Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery

by Victoria Laurie

  But I wasn’t buying the terrorist theory. “Where was the witness standing when he saw the girl?” I asked.

  “He was on the sidewalk right in front of the shop,” Brice said.

  “Is he okay?” Candice asked. The sidewalk was on the other side of the parking lot—maybe twenty-five feet away.

  Brice flipped the lid closed on his notebook. “He’s got a couple of small scratches from flying glass, but he was far enough away not to get hit with the blast.”

  “Lucky,” I muttered.

  “Yeah, except for witnessing something he’ll never forget, he’s a lucky bastard.”

  Brice wasn’t trying to be sarcastic; it was just his manner.

  We fell silent after that and I could feel the weight of Brice waiting for me to give him my intuitive impressions, but the truth was that I was working up the courage to open my intuition to the scene.

  Crime scenes are always an assault on the senses, and this was one of the worst I’d ever been to. My nose was filled with the acrid smell of charred plastic, wood, and other unmentionable things, not to mention that everywhere I looked I could see the destructive violence of the bomb, and my ears couldn’t drown out the sound of dozens of first responders still covering the scene. I could only imagine what my sixth sense would encounter when I clicked on my radar.

  “You okay?” Candice whispered.

  I realized I was breathing a little hard and maybe I was starting to feel a touch cold and clammy too. “It’s the smell,” I said, bringing my arm up to cover my nose.

  Candice wrapped her arm around my waist and guided me out of the shop to a spot in the parking lot about ten feet from what had been the entrance. “Better?” she asked.

  I swallowed hard. “A little.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” she reminded me, which won her a sharp look from Brice, who had followed us.

  Truth be told, I very nearly backed out, but then that feeling of knowing with absolute certainty that Dutch would then be left unprotected and vulnerable settled into the pit of my stomach and it gave me the resolve I needed. “I’m fine,” I told her, squaring my shoulders and turning again to the scene.

  I stared at it with unfocused eyes for a long time, sorting through all the energy swirling and tumbling around the area. It took me a while to sort it all out because there was so much emotion clouding the ether. Pushing my radar away from current time, I tried to find my way back to the time of the explosion, but I had to push past a great deal of stuff to get there. There had been the urgent energy of the firefighters who had worked to contain and put out the blaze, the anxiety of onlookers who’d witnessed the explosion or the aftermath, and finally the small thread of energy that was most unsettling, the vibrations of the five women who’d been caught in the explosion.

  The second I felt them, I focused hard and followed the thread. And then I had the energy of one woman in particular—and what’s more, I actually had a strong psychic connection to her. She seemed to come out of the fog and chaos of the scene to step right in front of me—and although I couldn’t see or hear her, I could certainly sense her.

  She felt heavy against my energy—and she felt full of panic. I knew in an instant that I’d connected to the grounded spirit of one of the women killed in the explosion, and for a minute I didn’t know what to do with her.

  I realize that most people think that all psychics are the same, but we’re as diverse as specialists in any given field. Under the “psychic” umbrella, there are mediums, healers, energy workers, and folks like me—psychic forecasters who predict the future. While I can sense a grounded spirit just as well as any medium, communicating clearly with one really isn’t my forte. The ability to actually “hear” a spirit is called “clairaudience.” As a psychic forecaster, my dominant sixth sense is clairvoyance, which simply means that in my mind’s eye I “see” images that allow me to predict the future. Alternatively, spirit mediums rely on clairaudience to “hear” spirits and converse with them. They often have some clairvoyance as well, but it’s their clairaudience that dominates. Unfortunately, with clairaudience, either you have it or you don’t, and I’m more in the “don’t” category.

  So I wasn’t very confident about attempting to communicate with the grounded soul banging on my energy, but this woman was pretty insistent, and I felt such sadness for her that I sucked it up and went for it.

  Hi, my name is Abby, I mentally told her. I can try to help you, ma’am. (Little-known fact: ghosts can hear our thoughts if we direct them at the spirit, so there’s no real need to speak out loud to them should you ever encounter one.)

  What I got back wasn’t so much a thread of conversation as it was a wave of emotion. Relief mixed with panic, and confusion, and then that pleading sense to help her, but there were no words exchanged. I was back to my own frustration for lack of clairaudient skill.

  But then I had an idea, one that I’d never tried before, and I hoped it’d work. I shut my eyes and envisioned my FBI badge, and I even went so far as to put my hand over it as it dangled from my neck.

  That panicked pleading subsided, and I knew she was trying to work out what I was saying. I then envisioned the inside of my office—specifically the room where I conducted my readings. I mentally called up the image of the last client I’d read for and then in my mind I drew a plus sign. This, I said in my thoughts while wiggling my badge, plus this—I again called up the image of my office—is what I do.

  With relief I felt her make the connection, and I knew she understood that I was telling her I was an FBI psychic.

  Encouraged, I told her to fill my mind with an image for what she did, and immediately I saw a woman with black hair and heavy makeup standing in a pink and green beauty salon, cutting another faceless person’s hair. The image was so strong that I swear I smelled that flowery scent of shampoo and hair products right under my nostrils.

  You’re a beautician! I said mentally.

  There was a sort of mental nod inside my head, but then that pleading to tell her or show her what’d happened to her returned.

  I bit my lip. “Abs?” I heard Candice whisper, and not wanting to interrupt the link I had to the ghost in front of me, I replied to Candice by holding up one finger. The next bit was going to be tricky, because I knew it would shock the dead beautician, but there was no way to avoid it. I took her image of the inside of the salon and on the floor I placed the image of a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse. That was it. Anything else I felt would be too cruel and upsetting for her.

  What she did next shocked me. She took the stick of dynamite, turned the beautician’s chair around to show me a young girl in her early twenties with light brown hair, freckles, and big hazel eyes. I didn’t quite know what was happening until the beautician slapped the dynamite stick to the torso of the girl, and then, in the next instant, a ball of flame completely obscured my inner vision. My breath caught and I took a step back and opened my eyes.

  Brice and Candice were staring worriedly at me. “I saw her,” I said. “The bomber. I know what she looks like.”

  “You saw her?” Brice asked, and I could tell he was mentally trying to work that out. He was neither intuitive nor very imaginative, and it’s always hardest for the analytical types to get me and what I do.

  “Yes.” I had a very clear impression of what the girl looked like. Her sweet face was likely permanently ingrained in my memory.

  “Where?” Brice asked. He was looking around like he thought I saw her in person.

  “I saw her in my mind’s eye, Brice. But I could describe her down to a T if I had to.”

  Brice blinked several times. I knew he wanted to ask me how I could have possibly seen the bomber in my mind’s eye, but he also knew that I was pretty adept at revealing what seemed impossible to expose. “You’re sure you saw her, Cooper?” was all he asked.

  “Positive.”

  “Could you sit with an artist?” Candice asked, before turning to Brice and adding, “If she
can give you an image to offer the press, it might be faster than waiting for DNA to come back.”

  Brice’s gaze flickered to me. “Yeah, we can get an artist for you, but a name would be faster. Any chance you could pull that out of your psychic hat?”

  I shook my head. “You know I don’t get names.”

  Brice shrugged. “Worth a shot.” He then turned away to make a call and get me the artist.

  Meanwhile Candice rubbed my shoulders. “You look cold.”

  The day had become overcast and had the smell of rain in the air, and the temperature had dropped significantly since that morning. A cold front was blowing through town. “I’m okay,” I told her, barely suppressing a shudder.

  Candice grinned. “How about we get outta here and go for coffee? Brice won’t be able to get anyone to work up a sketch for at least a half hour.”

  I almost said yes, but then I remembered that Dutch was still on the scene and I had a ghost I couldn’t just leave without at least attempting to help. “Naw, I’m good,” I told her, before scanning the area for my fiancé. I found him over by Gaston and a guy I didn’t recognize in a blue Windbreaker. It looked like they were examining several small pieces of charred metal. I wondered if they were pieces of the bomb.

  “You sure, Sundance?” Candice said, pulling my attention back to her.

  I bumped her with my shoulder. “I’m okay, Cassidy. There’s a grounded spirit here that I’m going to try to help.” I pointed to the area right in front of me where the beautician was standing.

  “There’s a what where now?” Candice asked, her eyes widening.

  “A ghost.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Like…a real live ghost?”

  “She’s not exactly alive, Candice, but yes, there is a real ghost standing right in front of us.” Candice took two very big steps back from me. “Don’t tell me you’re scared of ghosts?” I said.

  “Okay. I won’t tell you. But I am, Abs. I mean, I think the psychic stuff you do is really cool, but ghosts freak me out.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Well, this one won’t hurt you. She’s scared and really upset by what’s happened to her.”

  “Who is she?”

  “One of the beauticians from inside the shop.”

  “Which one?”

  That was a good question. I remembered the names Brice had rattled off. Kelly Longfellow, Grace Williams, and the owner, Rita Watson. As I was recalling them, I felt a surge from the woman in front of me as my mind hit on the name Rita Watson and I knew I had the beauty shop owner in front of me. I closed my eyes and whispered, “Rita, do you understand you’ve been killed today?”

  I was hit with such a wave of sadness that my eyes immediately began to tear. For a long moment I was terribly overcome with emotion, and I had to wipe my eyes several times and take deep breaths before I was able to focus again.

  “Abs?” Candice said, once again at my side. “Sweetie! What’s the matter?”

  I tried to speak and tell her what was happening, but I couldn’t, so I just held up one finger for her to wait a moment and reached out again to Rita. I’m so sorry, I told her. I know it must be a shock, Rita, but you didn’t survive the blast, and you need to leave this place and cross over to the other side. Do you know how to do that?

  I waited with bated breath, hoping she would know how to cross, because if she didn’t, I’d have to call my friend M.J.—a medium and good friend I knew in Boston—for assistance.

  Rita took a while to answer me, and through the ether I could feel her struggle and it tore me up inside. I had the distinct impression that she was leaving behind a son, a young man not yet out of high school. I’ll reach out to him, I promised her.

  I felt another twinge of emotion that was like a surge of gratitude. And then I knew that Rita was still resistant to the idea of crossing over. I didn’t want her to lose her courage, so I mentally said, Rita, you’ll be so much better able to watch over your son from the other side. If you stay in this realm, you’ll be stuck right here in front of this burned-out shop and that’s not an existence your son would ever wish for you.

  I think that did the trick because in the next few seconds I could feel a sort of warmth come over me and then I had the impression that Rita’s spirit was lifting and becoming lighter. A moment later she was gone, and I opened my eyes to once again find Brice and Candice standing in front of me looking extremely worried. There was also a third person there—Dutch.

  “You okay?” he asked. His eyes conveyed that he was both: still pissed off, and just as worried as Candice and Brice. Belatedly I realized I was crying.

  I wiped at my cheeks. “I’m fine. How’re you?”

  “Peachy.”

  For the record, his tone suggested anything but.

  “Swell,” I told him, in a tone that also suggested anything but.

  An awkward silence followed and it was finally broken when Brice said, “The sketch artist is on the way and should be here in about twenty minutes. Why don’t you ladies head down the street and grab some coffee at Starbucks and I’ll send the artist over when she gets here?”

  I turned and spied the familiar green and white logo about a block and a half down. It had nice big windows from which I could keep my eye on Dutch. “Okay,” I said, motioning for Candice to follow me as I turned on my heel and walked away.

  “Abs,” I heard Dutch say before I got very far.

  I glanced over my shoulder but kept walking. “Yeah?”

  “Wait up for me tonight. We need to chat.”

  Oh, boy. The shih tzu I get myself into sometimes…

  Abby & Dutch’s Wedding Day—T-Minus 01:40

  “Girl…what have you gotten us into?” Gil asked as M.J. took a corner a little too fast and the tires of the rental car squealed.

  “Nothing,” she replied impatiently. “Just keep your eye on the map and tell me where to stop.”

  Gil pointed to his right and a little behind. “That’s three-two-seven, so three-three-one should be…M.J., slow down, you just passed it!”

  M.J. stomped on the brakes and backed up fast. She’d had a strong feeling that they’d be the ones to find Abby, and she’d also had a strong feeling that they should go to Abby’s new house, so she hoped her hunch paid off. Once they were in front of the house, she hit the brakes hard again so that they could consider the stately Mediterranean-style home. “White stucco, blue shutters, and clay roof. This is it,” she said.

  “They live here?” Gilley asked, ogling the house.

  “Apparently,” M.J. said, backing up the rental even more to ease it into the drive, which dipped down a short hill before curving off toward the garage.

  “Those FBI boys sure make some coin,” Gil muttered.

  “Dutch has a side business providing VIP security or something,” M.J. said. “Abby told me he does really well from it. I think Milo is his business partner, in fact.”

  “Milo’s a hottie,” Gil said. “And so are Dutch and Brice. Have you realized how good-looking everybody at that wedding is?”

  M.J. sighed. She seriously missed her own great-looking guy, Heath Whitefeather, who was also a medium and who would’ve been a whole lot more help than Gil. But then, that was sort of always true.

  She had no choice but to ignore the commentary coming out of Gilley’s mouth and navigate the driveway as quickly as she could. “Whose cars are those?” Gilley asked as they swerved around to the right of the house where the garage doors were located.

  M.J. almost sighed again with relief. There were two cars in the drive. A blue Mini Cooper—which, from Abby’s Facebook page, she knew that Abby drove a Mini—and a black Mercedes. “I think we found them, Gil,” M.J. said, guessing the black Mercedes was Milo’s car.

  Pulling the car all the way over to the far right of the other two cars, she was about to cut the engine when something else caught her eye, and she gasped, pointing to the rear door next to the garage where a pair of legs were just visible sticking out of the
doorway. “Gil!” she cried. “What’s that?”

  Gilley leaned forward, and he too sucked in a breath. “It’s Milo! And Candice! She’s to his side and facedown on the ground!”

  M.J. shoved the gearshift into park. She then had to grab Gilley’s arm as he was about to jump out of the car and said, “Wait! Let me call first!”

  Gilley pulled against her grip. “They’re hurt!”

  “What if they’re not?” she countered. That wave of dread filled her chest like cement. Somehow she knew that the worst had not yet happened, and the house itself was giving off a very dangerous vibe that she couldn’t quite figure out. “Gil, what if whoever did that to them is still inside?”

  Gilley blinked at her, and then let go of the door handle. “Call,” he said softly, handing over her phone. “And don’t cut the engine. We may need to get outta here fast!”

  M.J.’s fingers trembled as she tried to navigate the screens on the phone. She bypassed the idea of calling Dutch, and headed straight for 911.

  Chapter Three

  A patrol car with the words “Call 911” stenciled in blue on the side pulled up and parked right outside the window I was staring out of at the Starbucks down the street from the bombing scene.

  The sketch artist Brice had called for got out, and juggled her sketchbook and set of pencils as she waved to the officer driving the car, who then left her to go help his fellow brothers in blue.

  While I’d waited for her to arrive, I’d kept my eye on Dutch and by that I mean my intuitive third eye as well as my two physical ones. The sense that he was still in terrible danger never wavered, and what’s more, I couldn’t seem to find the source no matter how hard I intuitively “looked” to find it. It seemed near him and yet at some distance, and that unsettled me more than I can say.

  Luckily, the appearance of the sketch artist distracted me, at least temporarily, from my worries. The sketch artist, Linda, was an earthy, soft-spoken woman in her fifties with kind eyes. She sat with me for the next two hours while she and I worked up a pencil sketch that I knew was nearly the spitting image of the face that Rita had shown me in my mind’s eye.