“What else did she tell you?”
“She said I was going to move. Which I did. That I’ll be moving again. Which I am.”
“Most people move.”
Sophie stopped at a red light and turned to stare at Robbi. “She also said a good friend of mine would have an accident and land in the hospital.”
Robbi felt a chill skip down her spine.
“What did you tell her about me?”
“Not a thing. Why would I—hey, little one,” she said quietly, “paranoia doesn’t become you.”
They rode in silence the rest of the way. Sophie pulled to the curb at a large modem apartment complex and shut off the engine. The car backfired, then died.
“Here?” Robbi asked, surprised.
“What did you expect? A tent? A sideshow wagon? Get going. It’s on the ground floor. Number nine.”
“Aren’t you coming too?”
“Can’t. Interference,” Sophie said, starting in on one of her endless crossword puzzles. “She might get our signals crossed.”
Robbi reluctantly left the car. Inside the complex she made her way down the row of red lacquered doors to the end unit. She knocked lightly. Her first encounter with a psychic had her jittery and feeling a bit foolish. Would her mind be an open book, every private thought exposed? Although Robbi was certain she had a degree of spiritual sensitivity—the premonitions— she’d always played it down, dreaded it actually, not wanting to develop the powers or even confirm them.
She was about to turn away when the door opened. A tiny woman in her late sixties wearing a chartreuse caftan edged in purple velvet, purple pointed-toed sultan slippers, and a white turban, looked up at her through milky eyes. Robbi’s nervousness turned to embarrassment. Certainly she had expected some sort of mystic motif, but not a costume quite so obvious. A turban, for God’s sake. Sultan footwear. There was absolutely no way she would be able to take this woman seriously. And from now on Sophie’s ability to give advice was also seriously in question.
The medium smiled, showing small white teeth. “Roberta Paxton, right? Come in. Come in. I’m Wanda Zimmer. You’re early, or I’m late. Come and sit a minute while I finish.” After depositing her client on a firm brocaded love seat and handing her a dish of Hershey Kisses, she quickly disappeared.
Robbi took a Kiss, released it from the silver wrapping, and slipped it into her mouth. Letting it dissolve on her tongue, she glanced around the oblong living room. It was sparsely furnished with inexpensive modern pieces in green and beige, the walls stark white and bare. The personal touch in the Zimmer apartment was achieved through the jungle of potted and hanging plants and the riotous assortment of African violets and geraniums. She saw none of the new age paraphernalia—candles, incense, crystals—that one associated with fortune-tellers.
Within minutes Wanda Zimmer was back wearing khaki pants, a safari-print cotton blouse, and brown loafers. Her short, damp gray hair had been worked into waves on top and sides.
Roberta laughed to herself. The turban had only been a towel, the caftan a housecoat, and the pointed shoes a pair of slippers.
“There, that’s better,” Wanda said, taking a chair across the room from Robbi. “Tea? Coffee?”
Robbi smiled and shook her head.
“Then let’s begin.” The psychic closed her eyes.
Robbi shifted on the love seat. “What do I—?”
The woman put out a hand to silence her. Robbi closed her mouth, cleared her throat, and stared at the small figure who sat stiffly in her chair.
The milky eyes opened, stared fixedly at a spot on the wall just above Robbi’s head. Wanda began to speak rapidly, interrupting herself when something more important, more pressing, seemed to come to her. She spoke of challenges, of Roberta’s need to work with others in a helping, caring manner. Twenty minutes into the reading, she said, “You’ve had a terrible accident, but you’re mending well. You’re very strong. You will need your strength for the challenges ahead.”
Robbi’s heart palpitated.
“You are sensitive, extremely sensitive in a psychic way. Yet you are limited. Potent, oh my goodness, yes, yet limited. This is not new to you, though you have no idea why the power is yours or how to use it. Right?”
“I’m not sure—yes,” Robbi whispered.
“Do you know him?”
Robbi came forward abruptly. “Who? Know who?”
“The man who is psychically linked with you.”
An icy claw clutched at her stomach. “No, no, I don’t know him. Can you tell me who he is?”
Wanda closed her eyes. She swayed slightly. After a few moments she said, “I don’t like him. He’s bad. I’m unable to pick up much except that he is there—there with you somewhere on some other plane—and he’s no good.”
“Why is he there?”
“I can’t say.”
“Is he real, or a figment of my imagination?”
“I can’t say that either. He’s real to you.”
“I have to know who he is, what he wants with me, why I see him. I have to know. Please, Mrs. Zimmer, help me. At least one woman has died.”
Wanda crossed the room, sat on the love seat, and reached out, touching Robbi’s hand. She closed her eyes again. “I sense these women—these victims. They are lost angels. I sense they were once a part of this planet. They are lost and crying out to be found…to be free to go on with their journey.”
“They? I saw only one killed. Then it’s true? This man has killed more than once?”
“I don’t know. They could be souls from your own past lives. I have no way to tell.” She sighed deeply. “But I can tell you this, you must be very careful.”
“I’m in danger?”
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I don’t like to frighten people, but I feel you must be warned. You are in grave danger.”
“From this man?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
________
“Well?” Sophie said. She had driven to Virginia Lake and parked in the lot facing the water. A steady stream of joggers passed by.
“Well what?” Robbi answered.
“Well, what did Wanda say?”
“She said I would meet a tall, dark, handsome man and we would run off to Shangri-la and have two point five children and live happily ever after. Isn’t that what they all say?”
She met Sophie’s peeved glare before turning away to look out the window. Robbi said in a disquieting tone, “That’s what I hoped she would say. Instead, she scared the shit out of me and then sent me away with instructions to not darken her door again.”
“Are you exaggerating?”
“Not by much.”
Roberta related the reading. “Someone’s going to die. It could be me.”
“You know what?” Sophie said, her voice tight. “I made a big mistake sending you to Wanda. The woman’s obviously losing it. Hey, we’ll go to another psychic. I hear there’s a good one in Virginia City, I—”
“No more psychics.”
For several long moments both were lost in their own thoughts, watching the ducks and geese bob for thrown bread pieces on the lawn.
Roberta sighed. “I made another mistake. My mother called this morning and I confided in her.”
“You told her about the vision?”
Robbi nodded. “She didn’t believe me when I was little, and she doesn’t believe me now. She wants me normal, like other people. She wants me to move in with them.”
“She’s afraid for you.”
“I guess.”
________
Jake Reynolds typed from a stack of notes at his elbow. Directly above, a stellar jay screeched angrily, and to confirm its displeasure, a bird dropping hit the keys of his typewriter with a wet plop. Jake cursed, threw an empty plastic glass at the limbs of the spruce where the jay sat. Another squawk, the glass hit the deck and bounced off into the bushes.
Jake went
inside, grabbed a handful of paper towels, returned to the typewriter, and dabbed at the green mess. Damn jays. If anyone needed therapy, it was the jay. Always angry, always taking it out on the world below.
The cordless phone on the redwood table rang. His Reno calls were transferred to the lake house.
“Yes,” he said.
“Dr. Reynolds, there’s a Ms. Paxton on the line,” Carolee, the receptionist at the medical plaza, said. “Shall I put her through?”
Jake’s pulse quickened. More than once he’d found himself thinking about the intriguing woman from the hospital. He wondered how she was doing. “Roberta Paxton?”
“I don’t know. Shall I ask?”
“No. Put her through.” A series of clicks and a woman’s voice was on the line.
“Dr. Reynolds, my name is Lois. I’m Roberta’s mother.”
Jake stifled his disappointment. “Yes, Mrs. Paxton, what can I do for you?”
“My daughter mentioned that you had come to see her when she was in the hospital.”
“That’s right.”
“She seemed to like you. Doctor. There aren’t many doctors in your field that she likes or trusts.”
“I’m flattered, Mrs. Paxton.”
“I wondered, Doctor, if you’d consent to follow up on her, so to speak?”
“She hasn’t lost her sight again, has she?”
“What? Oh, no, nothing like that. Her vision is fine, her normal vision, that is. It’s the other vision that has me very concerned, Doctor.”
“Other vision? I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”
“My daughter seems to be seeing things. Hallucinations. She’s always been very inventive, especially as a young girl, her father was quite abrupt with her, insisting she not talk about—she’s not a liar, it’s just that…well, it’s my belief she’s under too much stress. The shooting, then the accident, all on top of a very heavy workload.”
“I see.”
“Can you see her?”
On hiatus from private practice, writing a book on the battered woman syndrome, he had initially consented to see Dr. Newton’s patient because of her involvement with the center, although they’d never gotten around to discussing their mutual interest.
“I’ll be happy to. Have her call my receptionist at the office and set up an appointment.”
“I’m afraid that could be a problem. I rather doubt Roberta will consent to see you on a doctor-patient basis. You see, she doesn’t have a very high opinion of psychiatrists.”
“In that case, I don’t see how I can help her.”
“As I said earlier, she seems to like you, Doctor. Perhaps you can see her in a nonmedical setting. Socially, so to speak. Naturally, the matter of your fee will be taken care of by me.”
“Mrs. Paxton, I can’t—”
“She claims to have witnessed a killing in the woods moments after her accident.”
“A killing?”
“A woman. She swears she saw a barefooted woman running around in the woods. A man was after her… killed her. It was all so wild. But to hear Roberta talk, you’d almost have to believe her. She was so descriptive. The woman—the one murdered—was wearing a long white dress and, supposedly, an anklet.”
“An anklet?” Jake’s heart skipped a beat. “You mean an ankle bracelet?”
“Yes, I guess. But none of that matters because she didn’t really see anything like that. I’m sure she imagined all of it. The blow on the head, the—Dr. Reynolds, she needs help.”
“Mrs. Paxton, I…”
“Think about it, won’t you, Doctor?” And then she was gone.
The jay screeched again. Deep in thought, Jake was oblivious of the racket. How many women wore an ankle bracelet? Jake had known only one.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
At Radcliff’s deli, Robbi moved gingerly in the long line, absently staring at the assortment of food through the window of the cold case.
“Miss Paxton?”
She turned, and directly behind her stood a smiling, clean-cut man. He wore blue slacks, a yellow shirt open at the collar, and a grayish blue sport coat. She smelled the same mild aftershave he’d worn at the hospital. The handsome psychiatrist with the nice knees.
“Dr. Reynolds, hello.”
“Good to see you up and about.”
“Thanks. Ankle’s still a little tender…” She raised the cane. “But I’m not complaining.”
“Back to work already?”
She nodded. “Takes my mind off—”she coughed, looked away, “off the aches and pains. Hope you’re not in a hurry.” She indicated the slow-moving line. “They’re always shorthanded here.”
“I’m not in a hurry. I try to make any waiting time productive time.”
“Oh, how so?”
“I watch people. I write speeches…” He shrugged. “I talk to pretty ladies in front of me.”
Robbi smiled, moved forward. How pretty could she look? She was too pale from the weeks in the hospital. She hadn’t slept well in ages, and the July heat soon drained what little energy she had each day. Today she was wearing her favorite skirt and blouse, but both were wrinkled, damp in places. And her hair, pulled up in back, was rapidly coming loose, strand by crimpy stand. The doctor, however, looked cool and crisp. Air-conditioned office—oh, to have such luxury.
“More important, I was raised with four sisters. In my case patience became mandatory for sanity and survival,” he said. “So how’s everything with you? No more headaches?”
“No,” she said too quickly.
“How about the nightmares?”
“All gone.” She awkwardly stepped forward, bumped the man in front of her.
An attractive woman Roberta’s age stopped to talk with the doctor. Robbi turned forward, focused on the food in the cold case. She could hear the conversation between the two, something about a dinner honoring a bestselling author, a regatta at the lake, and a score of names frequently heard in the local media—the state’s movers and shakers.
Robbi felt the doctor’s gaze on her as she inched along, trying her damnedest not to eavesdrop on their conversation but losing the battle. A party invitation was extended to him. She surmised the doctor was unmarried.
When her turn at the counter came, she paid for her order, gathered a bag in each arm, turned to the doctor and, without interrupting the woman who had been talking nonstop, smiled, then mouthed the word “bye.”
She had gotten only a few steps outside the deli when Dr. Reynolds caught up with her.
“You look like you could use some help,” he said, relieving her of the larger bag. “Can I give you a ride back to work?”
“As much as I’d love to get off my feet and out of this heat, I’m supposed to be getting some exercise. It’s just a few doors down.”
“Then I’ll walk with you.”
She noticed he was empty-handed. “No lunch?”
“Nothing appealed to me.”
She held the small bag in her left hand and the cane in her right as they walked north to the main office of SSWC.
“Do you ever eat lunch out?” he asked.
“Rarely. We take turns going for sandwiches.”
“You’re quite involved with your work, aren’t you?”
“I guess.”
“Were you always this enthusiastic? Or has it increased since the accident?”
“Are you asking if I’ve suddenly become immersed in my job to take my mind off something else?” she said warily.
“No, I’m not. But have you?”
She stopped in front of the brick building and reached for the bag in his hand. “Thanks for the help. I have to go. They’re waiting.”
“I’ll take it in.”
“No, that’s all right. I can manage from here.”
“You don’t care much for psychiatrists, do you, Miss Paxton?”
“Before his stroke, my father was a practicing psychiatrist.”
“Yes, I know. I’ve read several of hi
s papers. Dr. Paxton’s a brilliant man, but that doesn’t answer my question.”
“It would be unfair of me to judge an entire profession by one man,” she said evenly, conscious of her evasiveness but unable to stop herself.
“It would.”
She reached for the doorknob.
“Miss Paxton, I’m researching a book on battered women. I wonder if you could give me a hand. You’d be doing me a tremendous favor, and perhaps I can help you in turn.”
Robbi looked at him, distrustful. “Help me? What makes you think I need help?”
“I meant with the center. Donations, time, anything I can do.”
“I don’t know. I—”
“Tomorrow I’ll be at my place at Tahoe. Come up for the day. It’ll give you a chance to relax, take in some sun and mountain air. I really think you’ll enjoy it.”
Could she work with him, trust him? Dr. Reynolds was like no psychiatrist she’d ever met. If he was working on a book about domestic abuse, they certainly had something in common.
“All right. I’ll come.”
“Great,” he said, a smile brightening his face. He backed up. “I’ll call and give you directions.”
The rest of the day her work took a backseat to thoughts of the doctor. Who was he? What kind of man was he? Images of his smile, so captivating, played across her mind.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Roberta cruised the narrow street slowly, taking in the quiet solitude of the evergreen-shaded lane. The sharp scent of ponderosa pine reached inside the closed car as cones and needles crunched under the tires of her Jeep Cherokee. Straight ahead, like a mirror reflecting the clear blue of the sky, lay the deep, icy waters of Lake Tahoe.
On the phone that morning Dr. Reynolds had given her directions to his summer place at Incline Village. His lake-front house was to the left, within yards of the sandy beach of Crystal Bay. A neighborhood dock moored several powerboats and a sailboat. In the driveway sat a classic white T-bird.
She found the doctor on a large wooden deck that faced the lake. At a picnic table covered with books and papers, held down by fist-size rocks, he sat barefooted behind a manual typewriter, wearing a navy blue tank shirt and white tennis shorts. A stack of papers balanced in his lap.
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