a Touch of Ice

by L. j. Charles

  “May I come in?” I quickly scanned the room. Jayne was nowhere to be seen.

  “Yeah. Sure. Which do you prefer, Everly or El?” he asked, folding the paper and putting it aside.

  “Both are fine. My parents called me Everly, but in high school, El was easier. Not so unusual. I like the specs.”

  He reached up, slid them down his nose. “Sexy, right?”

  “Very.”

  I eased into the chair next to his bed. Started to reach for his hand, stopped halfway. Privacy, El. He deserves some privacy. “I’ve been worried. How much do you remember about the abduction?”

  His face went blank. Damn. Not what I meant to say.

  I tried a smile. “Curiosity. It seems to go crazy whenever I’m around you. Things just come out, and…let me start over. Hi, Mitch. How are you feeling this morning?”

  He relaxed into the fluffy stack of pillows. “Some bumps, bruises, and a headache. I’m good to go as soon as the doc signs me out. ”

  He raised a perfectly arched eyebrow at me. “Jayne said you’ve been wandering around my house.”

  I wanted to deny it.

  “Umm, yes. Apparently she knew you’d hired Violet to investigate Tony’s death, and piggy-backed on it when you went missing.” My nerves were quivering and I couldn’t sit still. What if he hated that I’d been in his house. Without his express invitation? I stood, paced to the door and back.

  “I’m okay with it. You can sit, relax.”

  I sat and the words spilled out. “Do you remember what happened? Why did Shaved Head and Pudgy Pick-Lock abduct you? Why were they after you? Where did they take you? And most important, what the heck were you thinking to be hanging out on the deck with bad guys after you?”

  Mitch froze. Stared at me. “What? How?” His lips barely moved.

  My mind raced back through the questions that had tumbled out. Questions I hadn’t paid any attention to. That surprise session with Shelly must have killed my brain. Damn. Guilt weighed heavy in my chest. I’d followed my fingers where I had no business going, into a place I should never have known about, even if I did have the best of intentions.

  He stiffened, picked up the phone, started to dial. “How did you know…?”

  “I—”

  “Give me Adam Stone.” Mitch’s voice held a wary edge that skittered along my nerves.

  I didn’t plan it. Just reached over and unplugged the phone.

  “I can explain, really.” I went back to pacing.

  There must have been a convincing plea in my tone because he set the phone down without trying to plug it in. “Is this about the psychic thing you have going on?”

  “Um, sort of. Yeah, it is.” Not exactly, but who was I to quibble over details? “I have a…quirk. I was born with it, and it’s a part of me, not good or bad.” I stopped, dragging in a breath.

  Mitch stared at me, blinked, and then exploded. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  The monitor attached to Mitch let out an insistent beep. I glanced at the door, prepared to make a run for it if the entire hospital staff stormed into his room with a crash cart.

  I hurried to explain—anything to calm him down and stop the beeping. “When I touch things, I see images. Images of people, of things that have happened or are going to happen, it depends on the situation. It’s why I don’t touch things. With my fingers. Most of the time.” I held my hands out to him, palms up.

  The beeping stopped. He slammed his glasses back on his nose, looked me up and down, then stared at my hands, all the usual warmth absent from his luscious brown eyes. I curled my fingers into light fists.

  This wasn’t going well. If the red creeping up his neck was any indication, there was going to be more beeping.

  I tried again.

  “Just calm down and I’ll tell you everything that happened after we arrived at your house on Sunday morning.” My words were crisp and professional. Good to know I can pull it together when my life is in danger. And there was no doubt Mitch looked like he wanted to murder me. At least the red staining his face had faded to a dull pink.

  I settled into the chair, clasped my hands to keep them out of trouble, and explained every detail of my part in our unauthorized excursion. I skipped over the illegal visit Violet and I made to Tony’s house, and hoped Mitch didn’t notice the gaps.

  By the end of my narration, he’d bent his knees and pushed his body tight against the back of the bed, his hands braced on the mattress. “Are you trying to tell me you touched the railing on my deck and saw that bald bastard beating the crap out of me?”

  “Well, yes.”

  He leaned forward, pointed a finger at me. “That’s not how psychics typically work. I hung out with them for months, and no one ever mentioned a thing about touching things. Can you give me a reason, any logical reason why I shouldn’t call Adam Stone and have you arrested?”

  I bristled, my spine ramrod straight. “No. Apparently the truth doesn’t work for you. And the thing is, I’m not psychic. Just different.”

  He waved me off. “Surely you don’t think all that red hair and the big, blue eyes are enough to make me believe this shit you’re coming up with.”

  My fists clenched around the edge of the chair, and I bit down on my tongue. Now was not the time to engage in violent behavior.

  Mitch shook his head, sat back, and scowled at me. “I thought better of you than that. Did you set me up? Knock me down at the beach as part of some scheme? Are you taking drugs, delusional? Maybe we can get you moved up to the psych ward—but not before Stone has a go at finding the truth.” He reached for the phone again. Not that an unplugged phone would do him much good.

  Mention of the psych ward brought me right up out of the chair. “Listen, you pig-headed, sorry excuse for a photographer, I told you the truth.” I reached out and touched his hand. He jerked it away, but not before I had the images I needed.

  “When you woke up this morning, Jayne was sitting in that chair.” I pointed to the one next to the head of his bed. “I got an image of the nurse, plump with gray hair, giving you a clean gown and nodding toward the bathroom. The next image was of you getting in a wheelchair and arriving in radiology. Does that sound anything like how your morning went?”

  He smirked. “Good guesses, El. Just about anybody could have come up with that list. Look, I get it. You believe you have—” he wiggled his eyebrows, “—special non-psychic powers. Have you gotten any help for this? Seen anyone who specializes in mental illness?”

  To my credit, I didn’t hit him. I did, however, reach out and touch the bed. Then with detached calm, I continued. “Jayne sat here last night and cried. It was right after you spoke to her for the first time since your disappearance.” My voice gentled. “That’s not something I would have guessed, because the Jayne I know does not cry; she badgers.”

  The silence was deafening. Mitch eventually looked at me. “Go. Sit. Over there.” He pointed to the chair against the wall, far away from him. “You’re not—”

  “Sane?” I piped in helpfully as I moved across the room.

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I need some aspirin. Probably a beer. You’re damn scary, El.”

  Aspirin and a beer. My heart thudded hard against my breastbone, the pain sharp. How simple for him to eliminate me from his life.

  I pushed the door open, turned to face him. “Bye, Mitch.”

  Ten

  I escaped to the safety of my Bug just as tears slipped down my cheeks and the frustrated scream that had been clawing at my throat escaped. A couple good swipes at the steering wheel and I felt better. No wonder I hadn’t dated anyone for over a year. I blew my nose, started the engine, and gave an apologetic pat to the dashboard.

  Home. Safe. I pulled on my baggiest blue jeans and a soft, scoop-necked shirt. The strappy sandals stayed. Sexy shoes rival chocolate for healing a battered heart—and calming down a pissed off redhead.

  The first bite of Dublin Mudslide melted on my
tongue, rich chocolate spread across my palate and I inhaled a sweet, calming breath. Oh, yeah. Much better. I finished the entire carton with a satisfied lip-lick and promised myself a healthy dinner. Or not.

  After I sent the last of my afternoon clients on their way, I picked up paper and pen with the intention of facing my own demons. I needed closure on my confrontation with Mitch, and writing a letter to myself from his perspective would be a good way to wrap things up, as well as keep me true to my rule of applying client assignments to my life. When I finished, I dropped it in the mailbox for pick up. Somehow, it seemed necessary to get it out of the house before I moved on to the next step. Figuring out why Tony was murdered.

  It wasn’t like I had a choice—not after seeing the images of his death. Not after he sent them to me. That was the biggie. Creepy as it was, it established a bond between us and I needed to honor that. To stand for him. It would be easier if I had a clue what to look for, but the universe had kicked me out of my hermit-hood, and since I didn’t want the dawn wake-up-in-a-cold-sweat phenomena to start again, I’d have to trust in divine intervention for answers.

  The killing I’d witnessed wasn’t professional (according to television). Scary yes, but truth: Shaved Head and Pudgy were not the elite of the criminal set, so it had to be something personal, something they wanted to take care of themselves. I jotted down a few questions, hoping to clear my head some. What did Tony know? Whose toes was he stepping on? Why didn’t he fight back?

  From the storyboard, I made another list: Diamonds, Cats, New York. It was clear that the picture of the camera and the surrounding storm had to do with the photographs and subsequent events.

  And I knew exactly what I had to do next.

  The timing was perfect. Tony’s neighborhood would be settled in for the night, too comfortable to notice me checking out the area. I slipped into the nifty black outfit that was becoming an indispensable part of my wardrobe. It helped to calm my nerves, because hey, I didn’t have a plan per se, just thought I’d drive around Tony’s neighborhood and see if anything caught my attention.

  Not that I was planning to break into his house again. Really I wasn’t. For one thing, Violet refused to teach me how to use those clever little tools. Then there was the illegal thing. But mostly it was because no one in their right mind would expose said mind to that kind of abuse a second time. I did, however, want to stroll around the neighborhood, and inconspicuously touch anything that registered on my intuitive radar.

  The drive was a flash of slow motion that ended with me parking in the hotel lot before I realized I’d covered the distance across town. I got out of the car, locked it, and made my way across the lot. This was a stupid idea, El. Go home where you belong. You should go back to hiding from life and let Violet handle this. She’s the PI, not you. I’d about talked myself into giving up, but stopped in front of Tony’s house, bent down—ostensibly to tie my shoe—and touched the sidewalk.

  My fingers didn’t find anything useful—too much scattered input for a clear image of anything to register in my mind’s eye. I shook out my fingers and tucked my hands in my back pockets. Stupid. This was such a bad idea, but now I was too embarrassed to just give up. I strolled along the walkway to the front door, hoping that to any casual observer it looked like I was “visiting.” I covered my fingers with the edge of my t-shirt and brushed them against the wood.

  Something? The outline of an image, maybe? I tried again, letting my fingertips slide around the doorknob. There. Shadows began to form in my mind, not clear, but I could make out the body shapes of Shaved Head and Pudgy. And then it snapped into view: a clear picture of Tony’s expression when he answered the door. Not welcoming, but not surprised either. He’d expected these guys, but for just an instant fear burned behind his eyes. Looked like he knew there were possible consequences to letting them into his house.

  Why’d he let them in? The need to know was gnawing at my stomach. I rubbed the sore spot on my abdomen while I circled to the side of the house, casually glancing in the windows, just wondering if anyone was home. Right. Like I’m any kind of actress.

  Tony’s bedroom window loomed on my left. Don’t know how I knew it was his bedroom, or why I couldn’t take another step. It was like running into a steel door. I could not move. I had to get into that room. The need beat in my brain, timed to the thuds of my heartbeats.

  Whoa.

  Nope. No way was I breaking into Tony’s house again. Aliens had obviously taken over my common sense. I gently touched the window. No images popped up, so I did the next best thing—shuffled common sense into the oblivion of my subconscious. Whatever evil force had taken possession of me zipped into movement. I was getting in that bedroom one way or another. And if I got caught…well, I’d blame it on the aliens. Made more sense than the truth.

  From the break-in with Violet, I knew the house didn’t have a security system, so it wouldn’t set off an alarm if I pried the window open. I pushed up against the sash. Futile hope pounded in my chest that it would open easily, that Tony didn’t bother to lock his windows. A grating, creaking sound cut through the quiet of the night, skittered along my nerves, and had me sinking into the shadows beneath the window. I listened for curious neighbors, holding my breath until it burned to escape from my lungs.

  Quiet. Except for the chattering of my teeth.

  Crooking my head, I eyed the window. The musty, closed-in odor of Tony’s house filtered down, gagging me. I ruthlessly squashed all thoughts of spewing my dinner and focused on the window. It had gotten stuck part way up, but I guesstimated there was enough room for me to slide through without causing any serious damage to delicate body parts. Note to self: cut down on the chocolate consumption if you intend to pursue a life of crime.

  I scanned the area. No barking dogs. No traffic. Not even the sound of a distant television drifted through the night, so I went with it, got on with the entering now that I’d done the breaking.

  The window ledge angled enough so I was able to ease my body over the sill without the use of gymnastics. I eyeballed the room, taking mental notes on what to touch, my heart doing double back-flips in my chest. I avoided the bed. Nothing there I wanted to know anything about. Ever.

  My gaze came to rest on a table sitting along the far wall. I tiptoed toward it, closed my eyes, and opened to any vibes it gave off. Fear slammed into me, snaked through my body, and left behind watery knees and lungs struggling for oxygen. Okay, then. A frantic couple of minutes of later, when my ability to think kicked in, I realized this was right. Perfect. I recognized the texture, the nuances of my fear. It had been an intimate part of my nightmares and the visions. It led me to Mitch. And it led me here.

  I wrapped my fingers in the hem of my shirt again and touched the table. The image of a diagram, like a map but with times and dates as well as addresses filled my head. I stood silent, eyes closed, soaking up the imprint. No way could I take a chance on losing this one. Not until I’d had a chance to get home and draw it out with paper and pencil. I stayed there a long time, committing the image to memory even though my nerves were beginning to twitch. I ignored them.

  Until I heard the front door open. Scuffling. Not a stealthy entrance. I froze, blood pooling in ice cubes that chilled my body and held me rooted to the floor.

  I had to make like a shadow and disappear. Fast.

  Footsteps. But no voices. Just one person, then?

  “Hey, gloves, dickhead. Then hit the bedroom. Boss says we don’t find that diagram, we’ll be fish bait.” Male voice. Coarse. So, more than one person.

  A scream tore at my throat, fighting to get free. Not now. Scream later, run now.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  I whirled to face the window.

  A shadow crossed the room, and an unholy sound clawed at the back of my throat. I clamped my hands over my mouth. Quiet, El. Quiet.

  I darted to the window, tripped. Sirens crashed through the quiet and smothered the sound of my body hitting the
floor. Ugh. No telling what was on this floor. My fingers picked up a bunch of images, all too garbled to sort into useful images. Move, El. Get the hell out of here!

  Adrenaline poured through my veins, and I fought the wild need to crash through the window and escape.

  Yelling came from down the hall, but I couldn’t make out the words through the Doppler effect of the sirens. The noise ricocheted inside my skull and left a stabbing pain behind.

  I crawled—the scent of my fear stinging my nostrils—reached the window in seconds, pulled myself up, and peeked over the sill.

  Had someone seen me? Or them? Called the cops?

  I peered into the night, searching the dark for one of the killers.

  A wind had come up and shadows danced around the yard with wild abandon. No way to tell if someone lurked in the dark or not. A huge branch attached to the neighbor’s oak tree dipped in the wind. The shadow crawled over my body, and evil closed in around me.

  I couldn’t wait any longer. Whoever was in the house was right there. Behind me. Dropping out of the window, I landed with a thud, banged my knee, and stashed the pain in the back of my mind where it could commiserate with my piercing headache. Nothing left for it but to stretch up, slam the window shut, and run.

  It didn’t take more than a few seconds before I realized there were fire trucks speeding by on the cross-street a block away. Damn. No help there. Why the hell didn’t I think before I rushed head-long into criminal pursuits?

  I reached the car, no one chasing me. That I knew about, anyway. I burned rubber getting out of there, slammed on the brakes when I hit my driveway, pulled off my sweat-drenched clothes as soon as I’d locked the front door behind me, and hung out in the shower until the shaking stopped.