The taxi driver I met last week had seemed nice enough, but now I KNOW I didn't tell him my name. Who else is under their control?
Not helping matters is the lingering sensation of what I experienced in my vision of Moira. I want to go home, shower and change, and hide away from the world and all who would harm me.
I should be relieved the vision wasn't as black as a powered-down computer screen, and that my power seems to be working again, but I'm not. I feel ashamed and weak, small. How can I do anything?
Heidi was right about the visions becoming more than me seeing things. I'm feeling them, getting them under my skin and in my heart.
Now what?
My second item of business for the day is to try to see Detective Wrong. Could she be working for The Bridge?
I don't know who to trust. The only person I can be sure of is me. Little seventeen-year-old me.
When we get to the Jeep, Julie asks if I mind if she takes us out of our way, to Chesapeake Avenue.
“Why?”
“To desensitize myself. I figure I might stop having the body nightmares if I can see that pawn shop place a few times. You know, set a new memory on top of the old one.”
Aw, crap. This whole time I haven't considered how Julie's been with all of this. Last week, she saw a dead body for the first time, at a murder scene. She's been sensitive and moody lately, but I've been preoccupied.
“We can do that,” I say with a forced cheeriness.
She's unusually quiet as we drive to the place. As we turn down the block, I point out the tallest building in the area, Hotel Doccione, where Gran and Rudy are having their wedding on Saturday.
“I've never been inside. Looks fancy,” she says. “Ooh, gargoyles!”
“Technically, they're grotesques, because they don't spew water.”
“I love gargoyles,” she says, ignoring me.
“I can't believe my grandmother's getting married. Everything's happening so fast.”
Julie doesn't answer, just drives slowly past the former pawn shop, her knuckles white as she grips the steering wheel. She parks the Jeep in front of the fancy shoe store.
“Holy crap,” she says.
I turn to take a closer look at the pawn shop. “Holy double crap,” I say. “How's that for rewriting your memory?”
All-U-Can-Pawn, Newt's former shop, is unrecognizable from the front now. A construction crew has completely changed the look of the place from seedy to upscale, with enormous new windows on the front and a glass door. The signage announces it's to be the new home of some chain store I don't recognize, Williams-Sonoma.
“What's that, clothing?” I ask.
“No, they sell cookware and stuff,” Julie says.
“Like pots and pans?”
“Yeah, but for rich people. Really expensive pots and pans. Stuff to show off at fancy dinner parties.”
“Rich people,” I say with a snort. “Do you think Newt's ghost is in there now, haunting the construction crew?”
“Don't be silly, ghosts aren't real.”
“What? Then who sent me the notes? Who sent the crow-mail?”
Julie takes some photos of the storefront with her phone. “Probably some practical joker. You're sure James isn't doing it? Some sort of long con?”
“No way. How could he? No.”
“You're sure he's not recreating something from a movie, to make your life more interesting?”
“Julie! How can you even say that?”
She takes some pictures of me. “I don't know what's real anymore. I keep having these confusing dreams, not just about Newt, either. I dream I'm a servant.”
“Is that why you've been so emotional lately? Is that why you kept crying when we were at the cabin? Or are you traumatized from seeing the, uh, body?”
“Hmm. That may have been PMS up at the cabin, actually. Plus I slept with Liam and he's been ignoring me ever since.”
“You WHAT? I'll kill him!” My fists clenched, I see nothing but flashes of white and red.
Julie giggles. “If I knew you'd react in such a chivalrous manner, I would have told you sooner.”
“Julie. What were you thinking?”
“Oh, shut up. You know I have lusty feelings too. You and James are always hooking up with girls, so why can't I have some fun?”
“I only hook up with Austin.”
“Well, whatever. Don't judge me. But if you want to punch Liam in the face, be my guest. Punch him right in his lying mouth.”
“Are you ... okay?”
She rolls her eyes. “Obviously I'm damaged goods, but I think I'm okay. I could probably walk into a church and not be struck by lightning. Could you stop looking at me like that? Stop looking at me like I'm different.”
I turn away from her and study the former pawn store to take my mind off the weird feelings I'm having about hugging Julie and punching Liam in the face.
The owners of this new store are getting a nice, prime location thanks to Newt's demise. What do I know about Williams-Sonoma anyways? That name sounds suspicious. Do they grow their corporate empire through the use of voodoo?
I'll have to tell Detective Wrong about this possible lead when I see her. She can question Mr. Williams and Mr. Sonoma, if they are indeed real people.
“I won't sleep with Liam again,” Julie says.
“Good.”
“Probably.”
“Julie!”
“I feel better now. Want me to drop you off at your house? Austin's still mad at you, huh?”
“It'll blow over. Actually, could you take me to the police station? I'm going to do what you suggested and tell Detective Wrong about my abilities.”
She claps her hands. “Yay! Can I come?”
“This is something I have to do myself.”
She agrees, but when we get to the police station, she tries to come inside with me. I tell her to go home and try not to worry about anything.
“I'm a woman,” she says. “We worry. Don't you know that about women?”
After I step out of the Jeep, I realize she referred to herself as a woman, not a girl, which is something I've never heard her say.
Our little Julie is growing up.
* * *
The inside of the police station smells like doughnuts. I'm serious. I know my doughnuts, and I smell fried dough and powdered sugar and chocolate.
I was planning to set up an appointment to see Detective Wrong, but the receptionist behind the thick glass tells me to take a seat and the detective will be with me in a few minutes. Then the nice woman slides part of the glass over, revealing an opening perfectly-sized for food delivery, and pushes through an apple fritter on a tray.
Lunch was decades ago, so I grab it greedily and thank her profusely.
“Doughnut Wednesday,” she says.
“What do you get Thursday?”
“Pizza.”
“And Friday?”
The receptionist smiles sweetly. She's a pretty girl with short red hair, and I wonder if Austin having short hair has made me more appreciative of the pixie look. “I can't talk about Friday,” she says.
I eat the apple fritter and I'm licking the sugar-coated crumbs off the tray when a metal door opens and Detective Wrong appears, inviting me in.
A huge white guy stands next to the short woman, making her look even tinier.
“He's going to pat you down as a security precaution,” Detective Wrong says.
I don't argue as the big hands roughly pat all over my chest and back, then down my legs and up my inseam. If James were here, he'd crack a joke like “a little to the left.” If Julie were here, she'd say something about this being the most action I'd gotten in ages. But it's just me, and I have the good sense to keep my mouth shut.
After I'm cleared as a weapons threat, Detective Wrong leads me to somewhere for us to talk. To my disappointment, our destination is not a cool interrogation room, but a regular old desk.
She sits on a rolling desk chair and
I take a seat on a metal chair on the other side of her desk, facing the back of her computer monitor. We're in the middle of an office full of desks and people talking and tapping away at keyboards, the rhythm punctuated by phones buzzing and ringing. Nobody seems to be paying any attention to me or what I'm about to say. Even Officer Wrong keeps peering over at her computer screen.
“I'd like to offer my services as a psychic,” I say.
She doesn't even blink, but says flatly, “We already have one.”
“You what? Who?”
“A woman.”
I keep my mouth shut, and try not to think about Moira from the book store, even though she's the first person who pops into my mind.
“You know people who have abilities like mine?” I ask.
“I know enough. Now tell me why you're so interested in this murder investigation. Some people get a false sense of involvement when they encounter a crime scene. I think that's what's happening here, because you aren't on the pawn shop's customer records, and your connection to the crime is tenuous at best.”
“I do feel involved. My feelings are not false.”
Detective Wrong smooths down her hair, which is black and straight and comes to her chin. Her roots are very curly, showing she's overdue for a straightening. Her job's been taking all her time and she's not had a day off in a while.
I look away, embarrassed I've made these deductions about the woman's personal life just from looking at her.
“How involved do you want to be?” she asks.
“The man—the victim, Newt, has asked me to solve his murder. He's been sending me messages.”
She rolls back about six inches on her rolling desk chair, putting even more space between us. “Are you hearing him like a voice in your head?”
“Nothing like that. I'm not crazy.”
She rolls back in slowly. I didn't notice the other times I met her, but she's really pretty, with a dip in the middle of her lower lip, so her bottom lip matches the top in shape.
“I'm not,” I repeat. “I'm not crazy.”
“Here's a pointer,” she says, looking at her computer screen and moving her mouse while she talks. “For future reference, any time you feel compelled to use the phrase I'm not crazy, you've already lost. There's no coming back.”
“But you believe me that I'm psychic, right? Your other psychic told you about people like us.”
She relaxes a little in her chair and sits back, bringing her focus off the screen and over to me. “Yes. Working with Heidi has been quite the eye-opener.”
My voice shoots up high to the ceiling. “Heidi?! Oh, hell no!”
Chapter Eighteen
Heidi's working for the police? How can this be?
“Oh, hell yes,” Detective Wrong says.
“That's your psychic? Heidi? But she's so old, and so evil, and so mean.”
“Ah, do you all know each other?”
“No. But I know her, and she's mean.”
“Mean, yes, but she's got those crows trained to do her bidding, and as you may imagine, crows don't fall under the same regulations as police.”
On all sides of me, the station's noise of voices and tapping and buzzing seems to rise up in a wave as I come to a conclusion. I've been fooled. The truth was in front of me, but I believed what I wanted to believe and not the more obvious explanation.
“Heidi's been sending me notes,” I say. “Telling me to solve her brother Newt's murder. She used the crows and signed the notes from Newt, to trick me. I can't believe I'm so stupid. I mean, I can believe I'm really that stupid, but I don't want to.”
Detective Wrong goes into her big-voice mode. “She's been SUBCONTRACTING? Oh no, that is SO NOT ON. Not without my permission. What are we paying the woman for?”
“I don't know.” I shake my head and stare at the floor like the world's biggest idiot. I actually thought Newt's ghost was communicating with me from beyond the grave.
“How does your power work? Can you be a human lie detector?” Detective Wrong asks. “We could use that. Your neighbor, Crystal, she says she can't remember what she saw that afternoon. She passed the polygraph, but I still don't believe her.”
“I guess I'm a bit like a lie detector. But my power doesn't work all the time. Sometimes it's all black and murky and I don't see anything.”
“Well is it WORKING TODAY?”
I scan the office, worried other people can hear us, but they're all going about their business. If The Bridge has people within the police department, they probably already know everything about me, and there'd be no real point in whispering now.
Still, I keep my voice down and lean in. “Yes, it does seem to be working as of today.”
She stands and grabs her black leather jacket from the back of her chair. “Excellent, come with me.”
“Where?”
“Consulting gig.”
“Does this gig pay?” I ask.
“You said you wanted to volunteer. You walked in here and volunteered yourself. ARE YOU UNVOLUNTEERING?”
“I guess not,” I say as I follow her away from the desks, past an enormous plate of delicious-looking doughnuts.
“Go ahead and take one for the road,” she says. “Get me a jelly-filled. USE A NAPKIN!”
* * *
Detective Wrong lets me ride in the front seat after I promise not to touch anything. I swear people are staring, wondering what I'm doing up there, and I couldn't be more proud. I'm working on official police business.
When we get to Crystal's place, across the street from my own house, Detective Wrong takes a moment to apply a brownish-pink lipstick to her full lips.
“What?” she says.
“Nothing.”
“Cops can look nice,” she says.
“I didn't say anything.”
We get out of the vehicle, and she has me knock on Crystal's door.
“Is there a special knock for detective work?” I ask.
“Yes, but it's secret.” She blinks. “Of course not. Knock like you mean it.”
I knock exactly as I would if I were coming over to borrow a couple of eggs.
Crystal opens the door, and nearly shuts it when she sees I'm with a policewoman.
As calmly and reassuringly as I can, I tell her I'm here to help. Crystal's hair is even more matted than before, and her eyes dart nervously left and right. After a few minutes of me pleading and promising, she concedes and lets us in.
We sit at the table in her kitchen, which reeks of garbage that hasn't been taken out.
“You can do a hypnosis?” Crystal asks me. “So I can remember?”
Detective Wrong takes off her leather jacket and folds it across the back of her chair. Her lipstick is the same color as her shirt. “You can trust me,” she says to Crystal. “Anything said under Zan's hypnosis will not be used against you. Actually, officially, I'm not even here. Zan's not here either. None of this is happening.”
Crystal blinks and chews her lip, looking confused. “None of this is happening?”
I get a bad churning in my stomach, and it's not just from the overpowering stench of the garbage in the room. Delving into this woman's paranoid mind is not something I want to do, definitely not something I would volunteer for. Because my visions are becoming less about seeing, I'm afraid I'm going to feel what Crystal feels, and that's not a pleasant thought.
Still, I have to be strong and do what needs to be done.
Taking Crystal by the hand, I say, “Let me help you. Once you've got your memories back, you'll probably feel a lot better.”
She nods her head in agreement.
“This may seem strange, but I don't read palms so much as I read fingertips.” I lift my shirt a few inches. “I'm just going to put your finger against my skin here.” I point to my stomach.
Detective Wrong raises her eyebrows but doesn't say anything or indicate I should stop.
“I always knew you were odd,” Crystal says.
“This isn't wh
at I would choose for myself,” I say.
She reaches forward with her hand. “And this will help me remember?”
Lying just a bit, I say, “Yes. I'll go into your memory with you and then after, we can talk about everything.”
Detective Wrong, her voice soft and gentle, says, “This may seem unorthodox, but we've got no leads on the case and you're our only hope.”
Crystal bites her lower lip as she pokes her finger straight into my belly button.
* * *
Vision time.
Once the outside world gels and I find my feet—in a manner of speaking—inside Crystal's Secret Town, I'm surprised to find actual weather in here. Snowflakes come down in fluffy bunches. Snow covers lawns and hedges, and everything's gleaming white and fresh-looking.
Crystal catches some snowflakes on her tongue as she loads some boxes in a car. I don't see or hear anything about Spiritdell, but I sense the information, as though I've always known: this is the day she's beginning her long drive to her new home, where a job in a vet clinic awaits. I push for the vision to move forward in time, and at my command, time spirals by in a kaleidoscope of colors and emotions.
I see a boy, me, at her door with my cat Mibs, when he first got sick. I feel a heart breaking, Crystal's. She cares about helping us, and when the boy cries over the idea of losing his cat, she sits with him—me—for hours, going over and over the technique for checking his blood sugar and administering his insulin. I've forgotten all about that long, dark night, but Crystal hasn't. I knew she was compassionate, but now I feel that love from the inside. She understands how Mibs is as important to our family as any human. She looks into his little feline eyes and repeats a silent prayer for him, visualizing him enveloped in healing love.
I never knew.
We can't linger here, though, so I push forward, concentrating on the word Halloween and the blue Cinderella dress Crystal wore. The vision shifts and I worry my time is getting short and I'm about to get bumped out. If the vision ends now, I'll have to wait a day or two before I can get a reading again, or at least that's how it's worked before when I've experimented. I wish I knew more.
Witches and Ghosts Supernatural Mysteries Page 141