6th Sense

by Kate Calloway

  "She's psychic, I guess. She seems to know what I'm thinking and we haven't even met, except on-line. It's spooky."

  "Maybe you should steer clear, Cass. She could be one of those weirdos on the Internet we always hear about."

  "Just because she's psychic doesn't make her a weirdo, Maggie. You, of all people, should know that."

  She sighed and patted me on the knee. "You're right. What did the other one have to say?"

  Just that simple touch and my insides tumbled. "She wants to know if your dreams are happening before, during or after the actual event."

  "That's another thing that's been bothering me," she said. "I assumed that my dream about Stella's boyfriend was a premonition. But Maylene's grandfather was killed during the day and I didn't dream about it until later that same night. So it's not really a premonition, is it? Did either of your psychics say why this was happening to me? So far, none of the colleagues I've asked has ever had any experience with this kind of thing." Her voice sounded like it was ready to break. I'd never heard Maggie so vulnerable.

  "They both say you're probably more receptive when you sleep. PJ. says you've got too much noise in your head during the day to be aware of your powers. Claire says you've probably had a traumatic event that has jarred this new ability loose. She says you may not be dreaming at all, but rather 'seeing' while in the dream state. By the way, PJ. asked if you were gay."

  "What?"

  "She said it takes one to know one."

  "Oh, great. So now your weirdo psychic is gay, too. What did you say?"

  "Nothing. She was just trying to impress me with her psychic abilities, I think. She said the same thing you said the other day — that I was easy to read."

  Maggie laughed. "Well, she got that one right. You looked like you were ready to strangle Buddy. Your face is an open book."

  "I just found her annoying, that's all."

  "Bullshit, Cassidy. You found her charming and irresistibly cute. Like you. And you're jealous as hell."

  I was speechless. I opened my mouth to say something and nothing came out.

  Maggie laughed. Not unkindly, but it killed me. She went on, apparently unable to stop herself. "You see? Now you're mad. Because to admit that you're jealous is like admitting that you still care. And you wouldn't dare do that, would you?"

  "Don't do this, Maggie. I'm really not ready for this conversation."

  The tension was so thick I felt myself suffocating and rolled down the window. After what seemed an eon, Maggie exhaled.

  "God, I'm sorry, Cass. I am so sorry. I have no right to speak to you like that. I — I can't apologize enough. You don't deserve that."

  "You probably don't remember this," I said, my voice steely, "but you once accused me of thinking that as long as I apologized for something, it made everything okay. I’ve thought a lot about that since you left, and you were right. Being sorry doesn't negate the wrong. Not for me, not for you. Even if I accept your apology, it doesn't begin to undo the damage."

  We both knew I wasn't talking about what she'd just said. The bigger issue hung over us like a cloud ready to burst.

  "Again, point acknowledged." She sighed. "But just because you're not ready to talk about this doesn't mean I don't have something to say. I accept that you may not be ready right now, and maybe you never will be, which I'll just have to learn to live with. But I'm not going to pretend that there isn't something to discuss."

  "Point acknowledged," I said, deliberately repeating her words. I couldn't bring myself to look at her. I could hardly keep the car on the road.

  We drove in utter silence, the emotion between us so palpable I could feel it on my skin. Not until we saw the sign for Golden Estates twenty minutes later did Maggie venture to speak. "I think this is our turn."

  I turned in, pulling up to an electric gate. I forced a smile at the uniformed guard in the booth, hoping he'd just wave us through without my actually having to speak, because I wasn't sure I was up to it. But it obviously wasn't my day.

  "Can I hep you ladies?" His accent was straight out of the South. He was a beefy man with fingers like knackwurst, his palms the size of small hams. He crossed his arms and glared at us through mirrored lenses.

  "Yes. We're here on the Ferguson investigation. I'm Cassidy James and this is my partner, Maggie Carradine." I handed him my real I.D. and hoped to God he'd think we were official.

  "Private dick, eh?" He smiled and snorted. "Except I guess it don't exactly apply in this case, do it?" He was tickled to death by his own witticism and laughed so hard he started coughing into his fist. I'd heard it before. The dickless private dick. Maybe I should have it printed on a card, I thought.

  "We'll only be a half-hour or so. The family just asked us to have a look. Not that they think the police aren't doing a thorough investigation. It's just that the granddaughter, she, well, sometimes people need to satisfy themselves with a second opinion."

  "Maylene? Well, hell, why didn't you say so? I'm surprised she didn't mention it herself. She just left about an hour ago." He hiked up his waistband with his thick arms. "Tell you what. You-all just do what you gotta do and I won't mention nothin' to Officer Brown. Not that he would care, except between you and me, I think his feelings might be hurt, he found out Maylene hired an outside opinion. That ol' boy's been working this beat since she was yea high."

  "I know what you mean, Officer Lewis," I said, glancing at his nametag. This always got them. Security guards are either real cops who have retired, or wannabe cops who for some reason never made it on the force. Either way, it was a safe bet to play to their ego. "By the way, you recall any visitors the day Mr. Ferguson died? Anything unusual?"

  "Nah. I already checked the log. That was the first thing Officer Brown asked to see. Aside from the usual residents, we had a UPS delivery over to the Emmerson's and a realtor showing the Bernstein estate. Nothing else, 'cept for the gardeners, the mailman, the trash collectors and the folks who live here. Tell the truth, it was slower than usual. You wanna take a peek at the log yourself?"

  "If you don't mind."

  He thumbed back several pages and handed me a clipboard. Nowhere on the list for the date in question was the name Maylene Macintyre. If she'd killed her own grandfather, she'd managed to get in some other way.

  "What about this realtor, Agnes Mullholland? You ever see her before?"

  "Not that I recall. We get them in here all the time, though, and the Bernstein place has been on the market since last summer. Half the realtors in town been over trying to show that place. I just have 'em log in like everyone else with the name of their office."

  "This one says Twentieth Century. Was there a logo on the car or some other way to identify her as a realtor?"

  The big man narrowed his eyes at me and hitched up his pants. "I didn't ask for no I.D., if that's what you're getting at. Like I said, these realtors are in here all the time. She had a client with her, another lady. They looked harmless enough."

  "Can you describe them for me, Officer Lewis?"

  His beefy cheeks actually turned pink and he coughed into his fist. "I'm usually pretty good at this, but I'm sort of drawing a blank," he said. "The truth is, except for the fact they was a couple of ladies, I don't recall them at all. Didn't make much of an impression, I guess."

  "Who writes the license plate number in, you or them?" Since the printing looked suspiciously like that of the name, I feared I already knew the answer.

  "Depends. Sometimes, I let them write it in, sometimes I walk around back and do it myself."

  "And this time?"

  He took the clipboard back and studied the writing. "Looks like they musta done it. Why you so interested in the realtor? You think she had something to do with the old man's death?"

  "Probably not. I'm just thinking aloud. Is there another way into this place, other than this entrance?"

  "Not unless you're Superman and can climb up the cliff from the beach." He chuckled, and leaned down into the car
. "You want my opinion, the old geezer wheeled himself off that cliff. Not a lot to live for anymore. Even Maylene, who spent half her childhood here, didn't come to visit him, and the poor bastard didn't have a friend left. All that money and what good did it do him? In the end, he was just a lonely old man with no one to talk to."

  I thanked Lewis for his help and drove through the electric gate, knowing that if I could get in that easily, so could someone else. Had Stella and Toby driven here, pretending to be realtors? Had Maylene donned a disguise and come to kill her grandfather?

  "This is it," Maggie said. "My God, it's just like my dream."

  I pulled up to the curb and we climbed out, taking in the view. Another electric gate blocked the drive, and the wrought iron bars were too closely spaced for either of us to squeeze through. I clasped my hands together in a makeshift stirrup and boosted Maggie up and over the gate.

  "That's great, Cass. Now how are you going to get over?”

  I jogged over to my Jeep and backed right up to the gate. I hooked a rope to my trailer hitch and tossed it over the gate. Then I climbed onto the hood, crawled onto the roof and catapulted myself over the gate. "So much for security." I grinned. "We'll use the rope to hoist ourselves back over."

  The grounds of the Ferguson estate were soft rolling lawns sloping toward the ocean. The house itself sported white marble pillars, widecovered porches and picture windows overlooking the surf. A winding cement pathway bordered by red begonias wound its way to the cliffs edge where Maynard Ferguson had met his demise. As we neared, Maggie pulled back, her hand pressed against her chest.

  "I don't know what I expected," she said at last. "It's like I was really here. Like I was the one who pushed him over." Tentatively, she inched forward, peeking over the side of the cliff to the rocks below, as if afraid the body might still be there. It wasn't. There was no sign that it ever had been.

  "That guard was right about one thing. It would take an experienced rock climber to get up this cliff from down there," she said.

  "Yes, but it isn't impossible. You could do it. So could I with the right equipment." I walked the perimeter of the fenced-in property, noting several places a person in fairly good shape might be able to climb over from the neighboring estate. Once they got past Lewis it wouldn't be too difficult for someone to get onto the Ferguson property.

  The front door was locked and though I had my picks, I didn't think there was much point in breaking and entering. If there really had been a killer and he'd left a clue, it wouldn't be in the house anyway. It would be outside, long since trampled by the police and family members.

  "Show me where you were standing, before you pushed him over."

  "Cass! I didn't push him!" Maggie looked stricken.

  "In the dream. You know what I mean."

  We walked back down the cement pathway and Maggie stopped under a towering cedar. "I was here. Just behind that tree, I think. I waited for him to go by. He wheeled himself to the cliff and then I tiptoed up behind him." Her eyes were trance-like, deep in memory. I bent over and examined the area around the base of the tree. What was I hoping for? That the killer had left a note? A cigarette butt? A shoe-print? The fine bed of green and golden needles beneath the tree seemed undisturbed. I circled the tree slowly, and then something caught my eye.

  "Look at this," I said, pointing to three tiny slash marks about knee-level in the bark. Two of the marks were horizontal, connected by a third that ran between them at an angle. "What do you make of this?"

  "The number two?"

  "Maybe. They were made with a penknife, it looks like. And it's recent, Maggie. Think hard, was this in the dream?"

  "I don't know, Cass. I don't think so." As if trying to summon the memory, she kneeled next to the tree and studied the marks. She shook her head.

  "Okay, forget the marks for a minute. Did you have on gloves, Maggie?"

  "I don't know. I can't see myself. Only what's in front of me."

  "Shoes? Can you see your shoes?"

  "I don't know!" Her voice was close to breaking and I realized just how upsetting this must be for her. I led her back to the Jeep, wondering why the killer would leave us a sign, if indeed that's what it was. And if he had left a sign, why so small and out-of-the-way? There were just so many contradictions. Number two? Had there been a number one at the scene of Hector's murder? Had there been other signs I didn't know about? I'd have to find out.

  On the way back to Kings Harbor, I quizzed Maggie about Harold Bone, the therapy group member with the prior assault and battery charges.

  "Think he could climb up that cliff?" I asked.

  "I don't know, Cass. He's a big guy, but not in the best physical shape. He's strong, but not that agile. Why?" '

  "And this guy was abused by someone? As a kid?"

  I could feel Maggie's gaze on me while she decided how much to divulge. "Well, I guess you'll find out in therapy anyway. Harold's father was a horribly abusive man. He liked to use his fists, his belt, whatever he had handy. Harold still has the scars to prove it."

  I told her about Martha's background check. "You think Harold has adopted some of his father's tendencies?"

  "Unfortunately, that wouldn't be unusual at all. He hasn't mentioned it, though. I didn't know about the arrests. What happened?"

  "I'm not sure exactly, but it seems Harold has a temper. Twice he's used his fists to take it out on someone who, according to witnesses, 'had it coming.' In both cases, charges were dropped, which is interesting in itself. Could be he threatened them into dropping charges. It's something to check out, anyway. I also find it interesting that he has a habit of beating up people who supposedly had it coming.' Seems to me someone could argue that Stella's boyfriend got what he deserved, and the same could be said for Maylene's grandfather. You think Harold might be playing vigilante?"

  "I think it's possible that someone is. I really can't see Harold climbing that cliff, though."

  "Well, the cliff is just one possibility, Maggie. Someone could've hitched a ride on the back of the trash truck. Or with one of the gardeners. They could've come in the night before, for that matter. Officer Lewis isn't exactly hard to get by."

  When we reached Kings Harbor, Maggie offered to take me to dinner but I declined. In truth, I was starving, but the drive back had been too comfortable. It was just too easy to forget everything that had happened between us and to let myself slip right back into old habits.

  I dropped her off at her place and sped back to the lake, eager to start compiling notes on my investigation.

  Chapter Seven

  Monday morning the sky was overcast and I could taste the threat of rain in the air. Panic had deposited a fat mole on the front step, meowing loudly for me to praise her. Gammon had turned her nose up at the sunless sky and had come back in to sit by the fireplace. I poured a second cup of coffee and logged onto the Internet.

  There was another message from Psychic Junkie. "Hey, J.C. Didn't mean to scare you off yesterday. I just wanted you to know that you were dealing with the real thing. A lot of people claim to be psychic but they're pretenders. Posers, I call them. I wanted you to know I'm for real. I also think you are, too, even if you are calling on behalf of a 'friend.' "

  I wondered about the emphasis on friend. Did RJ. assume that Maggie was more than a friend? Or was she implying something else? Maggie may have been right about EJ. being weird, I thought. I read on.

  "So, did you ask her how she felt after these 'dreams'? Notice the quotes? That's because I don't think your 'friend' is really 'dreaming.' I think she's picking up on images while asleep. Anyway, I'm betting she felt a sense of satisfaction after the 'dream.' Am I right? I'll be in the chat room tonight at seven if you're interested in connecting again. Until then, stay dry! The weatherman says it's going to pour!"

  This last note made me wonder where EJ. was writing from. I had purposely chosen a regional chat group, thinking if I narrowed it down to psychics in the Northwest, I might actually be
close enough to one of them that we could talk face-to-face. I flipped on the Weather Channel and frowned. Rain was forecast along the coast from Brookings all the way to Seattle. Which meant EJ. could be miles away. Maybe it was just as well, I thought. I wasn't sure I really wanted to meet her. For some reason, I trusted Claire more. But Claire, apparently disappointed that I wasn't clairvoyant myself, hadn't left me a message.

  Just for fun, I logged onto Psi-Chat Northwest and listened in. As soon as I entered the room, "Just Curious" appeared in an upper right-hand box listing the room's occupants. There were four other people in the room discussing something called scrying. From what I could tell, scrying involved objects such as crystal balls. I was startled when the one called Prophet addressed me.

  "Just Curious, welcome. You have an opinion on this?"

  "Not really. I'm just eavesdropping. I was hoping to learn more about ESP?” I wrote.

  The one called Leah answered. "Well, you're in the right place. What do you want to know?"

  "For one thing, what's the difference between clairvoyance and telepathy?"

  "I can answer that," Prophet replied. "Telepathy is knowing of events in another person's mind. Clairvoyance is knowing things that actually exist. For example, I tend to be telepathic. I pick up on what others are thinking. Very rarely have I had truly clairvoyant experiences."

  Someone named Ra cut in. "I, on the other hand, am clairvoyant. I sometimes see things that are happening elsewhere."

  "Can a person be both?" I asked. "And what if the event that the person is seeing hasn't actually happened yet?"

  Leah answered. "That's called precognition. All three can happen simultaneously, though most of us aren't that lucky. But it's entirely possible for a seer to pick up on another's thoughts about an event that hasn't happened yet. Let's say Prophet is thinking about jumping from an airplane and I telepathically pick up on his vision. Later, when he jumps from the plane, my vision seems to have come true. But did I really envision the future? Or was I simply tuning into his thoughts about the future, which happened to come true? It's a shady area."