by Lisa Jackson
“Becca?” he asked, glancing down at her.
“I’m…”
Falling, she meant to say, but it wasn’t possible. She crumpled limply in his arms and only his strength kept her from hitting the wet pavement in a heap. Inside her head Becca could see a room. An office of some sort. She reached out one of her own hands and saw she was holding pieces of paper. A white card of some sort and a blue envelope. Words swam into her view, blurry and indistinct. Watery. Squiggles that weren’t words, but maybe were if she could only read them. She saw that it was someone’s name, written in an uneven hand: Glenn.
When she turned the card over she squinted as if she needed glasses and slowly the squiggles turned into words, the words into sentences.
What are little boys made of? Frogs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails.
That’s what little boys are made of.
Her heart clutched.
Jessie’s rhyme! Jessie’s taunt. As Becca gazed at the note, the edges began to blacken and curl and suddenly the words burst into flame. She let go of the fiery note, her fingers singed, smoke filling her nostrils, choking her.
“Jessie!” she cried out. “Jessie!”
Holding her, Hudson froze.
Jessie?
What the hell was Becca saying? Hudson nearly missed the fact that her legs had given way, but he caught her as she collapsed. A dead weight that he had to grab hard or she would fall to the ground.
What the hell? Why had she cried out Jessie’s name? He held her tightly, half dragging, half carrying her away from the smothering smoke and the ear-deadening rush of water and engines.
“Becca,” he whispered, tamping down his alarm as she had turned pale as death. He should have never let her come to the scene. He should have stopped her somehow. Forced her to stay home. Never called her.
But he’d wanted to see her again. From the first second he’d spied her in Blue Note two weeks earlier, he was right back to those days in high school when thoughts of her had consumed him, when he’d felt the guilt of wanting her company more than his own girlfriend’s, when he’d wanted to hold her to him, press himself into her, make love until they were both senseless and sated with passion. He wanted to be with Becca. Wanted to breathe in her scent and bury himself inside her. He’d always wanted to.
“She okay?” Scott asked from thirty feet away, but his face was turned toward the disaster of the fire.
Hudson didn’t answer. Becca was breathing. Breathing hard, actually, as if she were running. He could feel the rapid pounding of her heart against his own. It was like she was in some kind of trance, but it was an active one. She was no passive participant in whatever was going on.
“Becca?”
He was holding her close, but he’d tilted her head back so it was resting in his hand. Her lips quivered and she tried to speak. There was rapid eye movement behind her lids. He was both scared and energized. Vaguely he remembered something from the past—some distant rumor about Becca Ryan fainting and speaking gibberish. He could recall tight knots of high school girls looking at her and snickering. Not Jessie, who, though she’d been jealous of Becca, had not treated her like an outsider. But then Jessie had felt like one, too, sometimes. And not Tamara, who was Becca’s friend, and he didn’t think Renee was part of it. But Evangeline…? Maybe it was just his own feelings about her, but he felt certain she’d been an instigator, one of the finger-pointers eager to slur someone else because her own self-image was so fragile and weak.
“Jessie…” Becca murmured again, and the hairs on the back of Hudson’s neck rose.
Slowly her eyes blinked open and she gazed at him dully for several seconds. Then she jerked in his arms as if pulled by a string.
“I’ve got you,” he said. “It’s all right. It’s okay.”
“I…I went out…” She wrapped her fingers in the lapels of his coat, clinging to him. Her eyes squeezed shut as if she were in pain.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” She swallowed hard, several times. “This…happens to me.”
“I know.”
She squinted an eye at him, her breath catching. “You know…that I had…a vision?”
“Vision, dream…loss of consciousness,” he said, relieved that she was coherent, her color returning. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes. But I saw something.”
“Jessie?”
She ripped herself from his grasp and stared at him. Then she looked around as if slowly remembering where she was and what was going on. “Jessie? No. I—why did you think so?”
“You said her name.”
“I spoke aloud?” That seemed to startle her and she suddenly looked pale enough to faint again.
“Let me drive you home.”
He thought she was going to argue with him, but she jerkily nodded, then lifted her hand to her forehead. “I get headaches,” she said.
“Where’s your car?”
“Uh—in a lot. Willamette Bank and Trust or something like that,” she said, trying to focus.
“I know where it is.”
He helped her to her car and then ensconced her in the passenger seat. She gave him her keys and he, after adjusting the seat away from the steering wheel, pulled out of the parking lot. “What about your truck?” she asked, her head resting on the passenger window. She still looked wan.
“It’ll still be here tomorrow.”
“I’m okay,” she said. “Truly.”
“Uh-huh.”
“This hasn’t happened in a long time, but now it’s…back.
They’re back.” She let out a long sigh, then yanked out the rubber band holding her hair away from her face.
“The visions?”
He hadn’t meant to sound dubious but he heard it in his own voice. She turned slowly to stare at him and her eyes seemed huge in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He asked her for directions to her condo though he knew the general direction from the list of addresses and phone numbers they’d given each other at their meeting at Blue Note. Becca pointed out the way, lost in her own thoughts.
When he pulled into her parking spot and hurried around to help her from the car, she tried to wave him off. “I’m really okay. I can get by on my own power.”
“Humor me,” he said, clasping her hand because she looked like she would refuse any other support.
At the rear door of the condo he handed her back her keys and she slid one into the lock. As soon as the door pushed inward he heard the half growl, half bark of a dog. The black and white scruffy beast glared at him and stood stiffly. Becca bent down to him, grabbing him though he wanted to be the watchdog, cooing to him and massaging his ears while he glared at Hudson and kept growling.
“Hush, crazy puppy,” she said fondly.
“You’ve got a good watchdog there. He’s just being protective.”
Becca smiled. “Don’t make excuses for him until you know him better. He’s known to prejudge people.”
She headed straight to a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of white pills. “Aspirin,” she said. And then, as if anticipating what he would say next, she looked his way, her hazel eyes full of an anxiety she was trying hard to hide. “Sorry you had to see that. I’m—not a freak.”
“Nope.”
“Not a total one anyway.” She swallowed the pills, chasing them with water. Hudson wanted to fold her into his arms again and was about to reach for her when she placed the glass back firmly on the counter, drew a breath, turned to him.
“I used to have these visions when I was a kid. Into my teens. The visions. I hadn’t had one in years and then just recently—bam—they were back.”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“Sure I do.” She waved a hand dismissively, as if she wanted to brush away any and all of his lame protests. “My first one was of Jessie. A few weeks ago. I passed out at the mall. Right there near the food court! Fell down in front of a group of kids and really freaked them out. One of
them took pictures of me on his cell phone.”
Hudson made a strangled sound of anger that encouraged Becca.
“Yeah, I know. The kids were reacting.”
“They were jerks. Uneducated morons.”
“I think I scared them half to death, but anyway it was Jessie. She said something to me and put her finger to her lips. She was standing at the edge of a cliff.”
He leaned a jean-clad hip against the kitchen counter while Ringo, in the doorway, still regarded the intruder with wary eyes. “These are different from the ones from your past?”
“Well, yeah. In content. They used to be just about people I knew. Like what they were thinking. Sort of a scenario would play out in my head about my parents, maybe. When they were fighting about something—usually me. They were always arguing about what was best for me, and sometimes I would see their fights in my mind and I think my visions were fairly close to the truth. Then when I got to high school the episodes got more intense and were mostly about boys I liked…or maybe girls who were mean to me…” She drew a breath. “They’ve never really made sense. More like dreams that hit me hard. One second I’d be normal, the next I’d wake up on the floor of the gym or hall or playground or science lab. It was more than a little embarrassing. You didn’t know?”
“I remember rumors about them,” Hudson admitted. “I think Evangeline helped spread them.”
“Did she?” Becca’s mouth turned down.
“She’s never been the nicest person around,” Hudson observed.
“She doesn’t want Jessie to reappear.”
“Maybe she thinks she’ll steal Zeke from her.”
Becca smiled faintly at his insight. “She was always thinking that. Anyway, fast-forward to today. I can’t explain what they’re about, but I had my first one recently before I’d heard about the body being found at the maze.”
“And that was of Jessie.”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t had any other visions between high school and now.”
“None. Not one the whole time I was married.” Becca sounded sort of surprised. “I’ve always associated the visions with stress, but I had some really stressful times when I was married and I never had one.”
“So maybe they’re not stress induced.”
“Maybe. Although tonight and the fire…” Her hands were trembling slightly and she flexed her fingers.
“Let’s go into the living room.”
He stayed close behind her but she was stronger than she appeared, he decided, as she made it to the couch with no problem, her dog jumping up beside her and curling into a tight ball, his eyes intense as they glued on Hudson, who took a chair opposite them.
“These visions,” she said softly. “They’re kind of a curse.”
“Maybe it’s your subconscious trying to warn you of something. The way you work out problems.” Hudson shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”
“No big deal,” Becca repeated through a hot throat. “I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve spent so much time making myself crazy over them. So afraid to make a fool of myself. Be the object of ridicule.”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said quietly.
“Easier said than done.”
“What about the vision at the fire? It was about Jessie, too?”
“Not exactly.”
Becca wondered how much to tell him. Sure, Hudson was being nothing but supportive, but she couldn’t trust that he would remain that way if she revealed the extent of her idiosyncracy.
But still, her vision was strange.
“I saw the nursery rhyme,” she admitted slowly. “In a note. Jessie’s nursery rhyme. The one she used to taunt the boys with? I think…I think she may have sent it to Glenn. His name was on it.”
Hudson went completely still. She watched his expression turn inward and felt her heart stop. Maybe he was reviewing his own feelings, deciding whether to keep championing her or dismiss her as a total nutcase. For a moment she’d felt un-burdened, but now she braced herself, certain that was what was coming. Despite what he’d said, she knew his support might be weaker than he believed.
“What nursery rhyme?” he asked.
She rubbed her arms briskly. “Jessie’s taunt. You remember it: ‘What are little boys made of? Frogs and snails and puppy dogs’ tails. That’s what little boys are made of.’”
Hudson closed his eyes a moment, touched his hand to his forehead as if making a monumental decision.
Becca’s heart jolted. “Hudson?” She wanted to take back the words. She’d gone too far. She wanted him to think she was normal, but if he got up and walked out she wouldn’t blame him.
“I’m the one who got the note,” he said slowly, his gaze holding hers.
“No…it said Glenn. I’m…I’m sure…”
For a response he reached into an inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a white card identical to the one in her vision.
He turned it over so she could read the front.
HUDSON was scrawled across the paper in an uneven hand.
Chapter Fifteen
I watch as the fire begins to dim and the crowd starts to disperse. It’s late and I should rest, there is so much to do, but the licking flames and billowing smoke have energized me.
No one has recognized me, though I’ve seen some who are familiar to me.
Rebecca…
Ah, yes…
Did you feel me here? Did you know that I observed you?
But she left, taken away by one of the others.
I followed their trail, caught a glimpse of her sliding into the passenger side of a little blue car…her vehicle, though he drove it.
Now the night closes in around me and I start back to my own vehicle when I sense it, that special scent, the one that propels me. It’s faint, barely discernible over the odors of charred wood, burned plaster, and smoke, but it hangs briefly on the air. Luring me. Making me nauseous.
I close my eyes, concentrate.
Inside I quiver…anxious.
It’s been so long…
But as surely as the tide changes with the moon, the time is near.
My mission is at hand.
Soon…soon…
Mac stood by his car, doused by dull, sprinkling rain, and stared at the rubble that had so recently been a restaurant and bar. Puddles had formed from the water from fire hoses and the ever-falling precipitation. The drama was all but over; the fire no more than foul-smelling steam. Standing water gleaming beneath the parking lot sodium vapor lights as drifting smoke hovered thick in the air.
The place had an almost vacant feel to it, even though the firefighters were still wrapping up their hoses and the trucks stood by, engines thrumming. Any looky-loos had left and Gia Stafford had been driven home by someone, thank God. The only person Mac still recognized was Scott Pascal, who sat on a wet curb and stared through red-rimmed eyes to the black, sodden hulk of Blue Note. Mac, who was rarely known for flights of fancy, had a sudden, sharp vision of a trumpet player squealing out some impossibly high note that ended in an echo of sadness. Blue note, indeed.
Pascal half turned. “Did you talk to Gia?”
He gazed at Pascal’s profile, noting the deep weariness etched in his face. One thing Mac had discovered from his years of interviewing people was that you never knew what they might say in times of deep stress. He’d found it beneficial to keep his mouth shut. Ask a few tight questions, but just wait for it, something Gretchen had yet to learn, if she ever would.
“Accident or arson?” Mac posed.
Pascal went quite still. “Who’s saying arson?”
“Maybe no one. It’s always a question, though, in a case like this.”
“A case like what? They’re not telling me anything.” He shot a vituperative glare at the departing firemen. Belligerence uglied his face.
“Come on, Pascal. You were bleeding money.”
“You went through my financials?” He half rose from the curb
.
“More like a guess. Your employees weren’t exactly shy about saying how long they felt the restaurant would hang on.”
He thought about that and sat back down. “Nice,” he said sourly, then lifted an eyebrow. “How much time did they give us?” he asked with a touch of irony.
“A week or two. Maybe a month.”
“You know Blue Ocean is taking off. Everyone said we’d never make it at the beach, but you’d be surprised.”
“At the coast?” Mac reiterated, thinking of the oyster shell, the fact that Jessie Brentwood had been hitchhiking along the road leading from the coast soon before she disappeared.
“Yeah, Lincoln City.”
Quite a bit south from where the Brentwoods had once owned a cabin.
Pascal said, “It’s been a problem getting it going, sure, but it’s a great location, and we lucked out with this chef who doesn’t know how damn good he is, which is absolutely unheard of. Glenn, damn him…” He swallowed hard. “He never really knew what we had. He just used it as a place to escape from his wife.” He barked out a bitter laugh. “Guess he finally achieved his goal.”
“Their marriage in trouble?”
“Everything was trouble for Glenn.”
“Yeah.”
Pascal ran his hands through what was left of his hair and sighed. “Man, he was a pain in the ass.”
Mac smiled faintly. This was as honest as Scott Pascal had ever been with him. All the barriers were down. He almost hated to send them flying upward again, but that was his job.
But Pascal beat him to the punch. Throwing a look at Mac, he said, “You probably think this has something to do with Jessie. That’s kind of your M.O. Everything that involves my friends has to do with Jessie.”
Mac lifted his palms.
“Go ahead. Ask me all kinds of questions about Jessie. Here I am…I’ve damn near lost everything…maybe the insurance company’ll pull me through, but Glenn’s gone and God knows what’s next…but you…You want to know about Jessie. So ask, Detective McNally. Ask away.”
“I don’t really see how this fire, and Stafford’s apparent death, have anything to do with Jessie,” Mac admitted.
“Well, he got a note from her.”
