After another fifteen minutes, Adele stood, the vision evaporating.
Enough of this bullshit. It was time to take a shortcut.
On Saturdays, sandwiched between their two busiest nights of the week, most of the others slept. There would be activity only in the main building, where the drones worked.
Drones was Adele's word for them. When Neala once overheard her using it, she'd been sentenced to the worst punishment inflicted on kumpania youth: a month caring for the seers.
The drones were those whose clairvoyance never developed enough to take their place as full-fledged members. So they'd been given the menial jobs that kept the community running - cooking, cleaning and caring for the children.
The chores with children were most popular, especially with the women, probably because drones were sterilized - the surgery performed by a human doctor who, like his father before him, was paid very well to service the kumpania and ask no questions.
A drone's offspring were certain to have powers even weaker than their parents' and there were only so many menial tasks to go around. Just last year, when the phuri finally agreed that twelve-year-old Suzanne would never be a true clairvoyant, the leader - their bulibasha, Niko - had declared there wasn't enough work for seven drones. So fifty-four-year-old Lizette, showing signs of rheumatoid arthritis, had quietly passed in her sleep. Everyone knew what had happened. No one complained. It was in the best interests of the kumpania.
Adele snuck out back to the tool shed. She moved aside the barrel in the corner, found the keyhole in the floor and inserted the stolen key. The trapdoor sprang open, steps below disappearing into the darkness.
She turned on her flashlight and started down, closing the hatch behind her. At the bottom, she inserted a second key, then pressed the buttons on the ancient code lock. The lock disengaged, and she opened the inner door and headed down the tunnel.
Inside was the bomb shelter. Or that's what the kumpania had called it in the fifties when they'd taken advantage of nuclear hysteria to hire a group of workmen who thought nothing of building a fully operational shelter under the old farm.
The hum of the generator was the first thing Adele heard. A few more steps and the raucous shouts and musical sound effects of a cartoon seeped through the next door. Tom and Jerry, Adele guessed. That was Thom's favorite.
When she opened the final door, it was still almost dark. They kept the lights low to save generator fuel. The seers didn't complain. They'd never known anything brighter, and would scream in pain if they stepped into the sunlight. Or Thom and Melvin would. For the third, Martha, the world was eternally dark.
Martha's crib lay just inside the door. She reminded Adele of the grubs she'd sometimes turned up doing garden work, white and wriggling, blind and limbless. Martha didn't wriggle much - only when her diaper was dirty and starting to chafe, and she'd twist and mewl, the loudest sound she could make, her white face thrashing back and forth, smooth pits where her eyes should have been. If she got agitated enough, she'd dislodge her feeding tube. When Adele had been sentenced to her month caring for the seers, she'd learned to check Martha regularly or she'd have an extra week tacked on if someone needed to reinsert the tube.
Inbreeding made stronger clairvoyants, but every now and then, a seer was born - a very powerful, deformed clairvoyant. To the kumpania, they were revered as gifts from the gods... just not a gift they cared to be blessed with too often. A seer required constant medical care, and the kumpania didn't need more than two or three good ones. Seers were like dishwashing machines, Niko had explained. Having a couple lightened the kumpania's workload immensely. More than that would be an unnecessary expense.
Martha's albinism was one known condition with seers. As for her missing limbs and eyes, Martha's mother had blamed the drugs she'd been taking for morning sickness, their effect made worse by a genetic predisposition to mutations. Or so Niko had told Adele when he brought her down here. She didn't care about the reason for Martha's condition. All that interested Adele was that this slug was the most powerful clairvoyant in the kumpania.
Unlike the other two seers, Martha's brain was unaffected by her condition. Adele had thought about that - what it would be like to spend your life in a crib, sightless, limbless, unable to communicate except through visions.
She'd mentioned that to her kirvi, Lizette - the drone who raised Adele after her mother sold her to the kumpania. Lizette had held Adele and rocked her and comforted her, talking about pity and empathy and the unknowable will of the gods. Adele had listened, and thought Lizette a fool. She didn't feel anything for Martha. No more than she felt for Lizette, smothered in her sleep when she outlived her usefulness.
Her only interest in Martha was in how she might access the powers of that trapped mind, but that secret belonged to the phuri. That was how they guarded themselves against ambitious younger members. Only they could use the seers.
Or so they thought.
She glanced at Melvin, sitting in one recliner, his vacant eyes fixed on the flickering colors of the cartoon. Veggie Boy, she called him, though not in front of anyone. Niko said Melvin was severely mentally retarded. And he wasn't a boy, but a man in his thirties. He looked like a child, though, with his hairless plump body, and his round, smooth, wide-eyed face.
Other than the hairlessness, the brain damage was his only birth defect, but it also made him the weakest of the seers. Adele had heard the phuri debate Melvin's ongoing care, whether he was enough of an asset to warrant keeping alive. But his father was Niko, and while they were supposed to abandon and disavow their blood relations to the seers and drones, as long as Niko lived, so would Melvin.
" 'Dele..."
Adele turned to Thom, who watched her with a sloppy smile, his blue eyes glowing with doglike devotion. Just like his brother.
Thom was a year older than Colm, who knew nothing of his sibling. Colm was supposed to have been introduced to the seers at thirteen, but Neala had convinced Niko that under the circumstances, he should wait a few more years. He needed more maturity to prepare for the shock. He was too sensitive, Neala said, blaming his father's genes. Rhys had been a durjardo - an outsider like Adele - who'd introduced fresh blood into the kumpania. It hadn't worked with Thom, but at least they'd gotten a seer out of it.
When Colm and Thom met, there would be no way for Neala to hide who Thom was. His features were so like his brother's, he could be his reflection... viewed through a funhouse mirror.
Thom had an oversized head, bulging and misshapen. His chair was specially fitted with a contoured headrest to support it. Unlike the other two seers, Thom could leave his seat, though he needed the help of a walker, as his legs were shrunken and twisted.
He was what Lizette had called "slow." But he wasn't nearly as bad as Veggie Boy and could communicate, though he usually chose not to. The phuri had high hopes for Thom. At sixteen, he was already a more powerful clairvoyant than Niko. In a few years, he might even surpass Martha.
Being able to communicate through speech made him already more useful than Martha. There was no real secret to using his powers. If he granted a clairvoyant access, they could use him. But getting that permission was harder than it might seem.
Here was where Thom and Colm differed. Colm tripped over his feet trying to help others. Thom was mule-stubborn, and when pushed where he didn't want to go, he'd throw a tantrum, locking down his powers, refusing access to everyone.
Fortunately for Adele, though, she'd discovered that Colm and Thom shared something else in common, though it was probably less related to genetics than to teenage hormones. The moment she stepped into view, Thom's sweatpants tented.
She walked over and bent to rub him through the fabric. He made a noise in his throat, like the rough purr of a cat, again reminding her of his brother.
"How are you today, sweetie?" she asked. "Miss me?"
He arched his hips in answer and reached for her shirt front, balling it in his fist and lifting.
&nb
sp; She laughed and slapped his hand away. "Not yet."
The purr hardened to a snarl, Thom's eyes narrowing.
"Oh, all right," she said. "Just a little."
She slid her hand into his pants and stroked him. He closed his eyes, that rough purr returning. After a minute, she dropped her fingers to his balls and fondled them.
"Please, sweetie? I really need your help."
One blue eye opened, his lips curving in a smug smile. Thom might be slow, but he had an animal cunning and an ego his little brother lacked. She had to deal fairly with him and let him know how special he was, how much she needed his help and how grateful she'd be for it.
In the beginning, she'd tried to toy with him, as she did Colm. It didn't work. When she'd realized she'd need to follow through, she'd been repulsed by the thought, only her ambition propelling her through those first few times. But she'd gotten used to him, to the point where, if she was being honest, she didn't mind at all.
She'd been well rewarded. It was Thom who'd made her training assignment with Portia Kane such a success. Whenever she'd been unable to get a lock on Portia, she would come to Thom and he'd show her where she was. While Lily struggled with her first assignment, Adele had shot past her, impressing the phuri. Everyone agreed that Adele was the most powerful clairvoyant they'd had in years. Fat lot of good it did her - still destined to wed a boy five years her junior, still given the lousiest - if most profitable - assignments...
Yet again it was Thom who saved her. He had, albeit inadvertently, provided her with the treasure that would buy her way out of the kumpania. Now he'd help her safeguard that dream by finding Robyn Peltier.
She settled onto Thom's lap and handed him Robyn's shirt and photo. He held them a moment, then let out a derisive snort.
"Oh, it's too easy for you, is it? I'm sooo sorry. Next time I'll bring you a tough one." She reached down to squeeze his cock. "You're just too good, sweetie. You know that, don't you?"
He didn't answer. He rarely did. She rubbed him, listening to him purr. When she tried to stop, he held her hand in place, making a warning noise deep in his throat. She only laughed and complied for another minute. One final squeeze, then she wrapped her arms around his neck, leaning toward his ear.
"Can I see, sweetie? Please?"
A grunt. Adele closed her eyes and concentrated. After a couple of minutes, the darkness cleared. This was the true gift of the seers. They could not only see better and farther, but project those visions to other clairvoyants.
Again, Adele saw Robyn Peltier. Still at that damned computer.
"Show me more," she whispered. "Help me find her."
With an ease that made Adele ache with envy, Thom pulled his mental eye back and panned the room.
"Slow down," she said, as she took it all in, making mental notes. Then, "Okay, take me outside."
They passed through the door into a parking lot. Adele guided him to the front of the office, noting the name and address.
"That was exactly what I needed," she murmured, lips to his ear. "You're too good, you know that?"
A hoarse chuckle. He knew it very well. And he knew what was coming.
She stood and pulled off her shirt.
* * *
ROBYN
When Robyn saw a shadow pass the drawn motel drapes, her first thought, supported by her growling stomach, was "Good. Lunch. Finally." Then she remembered she hadn't ordered any yet.
She'd meant to. She'd picked a meal from the menu, then decided she wasn't quite hungry enough and wanted to check a few more things first.
Hope had set her on the task of researching rumors about Jasmine Wills, anything that might support the theory that she had a grudge against Portia, and that the photo had pushed her over the edge to murder.
Robyn had started with tabloid and gossip column archives. Finding nothing new, she'd moved to message boards and blogs, and that's where she'd become mired in the hate and vitriol posters directed at Portia - a woman they'd never met. She'd been pulled off track, bogged down again, lunch plans forgotten as her hopes of finding helpful rumors were squashed by the sheer number of blatant lies and slander.
Finally she'd stalled on a "Shoot Portia Kane" Web game. She'd been surprised it hadn't been removed in light of the tragedy. Then she'd realized it had been created after Portia was killed.
How could someone make such a game? How could people play it? If Robyn wanted a suspect to replace her, she could just post on Craigslist. People would line up, eager to snatch the glory of killing a young woman whose only crime had been to unabashedly enjoy the wealth and social position she'd been born into.
She was still staring at that game when she noticed the figure approach the curtained window. For at least ten seconds the figure stood there, then moved toward the door. Robyn waited for it to appear at the window on the other side of the door. It didn't.
Should she stay where she was? Or run into the bathroom?
When no knock came, she rose, gripping the back of the chair to support herself as she caught her breath. Okay, she was being silly now. A man outside her door? Could it be the one who was sharing her room? Yet even as she tried to convince herself it was Karl, she had only to recall the slender shadow to know it hadn't been.
She took three steps toward the peephole, then stopped, remembering a crime show she'd watched with Damon, where someone looked out his peephole and got his face blasted off with a shotgun.
The figure passed to the other side. Then his shadow started to shrink as he walked away.
Robyn hurried to the peephole. Her view was distorted, but she could tell he had red hair and looked young. She remembered what Hope had said about seeing a red-haired young man at her apartment. Now she flashed back to another figure. Judd's killer. Male, young, a slight build, below-average height...
She checked back out the peephole. The man was walking toward the road.
Robyn darted to the nightstand and picked up the phone. Her finger flew to the pad to dial Hope's cell. But what would she say? If Karl drove really, really fast they might catch a glimpse of the guy before he got away?
She'd wanted to play an active role in the investigation, hadn't she? She put down the phone, and quickly changed back into Judd's sweats.
* * *
FINN
After squashing the junkie-college-kid lead, Finn's day had continued its pattern of failure.
There had indeed been a boy at Robyn Peltier's door. Confirming that hadn't been simple. First, Finn had to be careful explaining how he knew there'd been a boy there. He'd claimed it was an anonymous tip from a neighbor who'd taken his card.
The officer admitted to questioning the kid, but he hadn't bothered getting a name because the story checked out and the kid lived in the building. Well, no, he hadn't confirmed that... He'd been going to, then an elderly resident had cornered him and started complaining about crime rates and you know how that goes...
Finn asked the officers currently on stakeout duty to follow up. Twenty minutes later, one called back to report that there were no kids in apartment 304. The super didn't recognize the description and he swore he knew every boy in his building, because you had to keep an eye on kids that age...
So Finn had one teenage boy, nicely dressed, well mannered and well spoken, skilled in lying and picking locks. An odd combination. What did it have to do with his case? An unrelated crime of opportunity? Stealing Portia Kane memorabilia to sell on eBay?
Next came what seemed a bit of luck. The lab had managed to raise the serial number on that gun. It was registered to a private citizen - an eighty-six-year-old great grandmother, who'd reported it stolen two months ago. The gun had likely passed through several hands before killing Kane, the silencer added by one of them. Some one would follow up, but Finn suspected another dead end.
The Philly police had also struck out with Peltier's parents. They were outraged that their daughter was wanted for questioning in a murder. These folks also knew the law. The
y refused a search without a warrant, and they phoned their lawyer. Though they didn't have the right to insist she be present for questioning, they stalled until she arrived.
Regarding their daughter, they hadn't spoken to her in four days. The police were welcome to review their home and cell phone records. They also provided her address in L.A., her home and cell number, though they must have known the L.A. cops already had all this - trying to look helpful while not revealing anything that was.
As for the friend Finn was seeking, their daughter was twenty-eight years old. They no longer monitored her friends and didn't know most of them. One detective had taken advantage of a bathroom break to scout the main rooms. In the living room, he'd found a hanging photo of two teenage girls. One matched the description Finn had been given. The other was Robyn Peltier.
When confronted, Peltier's mother claimed it was a friend from Robyn's teen years and she couldn't recall the girl's name. The father, though, blew up at the intrusion, ended the questioning and sent the detectives on their way.
They were lying about the friend.
Finn knew there was an easy way to get his answer. He had a source who was certain to know exactly who Robyn Peltier's friend was. But that source had slipped away the moment Finn got on the phone with the Philly detectives.
Finn still hadn't decided what to do about Damon. The cop in him said to cut the guy loose. No matter what special skills Damon could bring to the investigation, the husband of the main suspect was not partner material. But Finn couldn't help thinking that it wasn't a coincidence that he'd gotten this case, the one detective who could speak to the dead.
Finn believed in God. His mother would have nailed his hide to the back shed if he hadn't. In his family, faith was never a question. What was faith in God if not the belief that the soul existed beyond this life, which his family knew with certainty to be true?
There were those who thought such powers came from the devil. His family dismissed that nonsense the way philosophers scoffed at those who saw an eclipse as a sign the world was being devoured by dragons. God granted some people the skills to become doctors to help the living. God had given their family the power to help the dead. It wasn't always conducive to a peaceful life, but no worse than a family doctor, called out on an emergency at 3 a.m.
Living With the Dead Page 10