silent.
Tennyson thought back to his tantrum from this morning. He’d wished his gift away. The most precious thing he’d ever been given in his life and he’d wished it away like a teenager telling his parents that he hated them. What had he done?
Were the spirits just obeying his command to leave him alone so he could selfishly enjoy his vacation? Or were they gone for good?
There was only one way to find out. He needed to get home. If anyone could help him figure this out, it was Carson and Cole.
And Ronan. The second worst thing he’d ever done in his life was to run away from the man who loved him.
The next ferry back to the mainland wasn’t until 6:30am tomorrow morning. It looked like Tennyson was going to get exactly what he asked for. Peace and quiet. Only that was the last thing he wanted right now.
He offered up a silent prayer that when he woke up in the morning his gift would be back.
1
Tennyson
The first thing Tennyson heard when he woke up the next morning were birds chirping. He cracked an eyeball open to peek at the digital readout on his alarm clock and couldn’t believe his eyes. It was 10:45am! He hadn’t slept this late in his entire life.
Sitting bolt upright, Tennyson tried to remember what time he’d gone to bed last night. It had been sometime after midnight. He’d sat in the Adirondack chair on the deck listening to the outgoing tide and hoping for a spirit to visit him.
He’d finally given up and came back inside around 11pm. He spent the next hour packing so that he’d be ready to leave on the 6:30am ferry back to Portland. Not only had he missed that ferry, but the next four after it.
Voices and spirit visitations had been waking him up since he was thirteen years old. Last night was the first uninterrupted night of sleep he’d gotten in seventeen years. Tennyson shook his head. Had it really been that long?
That didn’t matter now. What did matter was that his gift was still gone. It had been over twenty-four hours now since he’d last spoken with a spirit. Ten reached out with his sixth sense trying to pick up any kind of energy reading or inkling of future events and drew a complete blank.
Trying to push the frustration down, he hopped out of bed and hurried into the shower. If he hurried, he could make the 11:30 am ferry off the island. It was a two-hour ride to Salem once he was back in Portland. As much as he wanted to see Ronan, he needed to see Carson more.
It turned out Tennyson was at the dock in plenty of time to make the ferry. All of the early birds had taken an earlier trip back to the mainland which left Ten with a topside seat this time. On his way out to Great Diamond, he’d been stuck in the bowels of the ship sitting next to a window that wouldn’t open.
Now, he had the sun on his face and a light breeze whipping his messy curls into knots. He tried to focus on the way the sun’s rays heated up his unshaven face and made his nose hot. This was the day he’d remember come January when the wind chill dipped into the negative degrees and the wind itself felt like it was going to scour the skin off his face.
Ten tried again to reach out with his gift, which in itself was odd. He’d never had to reach out for someone to talk to, the voices had always been there. The only times in recent memory he’d found himself reaching out like this was when there was a specific person he’d been looking to connect with, like murder victim Michael Frye or Carson’s mother, Bertha Craig.
Lately, he’d been spending a lot of time with Ronan’s mother. Not to get the skinny on his man, but because Erin was quickly becoming the mother Ten had never had.
After a minute or two, he stopped trying to reach out. It was quiet again inside his mind. Dead silent, more like. Ten could feel the panic start to rise up within him. This feeling reminded him of the way he’d felt when he’d first started hearing the voices when he was thirteen years old.
He’d heard of schizophrenia and other mental disorders where people heard voices in their heads. Hell, some kids in his class even used the word “schizo” as another term for crazy. There were times during the early days of his gift when Tennyson had wondered if he was truly crazy.
It wasn’t until he met a grandmotherly spirit named Madge who’d explained to him what was going on. She’d told him who she was and what she needed from him. In exchange, she’d been able to tell him a little bit about his gift and point him in a direction that would get him some answers but still keep his growing powers under wraps from his parents.
Madge, as it
turned out, had lived in Union Chapel, Kansas, out by the railroad tracks leading out of town. She’d been able to eke out a living with her gift, but she’d never been made to feel welcome by the townspeople. Her one request in exchange for serving as Tennyson’s mentor from the other side was for him to deliver a message to her granddaughter, Katie.
Tennyson knew Katie. She was in his Sunday school class. It had taken him weeks to work up the courage to talk to her and even then, it had only been a hurried hello at the end of class.
Madge wasn’t having any of that, she kept visiting Tennyson in the middle of the night, sitting on the edge of his bed and singing off-key hymns until he finally agreed to deliver Madge’s one-word message.
The following Sunday, Tennyson steeled his courage and went up to Katie, asking her if the word “persnickety” meant anything to her.
Katie, to Tennyson’s great surprise, flung her arms around his middle and hugged him until his ribs ached. He found out later on that “persnickety” was the word Madge agreed to pass on to Katie in the afterlife to prove that she was okay in heaven.
Ten sighed. Even after he was well on his way with understanding his gift and harnessing his powers, he still checked in with Madge from time to time. He’d been trying to reach her all morning and all he was getting in return was more silence.
What scared him most at the moment was that he had no idea who he was without his gift. He’d been a psychic longer than he’d been anything else. It had been his gift that kept him from being homeless when his parents disowned him and kicked him out of their house for being gay. If not for his ability to do readings, he might have ended up on the street, selling his body for food and shelter, like Justin Wilson and those other boys who’d fallen victim to the serial killer.
Ten shivered in the warm sunshine. He could end up in a similar situation now if his gift didn’t come back. If he couldn’t speak to the dead, how in hell was he going to do private readings at West Side Magick? Worse, how was he going to work cold cases with Ronan?