Gypsy Cradle: a psychic paranormal thriller (The Gypsy Medium Series Book 2)

by Andrea Drew

  There stood the figure of a dark haired child. Isabella. I’d been so caught up in my furious cleaning project that I’d actually fallen asleep.

  −He got to her.

  −Yeah, but now not only is Ryan convinced I’m a nutter, but Connor’s having doubts too.

  −He doesn’t realize he will lose her. If this goes on for another day, she will die.

  −I get that, but do I have to be the nutter, to lose the man I love to save her? It’s too big a sacrifice.

  −I can’t control Connor’s behavior. If he chooses to give in to his fear, then that is his choice to make. Allow him time to make that choice.

  −I thought he’d be with me on this. I’m trying to save his daughter.

  −Remember, he hasn’t told anyone about his gifts as a sentinel. He may never tell. He’s struggling.

  −Aren’t we all! I wonder if all of this is worth it. My conscience is clear, but I might lose any respect or reputation I might have had…

  −Only you can answer that, but I appeared to you because I need Christie to live.

  −Need, not want? Why?

  −That’s not important now. It’s urgent that you pass on the name of the poison to the hospital so they can administer the antidote in time. They won’t check for antifreeze automatically. Keep in mind, though, the hospital staff may not believe you. You’ll need to insist they do the test. Once you’ve done that, you may be able to catch the murderer before he leaves the country.

  −Who is he?

  −Brenton Perkins. He probably won’t be back at work though; he’s planning to say one last goodbye to Ryan then he’ll be gone.

  −And the poison?

  −Ethylene Glycol. Antifreeze.

  −Antifreeze? As in the stuff that goes in cars?

  −Yes. It’s sweet. He put it in her coffee Monday. A traceless poison.

  −How can it be traceless?

  −Well, it can cause a wide range of symptoms. First, the victim seems drunk; afterwards she makes what seems like a miraculous recovery. By day three, if she isn’t treated with the antidote, the internal organs go into failure, and she dies.

  My throat constricted as I thought of Connor planning his only child’s funeral, rather than being torn between loyalty to daughter and lover.

  −I need to get to the hospital so they can start tests. They can’t treat her otherwise, right?

  −Right, but prepare to fight. I don’t think you’ll be well received.

  Maybe not, but every second I stayed, Christie died a little bit more. I could search for this Brenton character in the morning, at dawn. I flicked on the bedside lamp and squinted, adjusting to the bright light. I’d fallen asleep in my tracksuit. The clock beside me read 3.46 a.m. I threw back the covers. I had a job to do, even if I lost Connor because of it. I knew I’d be devastated if it came to that, but if doing the right thing, the honorable thing, ultimately led to our breakup, then the man that I’d known as Connor Reardon had never existed at all.

  Tuesday 22nd January, 12.27am

  Connor had dozed fitfully, despite the darkened hospital room and the blanket a thoughtful nurse had draped over him. Nurses had come and gone, checking Christie’s blood pressure, smiling at him in the dim light while he tossed and turned, attempting to get comfortable in the hard lumpy old chair.

  He scratched the back of his neck and turned on his side, chewing on his lip. He didn’t want to think about Christie’s future. Thankfully, she slept, blissfully unaware of what the future might bring. Hopefully tomorrow would be a better day. She hadn’t been able to keep anything down, and had been put on intravenous fluids to prevent dehydration. Her mental state teetered on the edge. Connor had no idea what he could do other than wait beside her hospital bed, to be a reassuring and familiar presence if she awoke unexpectedly.

  He had no idea what might have propelled her into a pit of despair so suddenly. According to colleagues, she’d arrived as usual Monday morning at 8.30, but an hour later she’d begun vomiting and slurring her words. In just a few short hours, she’d descended into madness, hallucinations followed by brief periods of lucidity.

  The possibility that Christie had been poisoned seemed unprovable. If Gypsy and her persistent vision of a girl named Isabella really were convinced she had been poisoned, why couldn’t they name the poison?

  It smelled of attention seeking to Connor. He loved Gypsy; they’d grown closer and he’d come to understand her quirks. Most people strove for integrity, but in Gypsy’s case her focus on integrity bordered on obsession. Following purity of principles drove her to irresponsible and reckless behavior. In this case, her dogged determination had carried her through with little to no proof. Their relationship had suffered due to her single mindedness.

  He sighed and shifted from his right side to his left. Pulling the blanket up to his chin, he closed his eyes and prayed that the morning would bring an improvement in Christie’s condition.

  Tuesday 22nd January, 3.56am

  Brenton awoke to the glowing light of the television credits on an endless loop. He and Jake had fallen asleep just after the movie. He didn’t want Jake here. He’d been a great friend, but every second that Jake remained beside him, a faultless friend, meant frustration. He got up and wandered to the light switch. When he flicked it on, Jake blinked and groaned, sitting up on the couch.

  “What the hell?”

  “Sorry, Jake, but I need to be alone.”

  Jake brought a wrist to eye level and his lip curled. “At 4 a.m.?”

  “Yep, at 4 a.m. You’re the best friend a guy could have, and you’re always there when I need you, but right now, I need my space. Sorry, Jake.”

  “Seriously?” said Jake. Brenton’s expression remained fixed, hands on hips, waiting close by for him to leave. “Fucking hell then, okay. Hang on; I’ve got to get my stuff.” He pushed out a breath and stood up, grasping for his jacket, shoveling his keys and wallet from the television cabinet into his hands, and shuffling into the hallway.

  Jake brought a hand to his head, and he shrugged on his jacket. “Don’t do anything stupid, okay? You promised.”

  “I promise, Jake. Thank you; you’ve been a great friend. I hope you know how much it means to me.”

  Jake scrutinized his friend before accepting the hug offered by Brenton. “I’ll call you tomorrow in my lunch break,” he said before the door slammed shut behind him. Brenton scampered to the window and pressed his nose against the blind, watching as Jake unlocked his car, started it up, and disappeared.

  He smiled and swaggered to the lounge room. He hadn’t removed the packed bag from the boot of the rental car. He picked up his keys and wallet and stuffed them into his pocket. He’d give it a couple of minutes before he left, in case Jake returned. Then he could carry on with the rest of the plan.

  Tuesday 22nd January, 4.22am

  The roads were deserted. It took only ten minutes to get from my place to St. Vincent’s hospital instead of the usual twenty. I swung into a parking space close to the entrance of the Banksia unit. The short beep as I pressed the electronic car lock echoed. I bustled straight for Christie’s room. I reached the end of the corridor and I pulled hard on the door to Banksia south, my shoulder jolting back as I realized it wouldn’t budge. I searched frantically for a buzzer or intercom. Above the handle, a sign said “Please press for attention.”

  I slammed it with my palm and stood back, tapping one foot and attempting to peer through the small window in vain, blocked by dark fabric.

  I waited for what seemed like an eternity before a stern voice answered, sounding thoroughly unimpressed that a visitor had dared to interrupt the silent ward at four in the morning.

  “Yes?”

  “Er…I’m here to see Christie Reardon.”

  “Visiting hours are from 6-8p.m.,” said the voice, then a click. Obviously, she considered the subject closed. I pushed the button again, with more ferocity this time.

  “Yes?” said a new voice, a gr
uff-sounding male. Obviously, she’d called in the reinforcements, or the nurse couldn’t get to the phone, although at four in the morning I had no idea why not.

  “I have vital information concerning Miss Christie Reardon. In fact, it may be a life or death matter.”

  “Oh yeah?” the young male staff member struggled to keep the skepticism out of his voice.

  “Yes. I have received information she may have been poisoned with ethylene glycol or antifreeze, which is the reason her symptoms include hallucinations.”

  “Right,” he said. Obviously, working in a psychiatric ward hadn’t improved his view of the public.

  “Can I ask you to pass the information on, please? It will probably save her life.”

  “Is there a reason you want to see her in the middle of the night? It’s quarter past four in the morning.”

  They’d obviously gone on a nationwide recruitment program to find the brightest minds. With a sigh, and pulling out a pen and piece of paper from my handbag, I pushed the point.

  “The information has just come to hand. I knew this would make a significant difference to the way she is being treated, which is why I’m here at this time of the night. Ethylene glycol isn’t traceable unless it is specifically identified in a urine test.”

  I’d done my research on the poison, and knew that hospitals wouldn’t automatically test for it.

  He didn’t respond.

  I had to get the data through to someone somewhere, medical personnel that actually gave a shit. I scribbled the message in big bold letters, shoved it under the door, and stormed back to the car.

  I could call the front desk and get a fax number. The doors swished obediently as I quickened my pace, almost to a run, and bolted for my car.

  If the incompetent boobs working in the psychiatric ward didn’t act upon the information I’d given them, heads would roll. I’d never trusted psychiatric nurses—you’d have to be nuts to be a psychiatrist and in my experience, most of them were. Of course, as a psychic I’d had my own brushes with psychiatry, which colored my judgment. I’d be damned if I’d let the bastards get hold of Christie. I ran faster. I’d follow this through until they tested Christie and gave her the antidote. Even if they were tired of hearing from me, at least Connor’s daughter would live.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuesday 22nd January, 5.06am

  Brenton went back to his car and drove to Ryan’s home. He realized he didn’t think of it as Christie’s place anymore; Ryan featured as the primary figure in his existence. The gorgeous man in question had probably come home to sleep and change, considering it had been almost twenty-four hours since Christie’s collapse at work. Brenton estimated that by now, the second day, Christie’s demeanor and physical symptoms would have transformed from a seemingly drunk delusional woman into a calmer, rapidly improving one. Somehow, this made him feel better, less guilty. Ryan and Connor would be thankful that Christie perked up and their worst fears could be relegated to needless worry. He’d given that to them, the knowledge that life and health were precious. He smiled at the rear of Ryan’s car in the driveway. He’d be up with the sparrows, keen to check on his girlfriend and wait patiently by her side. Brenton reclined back in the seat to wait for him to surface.

  Brenton knew Ryan better than he knew himself.

  He let the car roll down the hill slightly, but then, Ryan wouldn’t recognize his rental vehicle, nor would he recognize his pale features in the growing light of pre-dawn. Ryan certainly would never imagine that Brenton had set up outside his home—a bright side to the unfortunate fact that Brenton didn’t register as a major figure in Ryan’s world.

  Yet.

  Tuesday 22nd January, 5.36am

  I plonked my body onto my office chair with such force that it skidded about a meter before I scooted forward, grabbing the phone off my desk.

  I dialed the hospital number and it seemed to ring for an eternity. Surely, the receptionists weren’t run off their feet at five a.m.

  “St. Vincent’s Hospital.” The woman answering sounded as though another second taking another call and she’d hurl her nail polish bottle across the room.

  “Yes, I’d like the fax number and email for the Banksia unit, if possible, please.” I kept my tone brisk and professional, confident of getting the help I needed to resolve this for the last time.

  “Hold, please—” and with a click, the torturous clanging chimes of hold music began.

  A bird ripped a worm from the earth outside, smacking it against the hard earth.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes,” I replied. I sure as hell didn’t plan to board a plane to the Bahamas anytime soon.

  “The fax number is 9238 6566. Emails will need to come via reception.” I scribbled the details down and hung up, frantically searching for signs of life on my laptop. I opened my email program and began to type the message, which I planned to send as a fax first before duplicating on all possible channels.

  −URGENT – Patient in Banksia Ward – Christie Reardon – have received vital information regarding her condition – suspect Brenton Perkins, work colleague, administered poison Monday morning 9.30 a.m. – Ethylene Glycol. Police have been informed. Should an organ or blood donor be needed, please discuss with Connor Reardon, a frequent visitor and her biological father.

  I printed my message, slotted the paper into the fax machine, and pressed ‘send.’ I pushed myself up from the chair and grabbed my keys. No chance of sleep yet, but my body needed rest. I wasn’t too worried; I’d slept the night before. A walk around the block, then I’d retreat to my bedroom for the next round in the battle against insomnia.

  If the blanket of sleep did overcome me, Isabella could confirm that I’d averted disaster. In the morning, I could go vermin hunting for this Brenton character.

  Tuesday 22nd January, 6.51am

  Grit stung Ryan’s eyes as they flickered open. As he sat up, he realized he’d fallen asleep in a towel. He hadn’t fully grasped the level of his exhaustion. At the window, he twisted the cord to open the blinds and the gray clear sky lightened the room a little.

  Dressing rapidly, he bounded down the stairs toward the kitchen where he found his keys and wallet piled on the table. He’d get breakfast on the way. He had a good feeling about today. Christie, he hoped, would be improved, sitting up in bed, smiling in her familiar way, the shy grin spreading across her face.

  He realized he’d been an asshole lately, but ever since that dickhead had lodged a formal complaint with the department, the slightest annoyance had left him teetering on the edge of fury. He knew he’d been too hard on Christie, but waking up in that idiot’s home on Sunday morning had frightened him. He couldn’t recall any of the drunken events, so that had to count for something, didn’t it? Those trashy TV shows would have a field day with something like this—the gossipy B-list celebrity women loved to chew over this type of thing, spending hours dissecting meaningless drivel.

  No, he knew he hadn’t been hiding in a closet, and he didn’t plan to leave one anytime soon.

  He swung the door open and stepped briskly toward the car. Getting in, he reversed quickly. Christie and Connor would be waiting for him.

  Tuesday 22nd January, 8.09am

  Christie awoke and pushed herself up to get her bearings. Her limbs ached, and the faint twinge of a headache had formed at the base of her skull.

  Christie noticed the equipment on the wall and smelled disinfectant. She was in a hospital. As she sighed and sank back onto the bed, the collapse at work came back to her—she had struggled against the waves of nausea, the shame and humiliation of possibly throwing up at work, the spinning room, struggling to speak, the dribbling, before falling off her chair.

  Oh god.

  What happened? It had been a Monday like any other. She knew she hadn’t been drinking. Did someone really get to her? Connor’s crazy girlfriend kept on banging on about poisoning, but she had felt fine, other than a slight headache. She did, how
ever, remember the nightmares. Vivid memories of gray-green creatures tapping at the windows, squeaking and scurrying across the floor, climbing and slithering their way in through gaps in windows and under doors.

  She shivered and ran her fingers through her hair. It felt greasy; she really needed a shower. A nurse peered around the door and smiled at her.

  “Good morning. You seem to be doing better today.” Her voice was barely a whisper but she did look genuinely pleased to see her up in bed. She padded over and slid a blood pressure cuff onto Christie’s arm. Connor shifted in the chair, gazing left and right as he got his bearings. When he noticed Christie was awake, he smiled and threw off the blanket.

  “Christie,” he said his voice gruff with sleep.

  “Connor,” she said, smiling as he stood and shuffled his way to her bedside.

  The nurse addressed her again. “You can probably have a shower this morning, seeing as you’re doing so much better. I’ve been told to collect a urine specimen from you—the doctors ordered another test.”

  Christie picked up the plastic bottle, peering at it.

  “So I can have a shower then?”

  “Of course you can, if I can just get that urine specimen first. I’ll get you a couple of towels. The doctor will be making his rounds in a few hours. He can update you more then.” With a quick swish of the bed covers, the nurse left.

  Connor took her hand resting on the bed, and held it in his. His fingers were a little rough, but warm and comforting as they rubbed her palm.

  “How are you feeling? You look a lot better today.”