Mind Games

by Polly Iyer

  Diana caught Galen’s don’t-say-a-word warning and tucked away her natural tendency toward smart-ass answers, honed from years of fending off audience hecklers and skeptics. “I’ll do my best, Francine. Having you in the audience will be inspirational, I’m sure.”

  “And if I haven’t mentioned it, you look absolutely gorgeous.” Francine drawled the last word into three, long syllables. “You get prettier every year. What a cute, petite figure. I’m so envious. I think all of us tall, statuesque women secretly want to look like li’l ol’ you.”

  “Really, I don’t know why. All I get to see are tall women’s chests. Looking up all the time gives me a neck ache. I’m sure you find looking down on people so much easier.”

  Galen slowly closed his eyes, and Diana wanted to smack herself for biting the hand that fed her. What is wrong with me?

  “Oh, you are such a riot.” All within earshot turned around as Francine’s high-decibel cackle pierced the room. “Come join the party. I must tend to my guests. The bar’s over there, or lasso one of those dahlin’ waiters with the cute little buns and the trays full of the best champagne money can buy.” She bent down and whispered in Diana’s ear. “I do hope you haven’t forgotten our reading. I did so enjoy the last one.”

  “Of course not. I can’t wait.”

  “Wonderful, dahlin’.” She touched Diana’s arm and trilled, “Enjoy,” as she scurried off in a flurry of green satin, with tendrils of red tresses following in her wake.

  “She’s a piece of work,” Diana said to her mother, relieved that her acerbic comment had soared over Francine’s architectural hairdo.

  “But an expensive one, dear. That reading is a week in Europe for all of us.”

  “Be nice, baby,” Galen said. “Francine ain’t the only jackpot at the party.”

  “I need a drink.” Aside from the best champagne, Francine served eighteen-year old single malt scotch. Diana planned to savor a few to help endure the evening. The bartender filled her order, and with drink firmly in one hand, she adjusted the beaded mask over her eyes with the other. Scooping up the skirt of her black satin gown, she circled the room to speak to a few private clients. As she moved toward the bar for a second drink, a tall figure wearing a Cyrano de Bergerac mask blocked her path.

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “That’s okay.”

  He moved out of her way, and she moved in the same direction to get out of his. When they moved a second time in lock step, she heard him laugh.

  “You’re Diana Racine, aren’t you?”

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “I’ve always wanted to meet you.”

  Though muffled by the full over-the-head mask, the man’s voice resonated a sexy flirtatiousness. She answered in kind. “Have you now?”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Why, to test you.”

  “Test me? What on earth for?”

  He extended his hand to shake hers, and when she made contact, his touch jolted her body as if he were electrically charged. White lights exploded in her head. The sounds of the party echoed in her ears, then receded into a soft hum as Diana saw what she’d tried so hard not to see, not to feel, for the last twenty years―death.

  The vision clarified. A young woman in the throes of a sexual experience appeared. Then, as in the past, Diana became her. Hands tightened around her neck, cutting off her air supply. The shock of ice-cold water, deep and black as it surrounded her. Now, as she left the woman’s body, Diana watched her fade from view, her glassy-eyed stare straight at Diana, beckoning her to follow.

  The room dimmed, leaving the macabre sight incandescent in the surrounding darkness. Diana sank deeper, unable to breathe from the pressure against her lungs. Gasping, she clutched her throat with both hands, dropping her drink from one hand and the masked stranger’s hand from the other.

  He watched her struggle for air, making no move to help. Leaning closer, he answered her question. “To test you for that.”

  And he was gone.

  Diana sank to her knees, choking, sucking air. The frigid water crawled over her like melting ice as she slid deeper and deeper into the murky abyss, unable to see, powerless to breathe. She crumpled to the floor, water filling her lungs, and darkness enveloped her as she took her last breath.

  She didn’t know how long she’d been out before she woke to a vile odor wafting under her nose, burning her nasal passages. She waved it away.

  “Give her some air, please. Move back.” Alain Marigny extracted a fancy lace handkerchief from an inner pocket and dabbed her forehead. “Are you all right, my dear? Can you get up?”

  “I’m not sure. I don’t think so.” She coughed and sputtered a few times to clear her throat. “My head is spinning.”

  People gathered around. “Please, she’s not feeling well. Fresh air. She needs fresh air.” Galen pushed them away and hovered over her, whispering. “Are you sick? Too much to drink?”

  “Where is he?” Diana mumbled, standing with the help of the two men.

  “Where’s who?”

  “The man I was talking to a minute ago.” She looked from Galen to her host.

  “Why, did he attack you?” Marigny’s anxious voice trembled.

  Panic spread through every neuron of Diana’s body. This couldn’t be happening again. Not again. Reluctant to tell either man what happened, Diana shaved the truth. “No, no. He probably thought he was being funny, but he frightened me.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Galen, he stood right here.” Alert now, Diana scanned the room, craning her neck to see over taller heads. “He wore a Cyrano de Bergerac mask that covered his whole head. Tall guy. You must have seen him.”

  “I saw no one,” Marigny said, “but I didn’t get to you until after you fainted.”

  “Well,” Galen said, “I was standin’ right over there. Couldn’t’ve been more than half a minute before I heard the commotion and saw you on the floor. No one was here.”

  “Galen, I need to talk to you. Alone.”

  Marigny took Diana’s hand. “Are you sure you’re all right, my dear? There are a number of doctors at this party. I’m sure I could track one down.”

  “No, Alain, really, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern, but something very strange happened here.” She touched his brocade jacket. “Would you do something for me?”

  “Of course, my dear.”

  “Would you ask if anyone saw a man dressed as Cyrano, and if so, ask if they know who he is? It’s very important.”

  “Well, I guess…Yes, of course. If it’s important to you.”

  “You’re a dear. Thank you.”

  Marigny swung his cape over his shoulder with a dramatic flourish and waddled off on his mission as Diana’s mother rushed over. “I heard what happened. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, Mother, I’m fine.”

  Blanche slapped her hand over her heart and shot Galen a sideways glance. “You can’t be. You haven’t called me Mother in over twenty years.”

  “Actually, I’m not fine,” Diana corrected.

  Lines of concern etched Galen’s face. “Oh my, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

  “No, no, nothing like that.” Diana proceeded to tell her parents about the tall stranger.

  “Diana, are you tellin’ us you saw into the man’s mind? Is that what you’re sayin’?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying, Galen. All I know is when he touched me, I saw a woman being murdered.” She explained the details of the vision and its resulting effect. “And the way I reacted, he knew I saw something.”

  “You need to go to the police,” Blanche said.

  “And tell them what, I had a vision? The police have had it in for me for twenty years, ever since I stopped helping them find dead bodies. They never understood the nightmares or how much those visions cost me. If I tell them what happened tonight, they’ll think I’m after publicity for my show.”
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  “Why? Your show’s been sold out for weeks. What would a stunt like this gain?”

  “Galen…for more than twenty-five years we’ve done nothing but use publicity to promote me. Don’t look now, but I think people might have noticed.”

  “You don’t mean we, you mean me. Don’t act like you never wanted it. I know you would’ve rather been a normal little girl, but you weren’t. Because you were special, I wanted more for you than what I could give. Is that so wrong?”

  “No, but right now all that showbiz stuff puts me in an awkward position.”

  “Whatever you want to do, I’m behind you. You know that, sweetheart.”

  “I am going to the police, but please don’t promote what happened tonight. I’ll make that clear the minute I walk into the police station. Understand?”

  “I promise he won’t say a word. I’ll make sure,” Blanche said. “Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Galen harrumphed under his breath. “O-kay, I promise.”

  “I said the minute I walk in there. Alone. Without either of you. And no buts. If you don’t agree, I won’t do the show tomorrow night. Everyone will assume I was too ill to perform.”

  Galen started to argue but changed his mind. “You win,” he said in defeat. “You win.”

  Chapter Three

  The Born Skeptic

  After a quick and necessary scotch, Diana begged off the rest of the evening and went back to the hotel to change into a pair of black jeans and a white man-tailored shirt. She threw a black leather jacket over her shoulders to protect against the night chill and taxied the few blocks to the police station on Royal Street in the heart of the French Quarter. She didn’t know how what happened tonight happened, but it did. And it brought back times she’d rather forget.

  She looked up at the huge columned building spotlighted in the dark night. The façade looked more like a New Orleans style mansion than a police station. She’d spent many days and nights in police stations, and she wished she didn’t have to spend one more. She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath to shake off nervous tension, and walked inside.

  Most of America recognized Diana Racine, and the stares she attracted from the cops in the station proved no exception. She approached the ruddy-faced desk sergeant, whose vigorous assault on a wad of chewing gum slowed to a grind when he saw the district’s late-night caller. He squinted and leaned across the desk.

  “Well, looky, looky who we have here.” Anyone who missed Diana’s entrance knew she was here now. Heads turned, tongues clicked, and eyes squinted. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Come to report a missing body, have you?”

  Diana had heard similar sarcasm ad nauseum and learned to slough off the sleazy comments. But they still rankled. “When you’re finished with the jokes, I’ll be waiting right here to see the person in charge, since I’m pretty sure it’s not you.” A few sniggers rose from around the station at the obvious putdown.

  She reached over and fastened her hand around the desk sergeant’s forearm. He flinched, but she held firm. A silent moment passed. “You’re an interesting man, Sergeant, um, Brady, is it? I’m sure your friends would be surprised how interesting.” Diana released his arm at the same time he pulled away, his florid face now crimson. She heard a gulp when he swallowed his gum.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scoffed. “Hold on a minute please, Ms. Racine.” He punched two buttons on the phone base and spoke Diana’s name in hushed tones. “Yes, sir, that’s who I said.”

  There were times when she enjoyed the small measure of revenge her reputation afforded, especially when someone mocked her. She knew nothing about this man, nor did she care, but he didn’t know that. Nevertheless, her remark struck a nerve, churning up guilt or fear or suspicion. She wondered which.

  “Lieutenant Lucier will be right with you, ma’am,” Brady said.

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” She failed to conceal a self-satisfied grin at his newly acquired respect and took a seat on the bench against the wall. A parade of cops filed past. Some looked as if they wanted to ask for her autograph; others sneered. A man came into view from a corridor down the hall and walked toward her.

  “Ms. Racine?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lieutenant Ernie Lucier.” He offered his hand.

  Diana was caught off guard by the rugged good looks of the light-skinned African-American. Sandy brown hair and his most unusual eyes—topaz with flecks of blue and brown—triggered immediate curiosity about the genetic makeup that produced such a combination. He towered over her, but almost everyone did. His tie was loosened, and the sleeves of his cream-colored shirt were rolled up, revealing taut, muscular arms. He focused on her, and she almost forgot why she was there.

  “Is there some place we can talk?” she asked.

  “Sure, come into my office.”

  She walked the hall alongside him, struggling to keep pace with his long stride. He ushered her into a well-appointed office, complete with a state-of-the-art computer setup. Half a dozen framed degrees and certificates hung on the wall―one from Tulane, another emblazoned with the Phi Beta Kappa insignia.

  “Pretty impressive.”

  He indicated a chair. “What can I do for you?”

  Okay, all business. “Something very unusual happened tonight. I honestly don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, I don’t see how I can help. After all, you’re the psychic.”

  Another damn psychic crack. How many of those had she heard? She had to restrain herself from cracking back. “That aside, I was at Francine Marigny’s ball tonight―”

  “Lucky you,” he interrupted. “Never made the guest list myself.”

  Tonight, from this man, the taunt irritated her more than usual. “Look, Lieutenant, I came here to tell you something I think might be important. If you’re going to make snide comments, I’ll pick up and leave, and if anything develops from what I saw, I’ll be the first one to tell the newspapers I went to the police and they didn’t take me seriously. Now, what’ll it be? Are you going to listen or keep gibing me?”

  He fastened those golden-brown eyes on her face. “I’m sorry, Ms. Racine. You won’t believe this, but I hate sarcasm.”

  “You’re right, I don’t.”

  “My apologies. Please go on. I’m listening.”

  She wondered why she had come, but she gathered her composure and explained the evening’s events, relating everything, including a description of the woman in the water. When she finished, Lucier sat back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and stared at her.

  “Would you recognize the woman if you saw a picture?”

  “Yes, I think so.”

  “And the man?”

  “He wore a full mask. All I can tell you is that he was tall and had an unusual voice. But that might have been because of the mask.”

  “I’d be remiss if I didn’t ask this―”

  Diana cut him off. “No, this isn’t a publicity stunt.”

  “Are you reading my mind?” He smiled, revealing straight white teeth with a slight overbite. She’d always loved overbites.

  “More sarcasm?”

  “No, just a major case of paranoia.”

  She gave in to a smile. “Don’t worry. I wasn’t mind reading.” She held up her hands. “See, I’m not touching you. Besides, that’s not what I do. And I assure you this isn’t a publicity stunt. I might think the same way if I were you. I haven’t told anyone about this other than my parents, and I’d like to keep it that way. This isn’t the kind of publicity I’m interested in.”

  “Do you have a few minutes? I’d like to gather some pictures to show you.”

  “Sure, I’d rather sit here than at the ball, but that’s between you and me. Unless of course―”

  He started to rise from his chair and stopped. “Unless what?”

  “Unless what I saw is what I think but hope it isn’t.”

  He kept a steady
gaze on her, then stood. “I’ll be right back.”

  He left the room, and she surveyed the plaques and framed diplomas. Law books lined the bookshelves. No law degree on the wall, though. Two framed photographs perched on his desk: one of him as a child with his parents, she assumed, and another with his wife and three young children—two boys and a girl. Well, that answered that question. Too bad.

  Lucier reentered the room accompanied by another man he introduced as Detective Sam Beecher. Beecher, who looked like he’d been on duty since Christmas, condescended to a perfunctory nod, then opened a folder.

  “Detective Beecher will show you some photographs. Tell me if you recognize any of the women.”

  Beecher spread photos of four women about her age on Lucier’s desk. Diana studied each one, moving them to the side as she eliminated them.

  “No, the woman I saw in the water is not here.”

  “You’re sure?” Lucier asked.

  “Positive.”

  Beecher opened the next folder and repeated the display.

  Again, she scrutinized them, moving each one away until one photo remained. Diana looked at the two men. “That’s her.” She tapped the photo. “Her hair looked darker in the water, but that’s her. I’m sure.”

  Lucier and Beecher exchanged glances. Beecher collected the photos and put them back in the folder.

  “Would you excuse us, Ms. Racine?” Lucier asked.

  “Sure, go talk it over, but I know what I saw.”

  The men left. Though Beecher never uttered a word, Diana felt his disdain. The gist of their muffled conversation filtered from the office next door, especially the words phony and coincidence. She’d heard those words before but rationalized the cynicism and suspicion directed at entertainers, specifically psychics. Of course they’d think that way. They had every right. She was a phony.

  But not tonight.

  Lucier returned to the office, laid the photo in front of her, and sat down. He stared at her. She didn’t flinch.

  “You identified Buffy Tyler. Her parents reported her missing this morning after her horse wandered back to the stable alone. Searchers have been out all day looking for her on the trails. No luck so far.”