6th Sense

by Kate Calloway

I awoke, buried beneath my blankets, nearly suffocating from the heat. I threw off the blankets, surprising both cats, and got out of bed. My heart was pounding. The dream had disturbed me beyond reason. It was just a nightmare, I told myself. But I couldn't shake the feeling of helplessness and terror that the child had felt. Who was she? And who was the Bad One? They were both nebulous shapes, indistinguishable in their features. In fact, now that I thought about it, I wasn't even sure the child was a girl or that the Bad One was male. I closed my eyes, trying to bring their images into focus, but the harder I tried, the more they seemed to fade into memory.

  I turned on lights and got the coffee going, though it wasn't quite morning. The cats joined me in the kitchen, suspicious about this change in schedule until I fed them. Then I set about working on my notes, trying to quell my uneasiness as I sorted through the facts.

  It wasn't just Harold Bone I was anxious to meet. I wanted to get to know Maylene Macintyre as well. Could she, after hearing that someone bashed Stella's boyfriend in the head, have gotten the idea to push old Granddad over the cliff herself? If so, the two deaths might not be related at all. Except that Maggie had dreamed about both of them. That was the problem. I could think of all sorts of motives and scenarios, but it always came back to this: Why in the hell was Maggie dreaming these things?

  When the sky finally lightened enough to be deemed morning, I decided some exercise might help clear my mind. The cats followed me down to the dock and watched faithfully as I dove into the icy lake. I pushed myself hard, alternating between freestyle and the breaststroke, hugging the shoreline so as not to be mowed down by some early-morning boater. By the time I returned to my own dock, my chest was heaving but I felt decidedly better.

  I let myself dawdle in the hot shower, then toasted a bagel, spread on a healthy dollop of cream cheese, and phoned Martha at the station.

  "Hey, girlfriend. Today's the big day, eh? I can't wait to hear about your first therapy session with Maggie. Maybe you can reveal all your deep, dark secrets."

  "Cute, Martha. I don't suppose you have time to do me another small favor?"

  She let out her trademark laugh. "Since when do you ever ask for small favors? What do you need?"

  "If I gave you the name of one of the people Maggie dreamed about, you know, that got killed, do you think you could get a copy of the crime scene report? I mean, without letting anyone know why you're interested?"

  She laughed again. "I'm way ahead of you, Cass. You don't think I already figured out who it was? How many murders you think there've been in this part of Oregon during the last two weeks? Of course, I had to do a little guesswork. You gave me the list of clients, so I had their addresses. That helped. I ruled out a stabbing in Port Orford and a suspicious drowning in Portland. But that baseball bat thing over in Eugene sure caught my attention. Imagine my surprise when the vic's address matched one of Maggie's clients'."

  "Martha, you promised not to interfere!"

  "Who said I was interfering? I'll trade you."

  "Trade me what?"

  "I'll share what I know about Hector Pena's death and you tell me who the other vie is. I've plumb run out of murders."

  It was my turn to laugh. "That's because it hasn't been ruled a murder. The guy fell to his death. The paper said they were going to do an autopsy to see if maybe he had a heart attack or something. No one's mentioned a single word about foul play. Except Maggie, of course."

  "That Ferguson guy? The rich lumber baron that drove his wheelchair off the cliffs down in Gold Beach?"

  "Your turn, Martha. What can you tell me about Hector Pena’s murder?"

  "If you've got time for lunch, I'll show you what I've got."

  I agreed to meet Martha for lunch, then went out back to work in my garden. I tend to entertain guests in the front yard because of the lake view, but my favorite place to be is in my backyard. My property is nestled in a valley and the ground slopes away steeply on three sides so that I'm completely surrounded by towering trees. Cedar, fir and blue spruce are scattered up the hillside but my favorites are the maple trees whose branches arch gracefully out over the yard. A natural spring that supplies my drinking water also feeds the creek that runs right through my yard to the lake. Along the creek, I've planted every imaginable flowering bulb, perennial and annual so that even in the dead of winter, flowers abound. Now, with spring underway, the bushes and clumps of green foliage were studded with blossoms ready to burst into color.

  I walked past the hot tub on my back deck to the stream and pulled a few weeds along the bank, working my way toward the greenhouse at the rear of the yard. It hadn't taken me long to recognize the obvious merits of the greenhouse. I'd built it to trap as much sunshine and warmth as I could for growing herbs and vegetables. But an added bonus was that the deer, try as they might, couldn't help themselves to the fruits of my labor.

  I noticed the unmistakable cloven hoofprints in the damp earth near the entrance and smiled. A doe and two fawns had paid a recent visit.

  Inside, the air was warm and thick with earth smells. I checked the drip irrigation system, then inspected the tomatoes for signs of cutworms. So far, the foliage looked perfect and dozens of yellow flowers had already given way to tiny green fruit. By August, I'd have more tomatoes than I'd know what to do with, but right now I was impatient for the rich, warm taste of a juicy, ripe tomato right off the vine.

  I moved toward the herb section and thinned out the parsley, grooming the chives, oregano and thyme as needed. It wasn't so much that my ministrations were required, as that the process comforted me. I liked to work my fingers in the dirt, breathing in the heady scent of the soil. I liked to imagine I could see the vegetables growing, and felt my presence somehow assisted their efforts. Often, I found myself talking to the plants, knowing it was silly but not really giving a damn. By the time I finished that morning, it was nearly noon.

  I washed up, then rushed to meet Martha at a little Mexican restaurant called Pepe's, on the south side of Kings Harbor. It wasn't very long ago that you couldn't find a decent taco north of California, but recently that was changing. Pepe's wasn't bad, as long as you kept the order simple. We both ordered the number seven combination and Diet Cokes.

  "You sure this won't ruin your appetite?" she asked. There was a yellow manila envelope on the table between us.

  "Probably. But show me anyway."

  "Officer Henzley faxed me these as a courtesy. I helped him out last year on a hit-and-run and he owed me. I'm serious, Cass. They're pretty gruesome. Ol' Hector probably never saw it coming. The first blow caught him behind the ear on the right side. From the angle, it looks like the perp's probably right-handed."

  She slid a picture out and pushed it across the table. I took one look and closed my eyes to steady the sudden nausea.

  "Thirteen times the perp made contact. M.E. report said Hector was dead after the third blow. I guess the other ten whacks were for punitive damages. Anyway, see this?" She slid out another picture and placed it on top. "Blood splatter everywhere except this spot here. The perp didn't leave any footprints in the blood. But the blood left splatter around the toe of the perp's right foot. That means the perp had plenty of splatter on the tip of his boot. At least they're guessing it's a boot. Not the pointy cowboy kind, but your basic rubber rain boot. Which indicates that the murder was premeditated."

  "Why's that?"

  " 'Cause it wasn't raining that day. Who wears rubber rain boots when it's dry outside?"

  "Okay, I buy that. But why are you assuming it's a man?"

  "Well, I'm not, really. Henzley is. From the toe it looks like the boot size is large."

  "You wear a large," I reminded her. And so, probably, did Toby Cane. "I have a pair of large rain boots I wear over my tennies," I pointed out. "I don't think they should be ruling out a woman."

  "There's also the fact that violent crimes like this tend to be more of a guy thing. This isn't just my opinion, mind you. Past history suggests that cri
mes of this nature are usually committed by males."

  Martha slid the last picture out and handed it across the table. "Here's what I wanted to show you," she said. "Henzley thinks the doer started to write something. See that N right there in the blood? Could be nothing more than a couple of scuff marks, but Henzley thinks the guy, or gal," she said, looking at me, "might've been interrupted before he or she could finish whatever they wanted to write."

  I stared at the three crude slashes, shaking my head. I turned the picture sideways and handed it back across the table. "It's not an N, Mart, it's a Z."

  "What makes you say that?" she asked, looking at the marks now that the picture was turned.

  "'Cause they did it again at the Ferguson place. I thought maybe it was the number two, but I don't think so. I've got a feeling our killer sees himself—or herself—as Zorro."

  Chapter Nine

  I pulled into Maggie's parking lot just before three and parked beside Harold Bone's truck near the back wall. The Jeep would help conceal me, but it was still risky. I waited until Donna Lee walked into the office, then pulled a quarter out of my pocket and purposely let it roll underneath the truck. Quickly, I ducked beneath the back bumper and clicked on the digital read-out, noting direction and distance traveled. They were nearly identical to those I'd calculated in my log. It seemed Harold Bone had gone straight from home to work to therapy. So much for high-tech surveillance, I thought. I reset the device, then backed out, straightening my clothes before heading for the front door.

  I couldn't believe how nervous I felt walking into Maggie's office. Buddy looked up from her computer quizzically. "Dr. Carradine's got a group session in a few minutes," she said.

  "I know," I said. "That's why I'm here."

  "Oh. Sorry. I thought you were here, you know, as a friend."

  "Yeah, well. Even friends need help now and then. Is this where I sign in?" I indicated the clipboard on the wooden counter.

  Buddy seemed as embarrassed as I was. "If you're a new client, you need to fill out one of these," she said, handing me a legal-sized form. "Most of the group's already here, in the waiting room. I guess you can finish the form afterward, if you run out of time. You nervous?" Her dark, dancing eyes appraised me and I felt myself blush.

  "Actually, I am," I admitted. "Is it that obvious?"

  "Well, basically everyone who comes in here for the first time seems nervous. At least you've been here before, though. I mean, since you already know Dr. Carradine, it should be easier for you. Right?"

  I wasn't sure which was more unprofessional — the notion that Maggie would include me in her group, or that Buddy was so willing to talk with me about it. Maybe Buddy figured that if Maggie could break some rules, so could she. "Right," I said. I took the form and headed for the waiting room, wondering why Buddy's easy candor threw me off balance. Was it because, as Maggie had said, I was jealous of her? Or was it because in truth I found her just the teensiest bit attractive?

  The waiting room was tastefully decorated in pale peach and green and featured an abundance of fresh-cut hydrangeas and live philodendrons. Maggie had a green thumb and it showed. It felt more like someone's living room than a therapist's waiting room, with comfortable chairs arranged in a U around a low square table covered with magazines.

  Harold Bone was seated next to Donna Lee, the redhead who lived on the boat. They were both reading magazines, ignoring each other. Across from them, a slight, milk-complected young man sat nervously drumming his fingers on the armrest while he stared at the dark screen of the TV in the corner. His legs were crossed at the knees, and his foot tapped the air in rhythm with his fingers. This must be Joel Harris, the man who still lived with his mother, I thought. In Maggie's brief description of her clients, she'd painted the picture of an emasculated young man, who'd been teetering for years on the brink of suicide. When I entered, all three looked up then straight back down, as if afraid that eye contact might result in contracting something contagious.

  No sooner had I taken a seat than Maylene Macintyre entered. She was a tall brunette about Maggie's age, dressed in an expensive, dull-brown suit with shoulder pads that didn't quite conceal her poor posture. She had the stoop-shouldered slouch of a tall woman trying to appear shorter than she was. She glanced around the room, and when her gaze settled on me, she furrowed her brow. I smiled in what I hoped was a timid, friendly fashion and looked back at my form.

  The last to arrive was Mrs. Bombay, an overweight, heavily rouged, dyed blond in her fifties. She was wearing a flowered pantsuit, the only piece of bright clothing in the room. She smelled of Chantilly, I thought. I watched as she promptly began touching up her lipstick. Except for Stella, everyone was present.

  Maggie strode into the room and greeted the group with a warm smile. Nervously, we filed after her, past her office to the group therapy room where the chairs were arranged in a circle. They all seemed to know their place so I waited until they were seated, then took the chair that Maggie indicated. Stella Cane's seat was left empty.

  "Everyone, I'd like to welcome Cassidy to our group. Why don't we start today by introducing ourselves?" This evoked the same enthusiasm as a dentist's drill, but they complied, mumbling their names while staring at the red Persian rug in the center of the circle. Only Mrs. Bombay gave her last name, oddly omitting her first, while Donna Lee ran her first and middle names together as if in one garbled sound. She smiled at me and I felt ridiculously grateful for the gesture.

  Maggie crossed her legs and turned her attention to me. "Cassidy, let me tell you a little about how we work here. And make no mistake about it, it is work." This got a few nervous chuckles. "Each of us is here for different reasons, yet we share common experiences. Because of our shared experiences, we are able to help one another work through our own problems." A few heads nodded and she went on. "No one has to talk until they're ready, but we don't have time for B.S." This brought on some more laughter, and the climate in the room seemed to shift. I felt myself beginning to relax. "Anytime you feel like jumping in, feel free. And if what we're discussing seems too painful, feel free to say that, too. From this point forward, you're a part of this group. Everything we do here will be a group effort. And as you know, everything that is said inside this room stays here. Before we get started, we need to know if you accept these conditions."

  I felt their gazes on me. "Yes," I said.

  "And is there anyone here who doesn't feel comfortable accepting Cassidy into the group?" I waited, half-hoping someone would object to my presence so I could get the hell out of there. Only Harold Bone spoke up.

  "Hey, the more the merrier."

  "Thank you, Harold. Anyone else?"

  "Let's get started," Mrs. Bombay said, smoothing her coiffed hair. "I don't think anyone minds one bit." She had a Southern accent and spoke with authority.

  Maggie waited, and when no one else spoke, she went on. "Okay, that settles that. Who would like to start today? Mrs. Bombay, you had something to say?"

  "I just wanted to ask Maylene how she was doing? Now that her grandpa's gone? I mean after what he done to her and all. I read about his accident in the paper. How you doin', doll?"

  Everyone looked at Maylene, then to Maggie.

  "For those of you who might not have heard, Maylene's grandfather passed away last week. Do you want to talk about it, Maylene?"

  She shrugged. Her brown hair fell forward, partly concealing her eyes. "What's to say? I guess I'll be richer now." She looked around, as if to see what reaction her words evoked.

  "You g-g-glad he's d-d-dead?" Joel asked. Maggie hadn't mentioned the stutter. The poor kid was in his twenties but seemed fifteen.

  Maylene looked up sharply. "That's stupid, Joel!"

  Joel immediately slunk back in his chair. Harold Bone spoke up, stroking his beard. "It's not really a stupid question, Maylene. I was wondering the same thing. When my old man died, I was as glad as could be. I know it sounds terrible, but it's the truth and like Dr. Carra
dine says, there ain't no time for bullshit. The bastard beat me from the time I was old enough to crawl. I didn't shed any tears when he drank himself to death."

  "She's not like you, Harold. Women are different." It was Mrs. Bombay offering this insight in her Southern twang.

  "How so?" Donna Lee asked. Her flaming red hair was tied back in a ponytail and she was dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt.

  "Well, look at you," Mrs. Bombay said. "When what's-his-name, Roy Boy, smacks you, you hate his guts, right? Ready to leave him right then and there. Then later he brings you flowers, talks real sweet, begs for forgiveness and wham, all your anger flies right out the door, right along with your common sense. If he ended up like Stella's beau, you'd be crying your eyes out just like she was. Women just don't know how to hate, that's all."

  "Your mama sure knew how, didn't she?" Donna Lee spat back. Silence flooded the room. Mrs. Bombay patted and smoothed the fabric of her pants before meeting Donna's gaze.

  "That she did, child. That she did. But my mama weren't no ordinary woman."

  "M-m-mine neither," Joel almost whispered. He threw a quick glance at Maggie.

  "You want to talk about that?" she asked. Joel shook his head. Maylene started to cry and Maggie handed her a tissue. Everyone shifted nervously, eyes downcast.

  Donna Lee finally spoke up. "I think I know how you feel, Maylene. Of course you hated him. You might have even wished him dead a thousand times. But you loved him in a way, too. Some people probably can't understand that, but I do. But it's okay if you do feel glad he's dead. That doesn't make you a bad person."

  This brought on a new wave of tears and Maggie handed Maylene the box.

  Harold was nodding his head. "Son-of-a-bitch had it coming."

  "That's what you said about Stella's boyfriend," Donna Lee said.

  "Well, it's true," he said. There was an awkward silence until Mrs. Bombay giggled.

  "Ol' Roy Boy better watch his back," she said, smiling at Donna Lee. "The way things are going around here, it doesn't look too good for the bad guys."