Charmed to Death

by Shirley Damsgaard

  “You must’ve read my mind—”

  “What?” I asked, surprised.

  “Hey, it’s just an expression,” he said, looking puzzled. “I’d planned on calling you. Seems the body you found in the ditch was another one of your friends, Gus Pike. Care to explain here or do you want to accompany me to Bill’s office?”

  I scanned his face before I answered and felt nervous perspiration soak my shirt. Well, at least he doesn’t have his mirrored sunglasses on. Good. I need to see his eyes.

  “Here. I’ll explain here. Let’s go inside,” I said, moving toward the greenhouse.

  Comacho followed me into the greenhouse. Shoving my hands in my back pockets to keep from fidgeting, my eyes traveled over Abby’s dead plants while I tried to think of a way to begin.

  He scuffed the floor with his toe. “Bill told me about the break-in and gave me an update on her condition. I’m sorry. She’s a nice lady.”

  “Yes, she is. It’s for her sake I’ve decided to confide in you. Things are spinning out of control and it has to stop. It’s too late to save Gus. But before someone else gets hurt…” I trailed off, letting my gaze travel over Comacho’s face. Taking my hands out of my pockets, I continued. “I’m going to ask you not to say anything till I’m finished, okay?”

  “Okay,” he answered, perplexed.

  God, this is going to be hard. Taking a deep breath, I stared directly into Comacho’s eyes. “I’m a psychic.”

  “What?” His eyes widened in surprise.

  I glared at him. “I asked you not to say anything. Talking about my talent isn’t the easiest thing in the world for me. And I need you to listen.”

  “Sorry.”

  Breathing deeply, I started again. “Five years ago, when I came to the police station to report Brian missing, I knew he was already dead. I’d seen the murder. I’d hoped I was wrong, but…” I felt the tears start to gather in the corner of my eyes and I squeezed the bridge of my nose. “Anyway, I felt so guilty that I hadn’t been able to save him, hadn’t had the vision in time to help. The guilt sent me over the edge and I had my breakdown.” The words came out in a rush. “I rejected my gift until last fall when Rick Delaney came to Summerset, investigating the drug ring. I was pulled into the situation, kicking and screaming all the way. It was my gift that led me to make the connection between Adam Hoffman and the drug lab. And I used my gift to give Rick and me time to escape.”

  “I won’t ask you how right now. You can explain later. What does your ‘gift’ have to do with this situation?”

  “It wasn’t the smell that drew me to the ditch. I felt death. I did trip when I found the bloated pig. While I was lying there, I saw what happened to Gus.”

  “Really?”

  “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  He shook his head. “It’s hard to swallow. I deal in facts, not ‘visions.’”

  “You want facts? The killer dresses all in black, he’s dark, dark hair, dark eyes. He carved a five-pointed star on Brian’s forehead—and Gus’s. Did they find the star on Gus’s forehead or was the body too badly burned?”

  He looked surprised. “How did you…Never mind, go on.”

  “He uses an unusual weapon. It’s a dagger. I could draw it for you,” I said, folding my arms.

  Comacho stared at me, not answering.

  This isn’t going well. I searched my mind to come up with something to convince him I was telling the truth.

  “Okay, still don’t believe me.” I took a deep breath. “The Harvester captures his victim and takes him to a special place, a barn.”

  “Did you ‘see’ where this barn is?”

  “No, but the walls and floor are lined with plastic. Makes the cleanup easier. He keeps his victim chained to a cot with manacles. Did any of the bodies found in other states have bruising around the wrists?”

  “How about residue from duct tape around the wrists and ankles? It prevents them from struggling.”

  He tossed his head. “You could be guessing.”

  “Okay. He subdues the victims by using a rag with some chemical sprayed on it.”

  “How did you know about the rag?”

  I had his attention now.

  “I told you, I’m a psychic.”

  “Oh yeah? How do you do at Lotto numbers?”

  His sarcasm made me angry. “You don’t get it, do you, Comacho? I’m trying to help you.”

  “Even if you are a psychic, nothing you’ve told me so far is much help.”

  Time to drop the bomb.

  “Brian wasn’t killed by the Harvester, the killer operating in the Midwest.”

  “Okay, that’s it,” he said, taking an angry step toward me. “You’re going with me to Bill’s office. You obviously know something, but what you’re feeding me now is the biggest load of BS I’ve ever heard in my life.”

  I watched, my palms sweating, while Comacho pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket and purposefully strode toward me.

  Crap! He was going to arrest me.

  Twenty-Three

  “Wait,” I said, holding up my hand to stop him. “Did Brian have tape residue around his wrists? Did the bodies in other states have the five-pointed star on their foreheads?”

  Comacho stopped, listening.

  Encouraged, I continued. “Gus died before the killer could murder him. I think, of a heart attack—”

  “No smoke in the lungs,” Comacho mumbled.

  “What?”

  “Keep talking.”

  “He was angry at being cheated. He got something from the house, drenched the body, and set it on fire.”

  “Okay,” he said, nodding his head. “I’ll play along. If Brian and Gus weren’t victims of the Harvester, who killed them—and why? Can you answer that one, Ms. Psychic?”

  “No,” I answered softly.

  “What? I didn’t hear you?”

  I kicked a broken pot lying by my foot and sent it spinning across the floor. “I said ‘no.’ Don’t you think if I did, I’d tell you? All I know is the reason has something to do with me.” I sighed deeply. “And I’m scared, Comacho. I don’t want anyone else close to me to die.”

  God, it took a lot to admit to him how scared I was. I hate being weak, hate being vulnerable. So much for my pride. It hung about me in shreds now.

  Comacho must’ve believed I was scared. He looked a little sympathetic.

  “Look,” he said and looked down at the handcuffs in his hand. “What you’re telling me is hard to swallow. Brian Mitchell’s death fit the M.O. of the Harvester—”

  “Not quite,” I interrupted. “The other bodies didn’t have a star on them, did they?”

  “Well, no.”

  “You didn’t find any tape residue, did you?”

  “No.”

  I pressed my advantage. “You’ve got to believe me. It’s another killer. I don’t know what his motive is and I don’t know what it has to do with me—yet. But I do know he’s still in Summerset.”

  “How do you know that?” he asked, staring at me.

  Not answering, I met his stare with confidence.

  “Okay, okay, let me suspend my doubts for a minute and rephrase that remark. How or where did you see him? In a vision? Or did you actually see him in person?”

  “Both.”

  “Both?” His eyebrows shot up.

  “Look, explaining how I saw him is kind of hard without sounding crazy at the same time.”

  “Like what you’ve told me so far doesn’t sound crazy?” he scoffed.

  I gave him a steely look. “You know, I didn’t have to tell you anything. I could’ve sat back and let you muddle through this investigation on your own.”

  “I take exception to the word muddle.”

  “What else would you call it? It’s been five years since Brian was killed? And you still haven’t caught his killer. I’d think you’d be grateful for new information.”

  “Give me information I can use to catch him and I w
ill be,” he said. “Nothing you’ve told me does that.”

  “I don’t have any more information, but I will. I seem to have this weird mental connection with him. He’s in my dreams, but I haven’t seen his face. I think I am able to sense him, though. The other night, during the thunderstorm, I caught a glimpse of someone standing across the street from my house. I know it was him.”

  “He’s watching you?”

  “Yes. And I sense he’s getting ready to make some kind of contact with me. There’s a reason he’s picked me and it’s the reason Brian and Gus died.”

  “Yeah, I came to that conclusion too.”

  “Do you know why he’s focused on me?”

  “No. I don’t know if I believe we have two different killers, but it doesn’t matter how many there are.” He stared off into space, thinking. “You’re some sort of link to a killer. Right now the only link. And whether or not you’re psychic…” His voice trailed off, and he tossed his hand in the air.

  “Does that mean you’ll let me help you find him?”

  “No, I don’t work with civilians.”

  “But you said I’m a link?”

  “That doesn’t mean I’m going to let you interfere with the investigation. It means we’ll monitor you, watch your house, watch who approaches you,” he said, slipping the handcuffs back in his pocket.

  “You’ll have me tailed?”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s not acceptable. I refuse to cooperate,” I said stubbornly.

  He made a derisive sound. “Did I indicate you had a choice?”

  I glared at him. “There are always choices, Comacho. You have me tailed and I’ll figure out a way to lose them. You watch my house and I’ll disappear.”

  “Oh, not only are you psychic, but you’re a magician too, huh?”

  “Ahh, well not exactly,” I said, looking away.

  “What do you mean, ‘not exactly’?” he asked.

  I looked back over at him. “Umm—let’s just call it a certain sensitivity to the world around me, okay?”

  “What in the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Never mind, if I find out you need to know, I’ll explain.”

  “The same way you’ve explained about being a psychic?”

  “You still don’t believe me, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Give me your hand.”

  “What?”

  I crossed the distance between us and stood right in front of him. Holding out my hand, I repeated, “Give me your hand.”

  Reluctantly he extended his hand.

  “No, your right hand.”

  He switched hands.

  Taking his right hand in my left, I placed my right hand over our joined hands while my eyelids drifted shut.

  I felt Comacho’s energy seeping through the cracks in the wall around his mind. Wow, reading him won’t be easy. He has a lot of resistance. I went deeper in my mind, strengthening the link between us.

  Incomplete images of his life and his thoughts floated through the wall like pictures moving at a rapid pace across a movie screen. Comacho questioning me five years ago. A soldier in a hot desert. A little dark-haired girl, chasing a red balloon across the park. A young Comacho, in a shiny blue uniform, facing down a man holding a gun. A woman saying good-bye.

  I released his hand quickly. His thoughts of the woman were too private for me to intrude. Shaking my head to clear the vision, I looked up at Comacho.

  His face wore a stunned expression.

  Comacho’s appearance didn’t surprise me—reading someone always scrambles their brain a little. I gave him a moment to collect himself before I spoke.

  “There’s a young girl you’re fond of, a close relative, daughter, maybe. She’s about four and she was chasing a red balloon across the park. You watched, laughing.”

  “My niece—last Sunday—I took her to the park. Her balloon got away from her. How did you know?”

  “I read your thoughts. By the way, you have quite a wall up around your mind and you’re hard to read. But do you believe me now?”

  He ran his fingers through his hair. “I don’t know. This is strange.” Comacho’s mouth tightened and he exhaled a long breath. “Okay, I’ll think about what you’ve told me.”

  “You’ll let me help?”

  “I didn’t say help; I said I’d think about it.” He squinted and looked at me sternly. “But if you get yourself killed, don’t blame me,” he said.

  “I won’t, I promise,” I said, relief bubbling inside me.

  Yes. He agreed. He wasn’t going to lock me up or put a call in to the nearest psych ward. And I was, at last, taking some action to find the killer. Joining forces with Comacho would work, it had to work.

  “Right now, I’m going back to the hospital to check on Abby, but may I call you later? There’s something I want to try. It might help me see the killer more clearly,” I said.

  Comacho rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “If I weren’t desperate to find this guy, I’d…” He looked back at me and shook his head. Reaching in his pocket, he handed me his card. “Yeah, call me. My cell number’s on this.”

  “Umm. I’d appreciate if you didn’t share this information with Bill,” I said, taking the card. “It would be sure to leak out somehow and I don’t want the whole town to know I’m psychic. I have enough problems without that.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I’m not telling anyone about you.”

  As I walked away, I looked over my shoulder at him.

  “One last thing. About what I saw in your mind—I think you have a nice butt too, Comacho.”

  Twenty-Four

  After leaving Comacho, I went to the hospital to check on Abby. The room was empty, except for Abby lying quietly in the bed.

  I stood over the bed and looked down at her while I took her hand in mine. The hand felt frail and lifeless as I smoothed the skin over fragile bones.

  “You’re still in there, aren’t you, Abby?” I asked, staring at her and stroking her hand. “I felt you. I heard your voice. I almost did it. Almost went against everything you’ve taught me.”

  I stopped talking and, closing my eyes, I remembered the power I’d felt there on the hilltop. My hand holding Abby’s tingled with the memory.

  “I’ve never felt anything like it. The energy was like a beast pulling at its chain. It would’ve been so easy to slip that chain, Abby. Set the beast loose to find the evil. Find justice for you and Brian. But it would’ve been wrong. I would have been using my gift for my own purpose.” A tear snaked down my cheek. “Thank you for stopping me.”

  Suddenly I felt a slight pressure from her fingers. She was trying to squeeze my hand.

  Before I reacted, the door swung wide and a nurse walked into the room.

  “She’s waking up,” I said, whirling away from the bed toward the nurse. “She tried to squeeze my hand.”

  “I’ll get a doctor,” she said and hurried from the room, her rubber soles squeaking on the polished tile.

  Moments later she was back, accompanied by Abby’s doctor.

  I stepped aside when the doctor approached the bed.

  “She squeezed my hand,” I said, not able to keep the excitement out of my voice.

  “Well, let’s take a look,” he said, putting his stethoscope in his ears. “It could’ve been an involuntary response, but we’ll see.”

  I stood silently while he examined Abby.

  “Vitals are good,” he said and took Abby’s hand in his. “Abby can you hear me? Abby, squeeze my hand.”

  Nothing. No movement at all.

  The doctor leaned closer. “Abby, squeeze my hand.”

  My fingers curled in tight fists while I waited and watched. No response and the disappointment rushed through me.

  The doctor shook his head slowly. “Sorry,” he said. “But her heart’s strong and her lungs are clear, which is good. We’ll continue to keep a close eye on her condition.”

  I numbly w
atched Abby, while the doctor moved toward the door of the silent room.

  A moan broke the silence, a moan that came from Abby.

  The doctor heard the sound, too, and returned to Abby’s bedside. “Abby, can you hear me?” he asked in a voice that echoed in the quiet.

  Abby’s eyes shot open, as if startled, but they quickly shut again.

  “Great. She’s showing response to loud noises,” he said, smiling. Picking up Abby’s hand, he pinched the end of her finger.

  Her hand jerked back and the doctor’s smile grew wider.

  “Good motor response.” He turned to the nurse. “Her level of responsiveness is increasing.”

  I almost fell to my knees in relief, but his next words brought me out of it.

  “She’s not out of danger yet. And we have no idea how much brain damage there might be. But the signs indicate she’s waking up.”

  “But the prognosis is good?” I asked desperately.

  The doctor gave me a kind look. “The prognosis is positive.”

  The door glided open and my mother walked in.

  “Mom,” I said and hurried over to her. “Abby squeezed my hand and opened her eyes for a second.”

  My mother wrapped her arms around me in a big hug. “Thank God.” Releasing me, she patted my face and smiled.

  “Now, Mrs. Jensen,” the doctor said, holding up his hand, “as I explained to your daughter, her responses are a good indication she’s waking up, but until she does—”

  “I understand, Doctor,” Mother broke in, “but her condition is better than it was twenty-four hours ago?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we’ll focus on that for now.”

  “I don’t want you to expect too much or have any false hopes,” he said cautiously.

  “We won’t.”

  The doctor pursed his lips and nodded while he moved toward the door. “Good.”

  The nurse followed him, but stopped at the door. Reaching in her pocket, she pulled out an ivory envelope and held it out to me. “I found this laying on the floor near the door while you were both out. I imagine one of the aides dropped it when she brought your grandmother’s flowers in.”