"What about my own daughters? Who will care for them?"
The killer hesitated for just a second but didn't get the chance to answer.
They heard a sliding sound to the side and turned to see a doorway of bright white light appear. Marnie's killer stepped back, holding a hand up to shade his eyes, and he thought he saw another familiar face there. He couldn't enter there yet and he knew it wasn't for him.
"Damn it!" he cried, as Marnie floated towards it. "Why does she get to go there? She doesn't deserve it."
Marnie's spirit passed through the doorway which promptly closed, disappearing and leaving the killer on his own with Marnie's corpse staring at him from its place.
He heard sirens and turned to see the police cars and ambulances arriving. Sniffing back an astral tear of anger, he took off into the air and stood on the nearby roof of the service station.
Marnie's voice still lingered in his mind and he felt his anger growing to explosive force. Flicking his hand toward Marnie's car, he diverted the psychokinetic force towards the gas cylinders still embedded the vehicle's doors.
The explosion filled the night, spewing a ball of flame in the air and shattering windows with its shock wave. He watched, thankful only Marnie's corpse suffered, and smiled.
"Karma's a bitch, Marnie," he murmured before flying into the air and looking down upon the traffic.
Flying along the streets, he scanned each of the cars and trucks below before seeing another potential victim. Anger filling his being, the spirit dived into the passenger's seat of the silver Mercedes.
It was a clean car, maybe new. He looked at the driver, seeing her to be a young woman, mid-to-late twenties. Watching her, he took the time to take in her features, gazing at her beautiful features which reminded him of someone else he knew but could not quite remember. The driver was talking on the phone to someone, the words sounding full of hope and love. This woman was happy, and it triggered a vague recognition within; he just didn't know what. The woman possessed a special presence, something precious. Then it came to him, and he realised why she glowed with life, and conflict invaded his mind. He needed to stop this woman before she could kill someone else, but he couldn't kill her either; something in his conscience prevented it.
So he stood there weighing up idea after idea until inspiration struck. Feeling happy with his resolution, he reached towards the steering wheel, closed his eyes, and a thought popped from his mind. In response, the car shuddered, its engine coughing, and the dashboard lit up with warning signs.
"Oh, damn," the woman cursed, looking at the engine lights blinking. "Listen, I have to go. I've got some car trouble here." Hanging up, she indicated and stopped the car at the side of the motorway.
The spirit smiled to himself and then waved his hand over the windscreen which fogged before the driver's eyes. He smiled more when he heard her gasp at reading the words appearing in the fog, illuminated by the street lights.
"For your unborn's sake, stay off the phone while driving."
Chapter 8
It was 10am Thursday when Ramsey arrived at Cogan's office door. As with his first visit, Cogan felt surprised to see him there; somehow Ramsey passed the other police officers without being challenged.
"How do you do that?" Cogan asked in disbelief.
Ramsey only smiled, sitting down opposite her. "You said you had something to speak about?"
Cogan acknowledged his question but took a different subject first. "How are you feeling?"
Knowing what Cogan meant, Ramsey shrugged and paused a little before answering. "I've felt peaceful since Friday night, actually. I had my chance to say goodbye to her but I still want to catch the one responsible for this."
Cogan's brow furrowed, noting Ramsey's matter-of-fact tone. "I see. How are you hoping to do that?"
Ramsey shrugged. "I haven't figured that part out yet. Someone else asked me the same thing yesterday," he told her, thinking about his conversation with Colonel Ryan. "Am I picking up a drop in your scepticism or are you taking the mickey out of me?"
Cogan kept a straight face, looking Ramsey in the eye, something she found easier to do now, and challenged him. "You're the psychic. You tell me."
Accepting the challenge, he looked the detective in the eyes, deep enough so that Cogan felt as though he was staring through her skull and into her brain; it unnerved her enough she wanted to look away, but she kept the gaze. After a pause that made Cogan even more uncomfortable, Ramsey grinned. "Are you going to let me hold your watch this time?"
Cogan didn't answer, but kept a raised eyebrow as she looked back at him, so Ramsey added, "Please?"
She smiled, "Good boy," removing the Casio G-Shock watch from her wrist and handing to him. "That's much better."
Ramsey laid the watch upon his upturned left palm, holding his other hand an inch or two above it, and waited. After half a minute of that with his eyes closed, Craig took a breath and allowed the information to flow through him. His eyes fluttered a moment, and a ball of sweat clung to his eyebrow as he breathed deepening his trance. At last, he settled and opened his eyes to look at Cogan. "This watch has been through a lot with you, Detective, and seen a lot of death and action. You have toured overseas as a lieutenant?"
Cogan had been reading about how fake psychics used cold reading. His question seemed to be fishing for clues, yet he had mentioned something specific. Was it a blind shot or was Ramsey genuine? She paused, considering her response with a poker face. "Tell me more."
He nodded, continuing his impressions. "You were orphaned young, have vague memories of your real parents, and your adoptive mother is still alive - she lives in Banksia Grove - you should visit her more often."
Cogan laughed. "I bet you say that to all people with elderly parents. How many other parents want the same?"
Ramsey answered with a nod. "True, but once a year, Brianna? Banksia Grove is just two hours drive from here. You could at least visit her. She has only seen you once since you returned from Timor and she doesn't like using the computer to check your rare emails."
Cogan felt shocked; she was not sure how Ramsey knew so much about her unless he was a skilled private investigator as most of that information could probably be found thorough legal means. He was convincing, but Cogan believed Ramsey needed to be tested more.
"What colour underwear am I wearing?" she blurted, not knowing what else she could ask.
Ramsey looked surprised, his eyes jerking a little to the side before returning to her. Cogan thought she had embarrassed the poor guy, as the question seemed forward, even if she meant it as the obvious challenge; the colour of her underwear was not on public record.
He allowed a smile to cross his face. Cogan looked into his eyes again, wondering if she could throw him off the scent, and waited.
"You already know what colour underwear you're wearing, Brianna," he responded, "but you really want to know how much I can pick up on your cases. I see you have spoken at length with your Inspector Myles. Although you don't believe in psychic powers or - oogedy boogedy" - his right fingers wiggled in the air as though casting spells - "you still want someone to prove you wrong. The question is, will you be willing to change your beliefs when you are shown proof of it otherwise?"
Cogan leaned back in her chair, and her brow furrowed as she processed his dialogue. How did he know about Inspector Myles? The Inspector had called her into his office after she returned from the funeral and asked her about Ramsey; he even related something of his own experiences with the psychic who helped him on a case the previous year. Wait! Craig and Inspector Myles knew each other. That's how he guessed it.
"What else can you tell me?"
Ramsey smiled, handing the watch back to Cogan, and their hands touched briefly; she felt something almost like electricity at his touch. "I'm not going to tell you about tall, dark strangers," he started. "There have been three deaths this morning. Two in the same incident. You madly want to tell me it's not related to a spir
it, and you want to watch me squirm. In fact, you want me to claim again that it is a spirit, so you can tell me I'm wrong, right?"
Cogan's mouth opened in a broad smile. "So you admit to being a convincing fake?"
Ramsey snorted, paused, and looked at her. "It's not fake, and I am as real as the watch you hold in your hand. Three more have died since yesterday, and you are wondering if I will blame a spirit for these. Why? Because they are victims who were shot while driving. Detective Sergeant Cogan, as you know, that means we have a different killer. You're right that spirits don't use guns. Snipers don't leave tattoos on their victims either."
"What?" Cogan raised a quizzical eyebrow as the tattoo remark surprised her. What tattoos?
Ramsey's voice raised a notch, the rich bass increasing with volume, and his hand swept across her desk towards all of her folders. Although they were closed, he somehow knew their relation to all the road deaths that happened under strange circumstances. "Your Inspector is no fool either. Have respect for him, and the dead, and study the evidence under your nose, Brianna! You will find your tattoos there."
Cogan raised her own voice, standing up and leaning on her desk to look at him. "I have looked at the evidence, Mr Ramsey! That is my job, to look at the physical evidence to solve matters."
"Then do your job!" Ramsey's bellowing roar echoed from the office's walls as he stood there, leaning forward across the desk to mirror Cogan, their faces inches apart.
Cogan's sharp commanding tone rang back. "Stay out of my way then!"
Both Ramsey and Cogan fell silent, apart from their heavy breathing from the shouting, each aware of their proximity and the growing tension; neither dared make the first move, and they continued staring into each other's eyes like two cats ready to pounce. Then the phone rang.
"Awww!" Emily moaned with disappointment at the interruption and pleaded, "Don't answer it!"
Cogan and Ramsey pushed away from their face-off positions, each of them straightening their clothes. She picked it up on the third ring.
"Detective Sergeant Cogan," she responded, trying to slow her angry heartbeat down so she didn't sound too terse. Her expression turned to mild surprise and shock as she listened to the voice on the other end.
"Yes, sir," she nodded, listened and nodded again, feeling the uncomfortable awareness of Ramsey listening from the chair with a smug grin growing across his face. "I am speaking with him now - Oh, you heard - All the way down the hallway? - oh, okay, sorry, sir - yes, I understand, but -"
Ramsey stopped his smug look, seeing Cogan's mood drop as her superior continued speaking. His finger toyed with the cord leading to the telephone and he gathered information, using his psychic ability to eavesdrop on the other half of the conversation. He felt Cogan's embarrassment, it matched his own, and he took a deep breath before letting out his own tension. At last, Cogan hung up from the conversation. Ramsey stayed silent, letting Cogan recover, until she looked back at him with a controlled anger behind her eyes.
"That was Inspector Myles," she confirmed. "He asked if you will collaborate with me on the case."
Ramsey tightened his lips so he could nibble the skin inside his cheek every so slightly; it looked to Cogan as though he was pursing his lips.
"Well?" she asked.
"I'm waiting," he answered.
Cogan felt exasperated. "For what?"
"You haven't apologised, for starters."
Cogan inhaled, cursing inside herself, and Emily whispered, "Oh, you really are a meanie, Craig."
Ramsey ignored his ghostly companion and waited for Cogan who ran long fingers through her blonde hair before looking at him.
"I'm sorry," she told him. "I should not have insulted you when I am wanting your help."
Ramsey waited, sitting back in his chair with an ankle resting on his knee and his fingers steepled. His eyebrows raised as he waited.
"What?" Cogan asked. "I apologised. Isn't that enough?"
"You forgot to say, please."
Cogan sighed to herself. Was he kidding?
A few seconds passed with the apparent speed of a tense minute. "The Inspector would like you to help on the case please," Cogan finally stated.
"And?"
"Oh, you are pushing it, Craig Ramsey!" Emily huffed. "You have made the poor girl work for it already. Don't be such a bastard?"
Cogan was fit to explode when Ramsey grinned, stood and turned to walk out the door. "I'll think about it."
As he approached the door, Cogan called after him, "It's the Inspector who wants you to help. I don't believe in your oogy-boogy bull, Mr Ramsey."
Ramsey stopped, just outside the door, and looked at her with a piercing stare. "One more thing, Detective Sergeant Cogan," he announced. "I have an answer for your question."
"What? Will you?" she asked.
He paused, answering, "It's blue. Red would suit you better," and left before Cogan responded in surprise.
Chapter 9
Brianna wanted to scream, to throw something to release the frustration and anger building up inside her, but she could not do that so she slammed the door hard. The walls shook and her detective certificate fell off the wall; its frame smashed on the cabinet, overbalancing, and dropping to the floor where the wooden frame and glass disintegrated. She turned her head towards it, upset with herself for losing control, picked up the damaged pieces and examined it. Her fingers passed over the paper, still intact, and felt the embossed letters, remembering things from the past. With a sigh, she placed the broken bits aside, making a mental note to have it repaired later.
Thoughts of Craig Ramsey flew through her mind, and she mulled his words like mincemeat in a grinder. Somehow, his impressions about her were correct. The personal things he told her were spot on: her adoption, her adoptive mother's name, and even about her tours with the Army. That impressed her, even if he neglected to name where she served - Afghanistan and East Timor. But she was glad he didn't; that could show his depth of knowledge about another man she once loved and lost on duty; she didn't need old ghosts returning. Oh! What if Ramsey had seen that?
Cogan jumped track to other thoughts, these relating to the road deaths. How did Ramsey know about the gunshots? They were not public knowledge yet.
She shook her head as even more thoughts tumbled through her fatigued mind. It was time to leave the office for an overdue break. She reached for the sports bag between her desk and the wall and slung it over her shoulder. Closing the office door behind her, she ignored a snide comment from a passing detective about slamming doors.
Ten minutes later, Cogan, dressed in her black tank top, black tights, and gym shoes, faced the large Everlast wall-mounted punching bag. She took a breath, centring herself, and took a short jab at the bag, feeling its resistance, before starting her first combination of straight punches, hook punches and then uppercuts. When she felt warmed up, she executed more combinations, mixing them up for each set. She grunted, feeling each blow jarring her arms as her gloved fists crashed into the bag, never relaxing the strength or speed at which she delivered them.
MEANWHILE, RAMSEY LEFT Cogan's office with a head full of new knowledge, each little piece screaming to be understood. He hurried down the hallway and heard a loud slamming noise from the vicinity of the detective's office.
"Do you think she wants to scream?" he asked Emily, not concerned if anyone saw him speaking with himself.
His spirit companion smiled with a knowing look. "I bet you want her to scream too, Mr Ramsey!"
He turned to face Emily, holding the headquarters door open for a couple of officers to enter before he walked into the bright sunshine. "I don't know what you mean, Emily."
Emily Fraser's ghost hurried forward, facing him but staying two feet ahead of him as he strode along the footpath. She crooned in sing-song fashion. "She loves you, wants to kiss you, and you want to -"
"It looks like we have two killers out there," Ramsey interrupted, pretending to ignore Emily's gentle teasi
ng; he didn't dare admit he felt aroused around the female detective. Other priorities filled his thoughts.
"A second killer?" Emily's features changed as she considered the idea. "Is that sniper you mentioned? I wondered if it was something you picked up from her past."
Ramsey remained silent, making his way towards the car park where his car, an ash-grey 2015 Jaguar XE, waited. He unlocked and entered it in one fluid motion, starting the engine with a roar. Emily sat in the front seat where she could watch him, but he stayed quiet, meaning he was processing information. By the time they arrived home, twenty minutes later, Ramsey was heading to his own workout.
Stepping out of his back door, Ramsey followed the gravel path leading through a lush Japanese-styled garden, dotted with Bonsai and a koi-filled pond. At last, he reached a building resembling a small cottage, unlocked its door, and entered, shutting the door to keep out the winter winds. Movement sensors detected his entry and turned the lights, illuminating a high-ceiling gymnasium and martial arts studio. Three large, heavy canvas bags hung from the building's high timber crossbeams; the rest of his workout area comprised a Wing Chun dummy in a corner and a wall-mounted rack of weaponry. With light sensors, a large curtain drew itself aside to reveal a window framing the outside Japanese garden. This was Craig Ramsey's haven from the outside world and a place he used often for meditation and exercise.
Now dressed in long black pants and white t-shirt he wore for martial arts training, he faced his Sifu Jing Yong, a Chinese spirit who lived in the kwoon. Ramsey and Jing Yong had been friends for twenty years, almost as long as Ramsey had known Emily. Jing Yong, sitting in a meditative position with his back to the weapons, looked up at Ramsey and stood, his robes flowing about him.
They bowed off and moved into position, circling each other like territorial cats. Ramsey watched his spirit sifu's eyes, which proved useless - Jing Yong's expression remained blank - before focusing on his shoulders instead; he was looking for anything signalling Yong's first move. Jing Yong burst forward, faster than Ramsey expected, delivering a flurry of furious fists, the first five hitting Ramsey in the chest before he could side-step. He twisted, catching Yong's next strike, deflecting it and stepping around to deliver a fist to his teacher's jaw. Yong who had died centuries before, now existing in spirit form, felt the strike; he ignored the pain, recovering in time to stop Ramsey's next strike with an eagle claw move, locking Ramsey's elbow joint. Yong deflected Ramsey's force, using it to throw him to the hard floor.
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