6th Sense

by Kate Calloway

  "Can just anyone get into your group therapy room, Mag?" Martha asked.

  She sighed. "I wouldn't think so. But when I'm with a client, the front door is unlocked. People in the waiting room would have access, I guess. Buddy checks everyone in, though."

  "Sure," I said. "Like she checked in Roy and Sergeant Grimes. And the other day, when I came downstairs, Buddy wasn't even here. She'd gone for doughnuts."

  "So much for security," Martha said.

  Maggie shook her head.

  "Hey," I said. "This isn't necessarily a bad thing. We were running into brick walls before. Maybe now that we have a new perspective, things will fall into place."

  "Not to be the bearer of bad news," Martha countered, "but Grimes just heard everything we said in Maggie's office. Or he will, just as soon as he listens to his tape. For all we know, he's sitting one block over, listening right now. I have a feeling the three of us are going to be feeling some serious heat and soon."

  "He's going to be coming for me, isn't he?" Maggie asked. "I've got to hide my records. If I have to, I'll tell him about the dreams, but I've got to protect my clients." She started to pull away.

  "It's Martha we should be worried about," I said. "The second Grimes hears that she's been privy to this information, he's going to come after her with both guns blazing. I think we need to do a little damage control."

  "I'm afraid it's too late for that," Martha said.

  "Not necessarily. Grimes doesn't know we found the bugs." I shrugged.

  Her eyes lit up with understanding and Maggie nodded. "You think we should go back in there and fake a conversation?"

  "I do. I think we should stage a scene where Martha says that even though she doesn't believe in all this dream hogwash, she's going to tell Grimes what we've told her, on the off-chance that there's anything to it. You can beg her not to tell, Maggie, but she'll make a big show of being bound by duty, et cetera. Then she can put in a call to Grimes when she knows he's out, ask him to page her, and then claim her pager wasn't working. It'll buy us some time."

  "Grimes is almost dumb enough to fall for it," Martha said. "I think we should do it."

  We started to walk back across the lot.

  "Wait," Maggie said. "If Grimes doesn't know we found the bugs, neither does whoever put the other one there, right? And we're assuming that's the killer."

  "Right," Martha and I said in unison.

  "So, why can't we stage another conversation?"

  "You mean, lay a trap?" Martha asked.

  I was already nodding my head. I liked the idea. "It might work, Maggie. After Martha leaves, you and I can have a therapy session. I'll divulge the truth about my abuser. Maybe I can get someone to pose as my boyfriend, or . . ."

  "They already know we're friends if they've been listening in, Cass. In fact, they probably already know a lot more about you than you think. If they're going to buy the therapy session, then we've got to make it real."

  "How do you mean?" I asked, starting to feel uneasy.

  "You've been emotionally abused, Cass. By me. That's the only way this thing will fly. I'll play the part of the cold-hearted, detached therapist. Whoever's listening will have no doubt that I'm a heartless bitch. Meanwhile, you play the part of the giving, loving victim, too hurt to stand up for yourself."

  "No way anyone's going to believe that I'm a victim, let alone that you're a heartless —"

  "Bitch, Cass. Yes they will. We'll convince them. You've played roles before. We can do this." Maggie was looking at me with determination but I was shaking my head.

  "I don't like this Maggie. Any of it."

  "They'll come after you," Martha said to Maggie. "That's what you're suggesting, right?"

  Maggie nodded. "It stands a chance of working, Martha. You can set up surveillance outside, can't you? See who comes to get me? I mean, if we do this right, we can have them walk right into the trap."

  "Maggie, this is a dumb idea," I said. "First of all, the killer identifies with you, or else they wouldn't be sending you the 'dreams.' You really think they'd come after you?"

  "They obviously identify with you, too. That they thought they could trust me makes this even better. It will be the ultimate betrayal. What could be worse? A therapist who counsels the abused turns out to be an abuser herself! It could send them right over the edge."

  "It could work," Martha said. "You really think you could pull it off, though?" She looked skeptical.

  "No one will believe it, Mag." I said. "You're—" I paused, trying to think of the right phrase. "You're too nice."

  "Watch me," she said, folding her arms across her chest. We stood in the parking lot, silently staring each other down. Maggie finally broke the silence. "Look. If this doesn't work, then I'll cooperate with Grimes and tell him everything. But right now, he's willing to hang Roy's beating on Harold and I don't know if he's right. This is something we've got to try, Cass. We're not going to get another chance."

  "Can we assure her protection?" I asked Martha.

  "We can take turns watching the place. I'd feel better if we could hide Maggie at night, though."

  "Things have to appear normal," Maggie argued. "You two can work out the surveillance details later, but I'm staying in my own home. Come on, let's get started." She took me by the hand and squeezed gently. "Let's give them the performance of a lifetime."

  Chapter Fourteen

  Martha had missed her calling. By the time she was through delivering her "bound by duty" speech, I was almost convinced myself. Before she made her grand exit from the group therapy room and left Maggie and me to fend for ourselves, she flashed me a note. Meet me at Pepe's when you're done.

  I nodded and turned back to Maggie, who said, "As long as I have you here, Cass, there are some things I think we need to discuss."

  And so the scam began. I wasn't sure how it would play out, but my heart was racing. Maggie, ever the skillful therapist, prodded me gently, pulling my feelings to the surface until, before I knew it, I was talking freely.

  "You feel that I deserted you?" she asked.

  "You did, Maggie. It's not that I feel you did. You did."

  "Semantics, Cassidy. My point is, you feel wronged. That's so typical."

  "What do you mean? Typical of what?"

  "The weak always feel wronged. Instead of doing something about their problems, they just whine about them. That's what you're doing now. You're whining."

  She was laying it on a bit thick, I thought, but she was on a roll.

  "You're weak, aren't you Cass? Isn't that what this is really about?"

  Despite myself, I was getting mad. "If 'weak' means letting yourself be hurt, yes, I guess I am. If 'weak' means loving someone even after they've hurt you, yes. But if strong means you can walk all over someone and not even feel bad, then I guess I'd rather be weak."

  Maggie laughed. It was so unlike her, so atypically cruel, that despite the fact that I knew she was acting, a chill ran through me. "You know what's so pathetic, Cass? You can't even bring yourself to get mad. Part of you hates me for what I did, but you'd take me back in a second. If I walked over there right now and kissed you, you'd let me. Wouldn't you?"

  I was suddenly panic-stricken. "I — I don't know."

  "Yes, you do. Even now, just thinking about it excites you. You want me, Cass. You hate me and you want me. Which is precisely why you need a therapist."

  "This was a bad idea, Maggie. I should never have agreed to see you in therapy."

  "Too late for escape, sweetheart. We're here, so we might as well work it out. You've got to make up your mind. Hate me or love me? Which is it going to be?"

  "Maggie, don't."

  She was on her feet, moving slowly toward me. "I'm going to kiss you, Cass. And you're not going to resist at all."

  "I don't want that."

  "Prove it," she said. "Fight me."

  "Don't," I said, albeit weakly. Maggie was standing right in front of me, inches away. I knew she was onl
y acting, but my throat was tight and my voice wavered. "Please, Maggie."

  We stood for an eternity, our gazes locked in combat that wasn't entirely feigned. Finally Maggie touched her fingers to her lips, then pressed the same fingers to my lips, mouthing a silent apology. Then she slapped me.

  "What the hell?" I said, stumbling backward.

  "You see!" she said, her eyes almost brimming with tears. "I can kiss you any time I want. I can slap you any time I want. You are weak, Cassidy James. Which is fine. I like women that way. But let's not get any more ideas about complaining, shall we? As long as you know who's boss, we'll be just fine. Am I right?"

  I was staring at her dumbly, still holding the cheek she'd slapped. Maggie was pushing this acting thing to the limit.

  "I asked you a question, Cass. Am I right?"

  "Yes," I muttered.

  "Fine, then," she said, returning to her desk where she started scribbling on a piece of paper. "I've got a busy weekend, but I think I should see you before Tuesday. You know, I do expect you to participate this time. You need to acknowledge your weakness, Cassidy. Show the others who you really are. It makes them feel good to see other weak, clinging, pathetic creatures. Especially the way you come off as so tough and competent in public. They need to see the coward beneath the surface."

  "I'm not a coward, Maggie. It's just with you. You know I'd do anything for you. Why do you want to hurt me?"

  "Because I can, babe. Because you let me."

  "And if I didn't let you, would you still want to, you know, see me?"

  She laughed. "We'll talk about that later. Time's up. How about, say, Sunday morning? Nine o'clock?" She was making Martha look like an amateur, I thought.

  "Tomorrow?" I asked meekly.

  "Yes, tomorrow. You have a problem with that?"

  "No, Maggie. Tomorrow will be fine."

  She held up the paper so I could read her writing. I will make this up to you, I promise! it said.

  I grabbed the pen off her desk and scribbled back. I just hope you haven't gone too far!!!

  I'm afraid I may have let the door bang behind me.

  "Everything okay?" Buddy asked when she saw me headed for the door.

  No, I wanted to tell her. Everything is not okay. But I returned her smile and nodded, letting myself out.

  Pepe's was in full swing, and Martha, off-duty, was sipping the remains of a margarita. "Well, how'd it go?" she asked, signaling the waitress for two more.

  "I feel sick," I admitted. "She slapped me."

  "What?"

  I described our interaction and Martha laughed. "Too close to the truth for comfort, eh?"

  "It was awful, Mart. I knew she was acting. I could tell by her eyes that it was killing her to say those things, but still, I couldn't help feeling like she really was talking to me. Am I weak?"

  Martha threw back her head and laughed. "You're kidding, right? I'll admit you're a pushover when it comes to women, but you're not weak. Not when it counts. Maggie knows that, babe. She knows she hurt you, and I don't mean today, but she doesn't think for one second that you're weak. Cheers." We clinked glasses and I let the icy tang of the lime and tequila trickle down my throat. "You think the perp will bite?" she asked.

  "Well, Maggie was pretty convincing, but it might take more than this. We set up another 'session' for tomorrow morning. You tried calling Grimes yet?"

  "Ten minutes ago. As usual, he was already out to lunch. This was the one place I knew we'd be safe. The guy hates Mexican food. I left a message for him to call my pager. You want the number seven?"

  The waitress took our orders and Martha filled me in on her plan.

  "I'm liking the sound of that Toby Cane better and better," she said. "I'm going to see if I can pin her down on an alibi for the night Roy got beat up."

  "Sure," I said. "Stella will say they were at home together watching TV"

  "Maybe Stella doesn't know what Toby's doing," Martha mused. "Maybe I should talk with her first."

  I nodded. "I'd definitely start with Stella and work my way up to Toby. Just don't catch her in a bad mood. The woman has got a temper."

  "So does the killer, Cass. That's one reason I want to talk to her."

  I scooped salsa onto a corn tortilla chip and ate it. "If it is Toby, and you scare her away, the trap we just set with Maggie won't work."

  "Well, if Maggie was as convincing as you say, maybe she'll strike tonight."

  "Somehow, I don't think it'll happen that fast," I said.

  "You're probably right. But if nothing happens tonight, I'll drive to Eugene tomorrow anyway. By Monday morning, I'm going to have to bite the bullet and face Grimes." She took a sip of her margarita and leaned back. "You know that idea about trying to find out if one of the clients' parents burned to death? I know a guy who might be able to make that go a lot faster for you. If you can get hold of him. He's a computer geek who does research for the department sometimes. Free-lances for spare change, but his real love is hacking. If the info you need is on a computer somewhere, he's the one to find it. Guy's name is Todd Pal. If you tell him I sent you, he'll help you out. Tina defended his brother on a misdemeanor last month."

  I doubted there'd be much computerized information about decades-old arsons, but it couldn't hurt to check it out. I wrote down the name and number and then concentrated on my food while Martha and I worked out our surveillance schedule. We decided that I'd take the first shift, watching Maggie's place from dusk until midnight. Martha would relieve me from midnight until about eight Sunday morning, when I'd take over again so she could go talk to Toby Cane in Eugene.

  I pushed back my chair and reached for my wallet, but Martha waved me away. "This one's on me, babe. Go find out what you can about house fires."

  Todd Pal was pencil-thin, with fine black hair combed straight back and a scraggly goatee that didn't do a thing to make him look older. I put him in his mid-twenties but he could easily pass for eighteen. He wore a half-dozen earrings in his right ear, another in his nostril, and no doubt a handful of others in places I didn't care to imagine.

  "Martha Harper?"

  "The cop. Tina's friend. The one who defended your brother?" We were sitting in his downtown apartment in what must have been a living room at one time. Todd Pal had converted it into a computer center, and screens glowed benevolently from gray and silver boxes everywhere I looked. The room hummed with electricity.

  "Oh, yeah. That Martha Harper. Sure I know her. Good people. What do you need, exactly?"

  When I told him, he laughed. "This could take for-fucking-ever. If I had some names to start with, it would sure help." He was already moving toward a large monitor whose screen saver flashed multi-colored geometrical designs.

  I deliberated giving him the list of Maggie's clients.

  With the names, he could probably do this in a few hours. Without them, he'd be operating in the dark. But Maggie would never forgive me. I shook my head.

  "How about a range of dates, then?" he asked, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. "Something to narrow this down." He looked at me hopefully.

  I'd already worked out the range by taking the oldest group member, Mrs. Bombay, and subtracting thirty-five years, which would put her at about the right age for the teenager in my dream. Joel would have been that age about seven years ago. I told him and he laughed again.

  "Nineteen sixty-three through nineteen ninety-one? You're kidding, right?"

  "You can't do it?" I'd figured it was a long shot.

  "I didn't say that," he said, pulling at his earlobe. "What else you got to go on?"

  "The fire was deliberately set with gasoline, I think. There might be mention of a child missing. Around fifteen years old."

  "Is the burn vie male or female?" he asked, already punching keys on his computer.

  "I'm not sure."

  He rolled his eyes, but kept working. "And this could be anywhere in the U.S.?" If he was trying to make me feel bad, he was succeeding. "There's g
oing to be a whole lot of these. We need descriptors. Isolators. Connectors. Something we can cross-reference. Something to narrow down the search."

  "There might have been a letter Z involved," I said.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe the victim's last name began with a Z." This was no more far-fetched than my Zorro theory, I thought. "Maybe the police mentioned finding the letter Z near the scene. It's a long shot."

  "Lady, this whole thing is a long shot. What else?"

  "The person who died in the fire may have been an abusive parent. There could be a record from child protective services, but the records would be sealed."

  "No such thing as a sealed record," he said, grinning. "And that's exactly the kind of stuff we need. What else?"

  I thought, racking my brain. "It's a two-story house," I said. "And there's a barn."

  He shot me an odd look, then punched in some more keys. "Okay. Rural. That's good. Not too many barns in big cities. Keep going."

  I thought back through the dreams, remembering the first one. Something about a kitten. "There's a creek!" I nearly shouted. "Somewhere close by, there's a creek." The creek where the monster had drowned the kittens.

  "Good. That rules out deserts, anyway. See? You knew more than you thought you did. Anything else?"

  I racked my brain, forcing myself back into the murky dreams, letting myself feel the terror as I revisited the horrid events of the killer's childhood. Todd had stopped working and was watching me, one dark eyebrow raised expectantly.

  "Mothballs!" I said. "The place reeked of mothballs and mildew. The house was old and damp."

  "Okay?" Todd was obviously waiting for more.

  "The person drank a lot, too."

  "Think they went to AA?"