Cosmic Forces: Book Three in The Jake Helman Files Series

by Gregory Lamberson

  Abby made a rolling motion with her cigarette-free hand. “One more time.”

  Jake repeated the command and set the phone in Abby’s open palm.

  The psychic narrowed her eyes as Marla’s voice came out of the speaker. She seemed to focus on every syllable. Then she handed the phone back to him. “She’s alive but scared. Terrified. I want to say she’s somewhere underground, but I’m not positive.”

  “Somewhere in this state?”

  “Very close to New York City.”

  Reichard’s mansion, Jake thought.

  Abby wagged one finger in the air. “I don’t think so. Somewhere more industrial.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Oh yes. Laurel didn’t waste your time sending you to me. I don’t know what those monsters are, but I do recognize their vibrations. Maybe she did, too. They’re very similar to vibrations that linger in this area.” She took a business card from the table and wrote on its back. “See this man before you leave. He shares my passion for local lore. Maybe he can tell you more than I have. Laurel knew I could direct you to someone like him. I’m like a road map that way.”

  Jake looked at the name Daniel Whitefish and an address on the back of the card. “Thank you.”

  “Don’t bother. I’m glad I met you. Not many people are lucky enough to glimpse the truth about what this world of ours is all about. Tell Laurel I said hello.”

  Jake stood. “I will.”

  Abby rose as well and led Jake through the house without her walker. “And you be careful. I get the feeling that the extra bit of soul you’re carrying around will get you into trouble as often as it will get you out of it.”

  “Thanks.”

  When Abby opened the door, Jake glimpsed a silver SUV parked out front. Abby spun around, facing him and blocking his view at the same time. He didn’t need to be psychic to see the panic in her eyes as she pushed him back.

  “Get ins—”

  The soft hiss of a silencer ripped the afternoon quiet, and Jake’s face turned wet and sticky even as Abby’s forehead opened up. He closed his eye and turned his head for only a second, and when he looked back, Abby’s eyes had rolled up in their sockets, and she collapsed into his arms, pulling him to the floor. A second shot whizzed above Jake’s head in the space where he had just stood, and he heard the bullet’s impact in the stairs behind him. He dragged Abby’s heavy body away from the open doorway. Looking at the golf ball—sized exit wound in her forehead, he knew she was dead even before her soul flickered and rose, illuminating the dark interior before fading.

  Outside, an engine roared and rubber peeled.

  Adrenaline pumping through his veins, Jake reached for his Glock and remembered he had left it at his office. He sprang to his feet and bolted through the doorway as the SUV sped away. He stomped across the wooden porch and sank into the grass along the walkway, then sprinted into the empty street.

  That bullet was meant for me.

  Abby had sensed the killer’s presence and had thrown herself into harm’s way to save Jake’s life.

  The SUV careened around the corner at the intersection ahead and disappeared.

  Damn it!

  Jake ran full speed after the vehicle, pumping his arms and legs, and stopped in the middle of the intersection as the SUV turned left at another intersection a block away. He looked from side to side, uncertain where he had parked his SUV, then ran back to Abby’s house and slowed to a stop when he saw a man standing on his porch two houses away.

  A woman exited her house across the street. Faces appeared in windows. More men and women emerged from their homes, all of them staring at Jake.

  The gunshots had been muffled by a silencer. Had they come out to investigate the sound of the SUV’s squealing tires?

  His body offered an involuntary shudder in response.

  No, they had sensed Abby’s murder and knew he bore responsibility for it. With an almost casual realization, he touched the cooling blood on his face, then wiped it with both hands. His palms and fingers came away slick with blood and spackled with pieces of brain and skull.

  Looking at the gray-haired woman on the porch next door, he said, “Call the police.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  A crowd of fifty people had gathered by the time the first Chautauqua County Sheriff’s Department patrol car arrived. Jake stood on Abby’s walk with his hands visible as two uniformed deputies got out of the vehicle. He had wiped as much of the gore off his face with his sleeve as he could. Holding his wallet, he watched the residents swarm around the deputies.

  One woman who wore a winter coat over a purple dress gesticulated in his direction.

  As the deputies approached him with grim faces, he heard additional sirens in the distance.

  “Jake Helman. I’m a private investigator from New York.” He offered his wallet.

  The lead deputy took it from him and examined his licenses. “This is New York,” he said. Both men were Caucasians who appeared to be his age.

  “New York City. I used to work homicide for NYPD. I had a consult with Ms. Fay and was leaving when someone shot her through the open doorway. She’s dead. The shooter took off in a silver SUV. There’s no one else in the house.”

  The deputy handed Jake’s wallet back to him. “Wait here.”

  Both men drew their weapons and entered the house. Jake saw them looking down where he knew Abby’s corpse lay.

  Another patrol car, followed by an unmarked sedan, pulled up to the scene. A moment later, an ambulance joined them. Two paramedics hurried into the house. The crowd swelled, and other members of the assembly appeared on the sidewalk up and down the street.

  The deputies emerged from the house, and soon four uniformed men and a balding man in a green suit surrounded Jake.

  “I’m Sheriff Gudgino,” the man in the suit said. He wore a star on his lapel.

  Jake introduced himself again and repeated what had occurred.

  “You just happened to be present when a sniper shot Miss Fay.”

  “That bullet was probably meant for me. Abby just got in the way.”

  “Why would someone want to take you out?”

  “Because I’m investigating the disappearance of Marla Madigan.”

  The sheriff let out a slow whistle.

  Jake sat alone in the interview room after the two detectives had left. The room felt cold and professional, the overhead fluorescent lights painting everything a subtle shade of green.

  One of the deputies who had first arrived on the scene opened the door. “Sheriff wants to see you.”

  Jake stood and followed the man through the Chautauqua County Sheriff’s Department to an office.

  Gudgino nodded at the chair before his desk. “Have a seat.”

  Jake made himself comfortable.

  “Quite an afternoon.”

  “For you and me both.”

  “We found two shell casings in the street outside Miss Fay’s house. The tire marks and statements from witnesses who saw that SUV driving away from the area confirm that part of your story, so I can’t really charge you with anything. But Lily Dale is a quiet hamlet. We’re not used to trouble over there. And we don’t like it when someone kills our psychics. Not only is it morally offensive, but it’s bad for tourism, of which there is precious little in this area. Most of those dollars get spent in Niagara Falls, with more and more going to Canada each year.”

  “I didn’t expect anything like this to happen. I had no idea I was being followed. If I could go back and change things, I would.” And I’d kill the son of a bitch who did this.

  Gudgino sat back in his chair. “You think whoever’s responsible for Mrs. Madigan’s disappearance sent a hired gun to put you out of commission?”

  “I can’t be sure, but that’s the only theory I have. I don’t believe Abby was the target.” No one just happened to decide to kill a friendly old psychic when I was visiting her.

  “Who do
you believe is behind these depraved acts?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I came here to find out.”

  Gudgino gestured at the air between them. “You came all the way from New York City to ask Miss Fay what happened to your mayor’s wife?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You don’t have psychics in the big city?”

  Don’t mention Laurel. “We’re lousy with them. And they’re lousy con artists. I knew Abby had helped out on a few murder cases. She seemed like my best bet.”

  “So you made an appointment to see her?”

  They’ll check her phone records and mine. “No, I just flew out here today.”

  “You must be a gambling man. A lot of Lily Dale’s psychics leave town until the summer season starts.”

  “I didn’t know that. I figured that even if she wasn’t here, I’d find someone more reliable than some tarot card reader in Greenwich Village.” He liked the lie even before the words came out of his mouth. Straight-arrow cops from upstate would view the village as a den of kooks.

  “Was she any help?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad. If your theory’s right, you got her killed for nothing.”

  No shit. “It looks that way.”

  “What will you do now?”

  “I have a flight booked for tomorrow morning. If you don’t need me to stay, I’ll head home to New York.”

  Gudgino smiled. “This is New York.”

  Jake returned the smile. Play the game. “Right. Sorry. No offense intended.”

  “And you’ll continue your search for the mayor’s wife?”

  “If I can. The FBI will be all over this by the time I get back.”

  “Well, we don’t need you here. We’ve got your statement and your personal information. You live in your office, eh? Sometimes I feel like I do, too. But I’m glad I got a home, where I can tip back some beers and watch TV. You go on back to your city, Mr. Helman. Try not to get anyone else killed. If we catch Miss Fay’s killer, I’ll see you when you return to testify. But something tells me that triggerman is already a hundred miles from here.”

  Jake stood. “Thanks for your hospitality.”

  “Oh, it wasn’t hospitality. Just professionalism. I run a professional department. You might want to sit back down, though. I have someone on hold who has been waiting to speak to you.”

  Jake sat.

  Gudgino pressed a button on his telephone. “Thanks for waiting, Lieutenant. Mr. Helman’s right here. I have you on speakerphone.”

  “Helman?” Jake recognized Geoghegan’s voice.

  On hold, my ass. He heard the entire conversation. “Present.”

  “I thought I told you not to leave town.”

  “Town is a relevant term. Everyone keeps telling me I’m still in New York, so this little day trip never really felt like I’d left home.”

  “What the hell are you doing upstate?”

  “Looking for Marla Madigan.” He tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “It doesn’t sound like you found her, but someone sure found you.”

  “They missed, unfortunately for Abby Fay.”

  “You’re not a very hard man to find; just follow the bodies. But you sure seem like a hard man to kill. This is at least the second time you dodged an assassination attempt.”

  You don’t know the half of it. “Has Marla turned up?”

  “Not yet. I’m beginning to think she won’t. Why don’t you come home so we can compare notes?”

  “I’ll be home tomorrow morning. Maybe we can do lunch.”

  “You have my number. No funny business. Come straight back to our favorite city. No side trips.”

  “I’ve done enough sightseeing, Teddy.”

  Sitting in the rental car, Jake programmed the address Abby had given him into the GPS. Twenty minutes later, he knew he had reached the Chautauqua reservation when he passed an enormous wood carving of an Indian, complete with moccasins and feathered headdress, standing with one hand raised as if saying, “How?”

  He crossed the reservation border and saw a complex of nondescript one-story buildings surrounding gas pumps. A simple sign read, “Gas and Cigarettes—Cheap.” Several cars waited in line for the pumps, so he supposed there was truth in advertising. He followed the road past a tribal police department and a volunteer fire department and then school grounds. Teenagers loitered outside the brick building, their fashions as current as those he had seen in Manhattan.

  The GPS’s female voice guided him along three connecting roads into a neighborhood consisting primarily of ranch houses: a slice of small town, USA that just happened to be located on an Indian reservation. Numerous men and women tended to their yards and gutters. Jake located the address he sought, which belonged to a white ranch house with a minivan and a Chevy Impala parked in the driveway.

  After knocking on the door, he waited for a minute before an attractive woman with straight black hair and a wide nose stood before him, a chubby infant cradled in her arms.

  “Yes?” the woman said, surprise in her voice.

  “I’m looking for Daniel Whitefish.”

  She eyed him with suspicion. “Just a minute.” Leaving the door half open, she withdrew inside.

  Jake glimpsed a cartoon playing on a color TV.

  A moment later, a short man wearing glasses, his black hair pulled back into a ponytail, opened the door the rest of the way. “I’m Daniel.”

  “My name’s Jake Helman. I’m a private investigator from New York . . . City. Did you hear the news about Abby Fay?”

  Daniel frowned. “Yeah, I did.”

  “I was with her when she was murdered. I just spent three hours at the Chautauqua County Sheriff’s Department in May-ville. Can I come in?”

  Daniel stared at Jake, as if trying to read him.

  “I came to Abby for help on a case I’m working on. She pointed me in your direction.”

  “Me?” Daniel glanced behind him. “I’m a family man. If your case got Abby killed, I don’t want you anywhere near my wife and child. We can talk right here.”

  Smart man. “I don’t care where we talk. I’d just like a few minutes of your time. Then I’ll be on my way, and you’ll never hear from me again.”

  Daniel stepped outside and closed the door behind him. “Abby was a good woman. Who would kill her?”

  “Someone who meant to kill me. I think she sensed what was about to happen. She pushed me out of the way when she could have saved herself.”

  “Did you know her long?”

  “I never met her before today.”

  “But she was willing to die for you?”

  Jake nodded.

  “Then this case of yours must be pretty important. Why did she give you my name?”

  “That’s what I’m here to figure out. Don’t you . . . sense anything about me?”

  Daniel grunted. “I’m not a psychic or a shaman or anything remotely connected to the stuff Abby was into. I teach cultural studies at Buff State. I don’t know anything that could possibly be worth getting killed over. Why don’t you tell me about this case?”

  “The New York City mayor’s wife disappeared.”

  “I heard something about that.”

  “She was my client. She hired me to dig up some dirt on her husband. While I was doing my job, she disappeared. I feel obligated to find her.”

  “And that brought you to Abby?”

  “Let me tell you something I didn’t tell your sheriff.”

  “He isn’t my sheriff.”

  “During my investigation, I saw something unnatural. Something most people would find impossible to believe exists.”

  “You’ve got my interest.”

  “Without going into too much detail, I saw a monster. Some sort of half man, half fish. It walked erect, like you and me, and it wore a cloak. But I saw that thing up close. I touched it. I smelled it. And there’s no way on earth it was human. Worse, I know there are more of them
.”

  Daniel raised his eyebrows, then let out a laugh. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to laugh under the circumstances, but Abby knows I’m a man of science. I’m interested in my culture’s myths and legends but purely from a historical perspective. I don’t believe in the supernatural.”

  Jake felt himself turning red. He’d always expected someone to laugh at him someday. Maybe I didn’t go about this the right way. “You don’t have to believe in the supernatural. You don’t have to believe me. But Abby believed you were the only person who could help me. She said there’s a concentrated power in this state, possibly in this area. Is there anything you can tell me about any local legends?”

  “Between Niagara Falls and Lily Dale, there are a lot of ghost stories around here.”

  “You’re thinking in terms that are too general. Try something that only you—of all the people Abby knew—would know. Call me guilty of racial stereotyping, but to me that suggests something to do with Native American mythology. Are there any stories of monsters from this area that wouldn’t be common knowledge?”

  Daniel’s expression grew serious. “Wait here.”

  Jake watched the man go inside, and then he faced a closed door. He glanced around the neighborhood. The sun had started to set.

  When Daniel emerged from the house, he wore a denim jacket and carried a plastic garbage bag stuffed one-quarter full. “We’ll take my car.”

  Daniel tuned the radio in his Impala to a sports station as he drove Jake across the reservation. They circled a park, and Jake saw the sun close to the gray surface of Lake Erie, the sky around it pink. He saw Indians on the beach, which appeared to be rocky and strewn with shale. They drove along a grassy stretch covered with picnic tables, the trees and bushes obscuring Jake’s view of the lake. The road angled upward, taking them above the lake’s water level.

  Daniel parked in an asphalt lot near a playground, and they got out.

  “You have a camera?”

  “I never go anywhere without one.”

  “Then follow me.”