6th Sense

by Kate Calloway

"I doubt it." I shook my head, trying to think.

  There was something I was missing. It was in the last dream. I closed my eyes, willing myself to go back into the house.

  The child had poured the gasoline on the stairs and was watching the flames shoot up the stairway. The door opened. The Bad One was standing in the doorway, pointing down, even as the flames engulfed his body. And right there, over the Bad One's shoulder, hanging on the opposite wall was a hatrack. And on the hatrack was a uniform.

  "Military!" I practically shouted. "I think they were in the military!" I closed my eyes again and described the uniform as well as I could.

  "Sounds like the army," Todd said. "I'll double-check. This could help a lot. Even if the uniform belonged to a spouse, it will help. Anything else?"

  I knew I'd exhausted my limited knowledge and shook my head.

  "Okay, then. Let me see what I can do. It's going to take a while, you understand. And I'm not all that optimistic. The best I'll be able to get you is a list of possibles, and the list will be long. If you want, I can download it and e-mail you when I've got it."

  "That would be great," I said. "How much do I owe you?"

  "I'll let you know when I see how long this takes me. Don't worry. I'm not cheap, but I'm fast and honest."

  I left him my home phone number and e-mail address, sending a silent prayer skyward as I walked out.

  Todd Pal had warned me, but I still wasn't prepared for the sheer volume of data that he sent me. I'd spent the afternoon doing errands and was just getting ready to leave for my first watch of Maggie's place when the e-mail came in. There was no way I'd have time to print it all out. I decided to take my laptop with me.

  I apologized to the cats for leaving them again so soon, then made my escape before Panic could dash out the door between my feet.

  The evening sky was clear and already studded with stars when I pulled up to the curb across the street from Maggie's. I parallel-parked between a red van and a green Ford Escort, which pretty much concealed my position from either direction while affording me a straight shot of Maggie's front door and parking lot. The tiny lot was empty, and the light coming from Maggie's upstairs living room window indicated that she was home. I pushed the front seat back as far as it would go, connected my laptop to the wireless modem, making sure my back-up batteries were handy, then settled in for some tedious, eye-straining work. My thirty-eight was tucked safely in my shoulder holster, just in case.

  Todd had organized the data by ranking the percentage of matching fields, which he explained in his brief salutation. Each "episode," as he called them, was numbered in descending order by its corresponding percentage score. A perfect score would indicate that the person who'd died in the fire had a first or last name starting with Z, had been in the Army, was on file as a child-beater, lived in an old two-story house with a barn in a rural community with a creek nearby. My heart skipped as I stared at the only episode meriting a perfect score. I clicked on the More Info box and waited for the original clipping to come on screen. It was dated March, 1970, and came from Little Rock, Arkansas, where a Ziggy Jones had died from what appeared to be an intentionally set fire to his two-story farmhouse. Authorities had not ruled out the possibility that the arson and resulting murder were racially motivated. My moment of optimism faded as I realized Ziggy Jones was black.

  I continued to glance out the window toward Maggie's front door as I worked my way down the list, jumping from the one perfect score to the dozens upon dozens of those in the tenth percentile. Apparently, it was far more common than I thought for people to burn to death in their own homes. It seemed especially common in rural settings, where people lived too far away from fire departments and neighbors who might notice the smoke. To top it off, quite often the cause of the fire was a tipped-over kerosene lamp, making it difficult for authorities to rule out arson. I closed my eyes, wondering how on earth I was going to find the right one, and wondering if it was even on the list.

  I looked out at Maggie's window, wondering what she was doing. She wasn't much of a TV-watcher, I knew. Probably reading a book, I thought. I wished I could call her, but Martha and I had already decided against that unless, of course, it was to warn her that there was trouble. We were afraid that someone, either Grimes or the killer, might have somehow tapped her phone, and we didn't want to take any chances.

  I looked back at my screen and continued to scroll down the list. Maybe I should be looking for the least-common field, I thought. If they weren't locked, I could try to list the cases by specific fields, such as Child Abuser, and just bring those up. But after wasting an hour, I realized that the way Todd had set up the data, I didn't have that option. Using my cell phone, I punched in his number and waited. I left a message on his answering machine, telling him my problem, and asked him to please call me back if he got in before midnight. Then I continued to scroll through the cases, hoping that something would jump out at me.

  When my e-mail box chirped at me, I nearly bolted off the front seat. "Thank God," I muttered, thinking Todd was getting back to me. Instead, I had a message from Psychic Junkie.

  "Hello there, stranger. Sorry I couldn't get back to you sooner. Things have been hectic here. To answer your question, there's no reason a good sender couldn't be sending you memories just as easily as their present thoughts. But beware, someone this gifted could also be sending lies. Is this person manipulating you? Be careful, my friend. I sense that danger is near."

  Terrific, I thought. This whole arson thing could be a deliberate attempt to lead me down a false path. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine how the killer had felt back then. "Who are you?" I asked silently. "And what do you want from me?" I listened as hard as I could, willing myself to open up to whatever vibes the killer could send me. My phone rang, making me start for the second time.

  "Todd?"

  "Sorry. It's just me," Martha said. "Anything happening?"

  "Nothing. All is quiet." I glanced up at Maggie's window and realized she'd turned off her lights. When had that happened? "Sleeping Beauty is all tucked in," I told Martha.

  "I'm on my way. When you see my lights, pull out and I'll take your spot."

  "It can't be midnight already," I said, checking my watch. To my surprise it was quarter till.

  "Time flies when you're having fun, babe. Go home and get some sleep. We'll swap stories in the morning."

  I barely had time to shut down my computer and adjust my seat before I saw Martha's headlights in my rearview mirror. I pulled out onto the empty road and yawned the entire drive back to the marina.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sunday morning, the sun blazed through my window even before my alarm went off. I hurried through my shower routine and dressed as quickly as I could, trying to appease the cats who were incredulous that I was taking off again so soon.

  "We'll have fresh fish tonight," I promised, racing out the door. I hopped in my boat and gunned it over to the marina so I could relieve Martha on time. I'd brought my laptop and recharged batteries with me, hoping to put in another hour before my appointment with Maggie. On the way I stopped at a Gas Mart and bought two large coffees and a couple of packages of miniature doughnuts.

  "Sustenance," I said, opening the passenger door of Martha's Blazer.

  "Jesus Christ, Cass. I didn't hear you come up."

  "That's 'cause you were sleeping," I said, grinning.

  "I was not."

  "You were too. I could hear you snoring a block away."

  She reached over and slugged me in the arm, almost making me spill the coffee. I handed her one of the Styrofoam cups and slid into the passenger seat. "I take it all is quiet on the western front?"

  "Quiet as a titmouse. Whatever that is. It does stir the imagination, though. You get any sleep?" She reached over and helped herself to a package of doughnuts.

  "Some," I admitted. "I'm sort of dreading my nine o'clock appointment. I was kind of hoping someone would approach last night, just to get
this over with."

  "Me too, babe. Listen, if something happens, don't go playing hero, okay? Call nine-one-one, then call Grimes, in that order."

  "Don't worry, Martha. I can take care of myself. You sure you're up for driving to Eugene? Maybe you should get some sleep first."

  "Nah, I'm good to go, as they say. A little caffeine and sugar, and I'm primed. I'll call you when I get back in town."

  I climbed out of the Blazer and watched her pull out and make a U-turn. Then I walked back to my Jeep and waited for nine o'clock.

  By eight fifty-five, no one had shown up and I was bored. I locked the Jeep and crossed the street, letting myself into Maggie's office. She was waiting for me by the front door, fully outfitted in her kayaking garb.

  "You expecting a flood?" I asked, trying to sound light-hearted.

  "This is the big day," she said. "Buddy and I are going to shoot the rapids. That's why I wanted to meet you early. Come on, we should get started."

  "Wait a second," I whispered, pulling her back. I wasn't entirely sure our voices weren't being picked up. "You think that's a good idea, in light of what's happening?"

  "The rapids? Hell, Cass. They're not going to be any more dangerous today than they will be a week from now. Besides, given the circumstances, I'll probably be safer there than here." She had a point, I supposed. And it would mean I didn't have to spend the day parked across the street watching her house. I followed her into the group therapy room and sat down.

  Maggie looked at me questioningly, obviously expecting me to start the charade.

  "I've been thinking it over, Maggie. I don't think it's going to work, seeing you both professionally and, you know, personally."

  "Fine, then. Let's cool the relationship until your therapy is completed."

  "That's not what I meant," I stammered.

  "Of course not. You'd rather take the easy way out and quit therapy. Right?"

  "I could see someone else. Someone more objective, maybe."

  She let out a harsh, cruel bark of laughter that made me start. "Ha! You want another therapist, is that it? Someone who will coddle you, placate you, make you feel better? For God's sake, Cassidy. You are pathetic!"

  "I don't see why it's such a bad idea." I put a whine in my voice that made me cringe. I didn't like this role at all.

  "I'll tell you why. Another therapist won't know you the way I do. They'll spend months, maybe years, working on all the wrong things. Not that you don't have plenty of things to work on. But they'd never get down to the real problems. They'd get all hung up on the relationship thing."

  "What relationship thing?"

  She laughed again, and I felt myself squirm. "The relationship. As in the only relationship you've ever had that you were committed to."

  "What are you talking about, Maggie?" I couldn't believe she was going to bring up real stuff. We were acting.

  "I'm talking about your precious Diane, dear. The only woman you've ever really loved."

  "That's not true."

  "Yes it is," she said authoritatively. "When she died, you pretty much nixed any chance of any other relationship ever working."

  "How?" My voice was suddenly small and I wasn't acting.

  "Any time you feel yourself getting close to someone, you pull away. Even better, you continue to choose people who won't love you. Look at that Erica Trinidad. Perfect body, perfect face, and perfect for you. You know why? Because there was no way she was going to love you as much as she loved herself. So she was safe. You just waited until she left you and then you got to start all over."

  "I can't believe you're saying this," I said, aghast.

  "Of course you can't. But every word is true. Look at that doctor, Allison Crane. The one who was president of that women's organization. Another perfect woman. And totally safe. Why? Because once again, you chose someone who you thought wouldn't love you. But she did, didn't she? So you claimed fidelity to me, and let her go."

  "I didn't claim fidelity. I felt it."

  "Right. And what about me? Why did you choose me?" She stared at me and I tried to swallow. I couldn't believe she was doing this. Everything she said was absolutely true.

  "I fell in love with you," I almost whispered.

  "But you had no trouble sleeping with another woman while I was gone."

  "Maggie! You left me for your ex!"

  "Tell me. Was your latest conquest another perfect woman? Or was there something else that made her safe? Where is she now, if you don't mind my asking?"

  I thought of Lauren Monroe, now back teaching at Stanford, and knew that Maggie was right. Lauren had been safe, if for no other reason than that I'd always known she'd return to California. It had been a fling at best, anyway. Something to help me get over the pain of Maggie's departure. But I wasn't about to admit that now.

  "I do mind," I said. "It's none of your business."

  "Good for you!" she said sarcastically. "That's more like it. Get mad!" We were both standing now, glaring at each other. Maggie sat back down. "You see, another therapist would waste all sorts of time on these issues, Cass. In a year or so you might finally realize that what you've been doing is purposely choosing women who couldn't possibly return your love. That way, if they died on you, it wouldn't hurt so bad. That's what it's all about, isn't it? You don't want anyone to get too close, because the pain of losing them would be too much to bear." Her eyes were boring into mine and I knew she wasn't acting at all. I felt my chest constrict.

  "Well, it looks like my strategy backfired, then, didn't it?" I said. "I allowed myself to love you, and you left me anyway."

  "Yes, I did. And I came back." The silence between us was thick and suffocating. Maggie pointed to the hidden recorder and stood up again. There were tears in her eyes and I realized that this was as difficult for her as it was for me. Somewhere during our charade, things had turned far too real. "If you insist on seeing another therapist, that's your privilege. But you'll never get to the real problem, Cass."

  "Which is what?" I dreaded whatever answer she might give. To my relief, she was back in her acting mode.

  "That deep down inside, you don't think you deserve to be loved. That's why you pick women who won't love you. That's why you chose me. You like to be beaten, Cass. Just like my other ridiculous clients. Maybe not physically, although I think you'd let me do whatever I wanted to you. But emotionally, you're a pathetic wimp."

  "If I'm so pathetic, why do you even bother with me?"

  "Isn't it obvious? You need to feel rotten and I need to make you feel rotten. It's how we work, babe. Don't think I don't understand my own perversities. We're good together, Cass. Opposites attract."

  The transition had been so smooth, I wasn't sure where the real stuff left off and the acting began. If it weren't for the tears in her eyes, the compassion on her face, I'd have doubted everything I knew to be true about Maggie Carradine.

  "Listen, time's up. I've got a date this morning, but I want you to think about what I've said. I'm sure you'll come to see that I'm right."

  "I don't understand. If you like me so weak, why do you want me to be in your therapy group? Why would you want me to get stronger?"

  She laughed. "You'll never be stronger. None of them will. They're nothing but a bunch of pitiful losers, every one of them. I want you in the group, Cass, because I enjoy watching you suffer as much as you enjoy suffering. Think about it. I'll see you on Tuesday."

  We were both standing again. Maggie held out her hands to me but I pushed past her. She'd had no right to use this phony session to get in all that stuff about Diane, and I was livid. I opened the door, rushed down the hall and practically slammed into Buddy.

  "Oh, hi! I didn't know you were here. Are you going to join us?" She was wearing a kayaking outfit that almost matched Maggie's.

  "Uh, no. I was just leaving." I tried to act composed but my insides were trembling and my voice sounded funny. "Where are you headed?"

  "Grants Pass. There's a level
-three run there that should be just right. You sure you don't want to come along?" Her eyes were searching mine, and I wondered if she'd overheard part of what Maggie had said. I was mortified at the thought.

  "Uh, no, thanks."

  Maggie came out and interceded. "You don't mind closing up, do you, Cass? Buddy and I are running a little late."

  "Of course not," I muttered. I watched the two of them leave, inwardly fuming.

  Why had she brought up Diane? Did she really believe that I was afraid to commit to another relationship, afraid that someone else would die on me? Was I? I paced the room, my mind racing. I stopped, staring at the yellow mums on the reception desk, and knew she was right. But why had she chosen this venue to enlighten me?

  Because you refuse to talk to her, Cassidy, I chided myself. You never let her close enough to talk about anything real.

  I knew that most of what she'd said was bogus, said only for the sake of whoever was listening in. But interwoven through the b.s. was more truth than I cared to admit.

  This wasn't the time to dwell on it, though. Somewhere out there was a killer who'd just heard Maggie's performance, and I needed to figure out who it was. I decided to try Todd Pal again and walked over to Buddy's desk.

  She'd left her computer on again, I noticed. Which was great. Maybe Todd Pal had e-mailed me. I quickly logged on and brought up my mail. To my surprise, there was another message from Psychic Junkie and it didn't sound a thing like her:

  When all is said and all is done I hope you know it's not just fun that makes me do the things I've done. I'd tell you more but have to run.

  I read it over a few times, trying to make sense of the silly rhyme. What had EJ. done? Warned me of danger that didn't exist? Lied to me about telepathic abilities? Had she just strung me along all this time, and now her conscience was getting the best of her? I decided to find out.

  "Dear EJ.," I wrote. "What's with the poetry? And what things have you done? Have you been bullshitting me all this time? Once again, I'm Just Curious."

  I sent the message and started to lean back in the chair when suddenly Buddy's e-mail chirped. A little box in the upper-right-hand corner flashed, telling her she had new mail. I stared at the flashing box, feeling a trickle of adrenaline in my veins. I leaned forward and slowly composed another message.