by Bill Alive
POW.
I’m no empath, but even I vibed the shock wave of that clash. I thought my eyebrows might singe.
Mark was the first to break — he cocked his head to one side, blinked, and smirked. He looked mystified, even intrigued.
This is not the effect Gwen usually has on people.
Her (perfect) eyebrows hunched closer over her impassive face. To the casual observer, she might seem to be concentrating, or maybe mildly irritated. But I knew from long experience that she was one nudge away from furious.
“What are you doing here, sir?” she asked, with the calm authority of an Ice Queen. Her Southern accent has been even more gentrified than Ceci’s, but what’s left makes her even more formidable. “I understand you were an accidental bystander to the crash. Do you have any connection to the deceased?”
“Not exactly,” Mark said. He sat up straight and took a deep, normal breath. His flushed face was relaxing back to its usual pale. “Didn’t your sister give you a full report?”
A tiny muscle flexed on Gwen’s temple, suggesting she’d caught the note of reproach. “I’ll ask the questions, sir. What are you doing here?”
Mark sighed. Which made me flinch. I couldn’t imagine sighing at Gwen. It might not be biologically possible.
“The funeral’s public, isn’t it?” he said. “I was a bystander to that crash, and something didn’t feel right. I wanted to see if anyone here felt … off.”
“Did you also plan to disrupt the eulogy with another ‘seizure’?”
Mark frowned. “I didn’t mean to disrupt anything. I … I may have a medical condition—”
“You vibed the murderer!” I blurted. Mark scowled, but all at once, I couldn’t stand by and let Gwen steamroll him. “Tell her, Mark! Before someone else dies!”
Gwen’s eyes narrowed. She folded her arms and tilted one hip a couple millimeters. “You believe that Lindsay Mackenzie was murdered? And that you’ve identified the murderer by means of some paranormal faculty?”
“Yes!” I said.
“No,” said Mark.
“But you were just saying—” I began.
“Mr. Falcon,” Gwen interrupted. “If you feel you’ve identified a murderer, let’s hear your pick.”
Mark cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”
“What?” I cried. “You were just feeling it! You were going to throw up!”
“I felt it, but I don’t know who. I told you, it’s like a swamp in there. Sometimes I can’t tune the radio … it’s like all the stations are playing at once. It’s so much grief. But something about that story triggered serious hate. Enough to kill.”
“Can’t you go back in?” I said. “Get close enough to pinpoint the vibe?”
He shook his head. “Whoever it is got it under control. For now, anyway. Otherwise I’d be feeling it out here.”
“But they’re still right there,” I said. “Gwen, we can catch them right now!”
Gwen arched an eyebrow. “You want me to open a police murder investigation here in Back Mosby because a freelance web developer with an unspecified medical condition felt nauseous at a funeral?”
“Aren’t you at least suspicious?” I said.
“No. Lindsay Mackenzie was a rookie pilot in training. Sometimes rookies crash.”
“What if she was poisoned?” Mark said. “What did the autopsy say?”
Gwen’s eyes flickered — surprise? Impatience? “Mr. Falcon, the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner is conducting a standard investigation for a fatal accident—”
“She was in pain,” Mark said.
“She was having a seizure!” Gwen snapped.
Mark stared, shocked. Then, understanding dawned. “That could be right,” he said, half to himself. “She was so far away, I wouldn’t have felt everything … but what kind of poison triggers a seizure?”
“It wasn’t poison,” Gwen said. “Lindsay Mackenzie was epileptic.”
Now Mark looked stunned.
Slowly I caught up. “So she could have just had a natural seizure?” I said, crestfallen. “I mean, not that I’m disappointed, it’s not like I want people getting murdered—”
“They wouldn’t let her fly if she was having seizures,” Mark protested. “People with seizures can’t even drive a car.”
“We’re looking into her history—” Gwen said.
“Who’s her doctor?” Mark said.
“Mr. Falcon,” Gwen said crisply. “You are not a licensed private investigator. I checked.”
“But—” he began.
“The early death of this woman has already been sensationalized in the local press. The last thing her family and this community need is some civilian harassing the bereaved with his crackpot theories.”
“Did you just say ‘crackpot’?” Mark said. “How old are you?”
Gwen always stands with the perfect posture of a Greek statue, but when she is especially incensed, she can somehow loom several inches higher. Now she towered over the sitting Mark with simmering rage.
“This is a police matter, Mr. Falcon,” she said, brimming with menace. “You are a civilian, and you are going to mind your own business. What there is of it.”
Mark stood and stared right back, his nose inches from her face.
I had tried that once, staring back at Gwen for maybe 0.6 seconds. Across a cafeteria. I’d had a headache for days.
Now I watched in awe. Someone’s face was about to melt.
“This is my business,” he said in a low growl. “I know that woman was murdered, and I know the murderer is in that church. And I’m not going to quit till I find out who and nail their ass to the wall.”
I may or may not have made an excited squeak.
“Do you have any idea how many ways I can prosecute you for amateur investigation?” Gwen demanded.
“Why don’t you walk me through it sometime?” Mark said. He winked. “Over a beer?”
Her eyes widened with shock and rage. Her lips clenched — she clearly had at least ten scorching replies on offer, but was struggling to choose the most lethal.
“Excellent,” he said. “I’ll call you.” And he walked out.
PART II
Chapter 9
Mark made it to the car with head held high. Then he crashed into the passenger seat, exhausted.
I offered to drive him home, and he managed a nod. Thunder mostly cooperated. At home, he stumbled straight to bed, with not even a nightcap of TV.
The next morning, I woke to a strange noise buzzing from the bathroom. I couldn’t quite place it, but then Mark came out and I gasped.
“Wow! You shaved your head!” I yelled. “You look great!”
“I know,” he said. “People are so dumb about hair.”
In wonder I watched this new Mark hunt up his morning coffee with lithe grace. His clean head had shed its shaggy fringe of aging and loss, and his whole face gleamed with power and confidence. Yes, he had kept the mustache, but by some miracle it now looked even cooler. I still have no idea how he does that. It’s unnerving.
“Dude, why’d you ever grow your hair out?” I said. “Were you trying to make an empathic shield or something?”
Mark looked startled, then eyed me with surprise. “That would be stupid.”
“You did?”
“No, no, it’s just a hassle. You think shaving your face every day is a pain? But if we’re going to go around interviewing people—”
“Sweet!” I cried. “Oh man, this’ll be amazing!”
“Relax,” he said. But he was actually smiling.
Then I remembered the face-off last night, and my gut went cold. “What about Gwen? If she finds out—”
“Of course she’ll find out.” He shrugged. “That’s what cops do.”
“But she could put us in jail! She’d seriously do it!”
“Don’t we have to break the law first?”
“I hope so! Or what about ‘civil asset forfeiture’? Have you read abou
t that? All a cop has to do is claim your stuff was used in a crime, and they can seize it and keep it. Forever! Even your bank accounts! Even if they never prove the crime!”
Mark smirked and glanced around the shoddy kitchen. “We certainly have a lot to lose.”
“They steal billions of dollars a year, Mark! More than all the ‘criminal’ thefts combined.”
“I’m sure they do,” he said. “But Gwen doesn’t strike me as the stealing type.”
I considered this. “Maybe not,” I said. “But she’ll find some other way. Something worse. She specifically told us to drop it.”
“And I told her I wasn’t taking orders,” he said sharply. His face was hard. “This whole thing was your idea, Pete.”
“I know, it’s just that Gwen—”
“You said it yourself. What if someone else gets killed? Because we’re hiding behind ‘cops know best’? I’m not caving into those people this time.”
“This time?” I said. My fear vaporized into ravenous curiosity. I guess it does that.
“Forget it,” he said. “Don’t waste my time, Pete. Are you in or out?”
Out? I thought, with a surge of FOMO panic. Come home every night to an empty pad while my housemate was out nailing killers with his empathy superpowers?
“In. Totally,” I said. “No matter what.”
As soon as I said it, I had a prompt surge of panic. I had just yanked Pandora’s Backpack wide open to cops and jail and, you know, murderers. But I reminded myself that I was in, I’d said it, and that, Pete Villette, was that.
Mark nodded sternly, but his eyes twinkled. “Good. I figure this morning we’ll start at the airport—”
“This morning? But it’s Friday!” I moaned. “I have to go to work!”
He rolled his eyes. “No matter what … except …”
“Don’t you have work?” I snapped.
He shrugged. “Today’s pretty light. I got a couple clients I’m waiting on to get back to me.”
I glanced around the ramshackle house, thinking that it probably wouldn’t kill him to use his extra time to chase down a new client or two.
“If I had a nicer place, you couldn’t make rent,” he said, as he complacently shoved a bowl of Instant Oatmeal (Vitamin-Protein-Fortified Probably-Not-Carcinogenic-We-Promise) into the microwave.
“I didn’t say anything!” I said.
“And I didn’t need empathy to catch that vibe,” he said. “If I wanted to do meaningless gruntwork all day, I’d get a job in Northern Virginia that actually paid. But how many guys under sixty get to call the shots for their day? I like freedom.”
“You’re definitely paying for it.”
“Oh? This from the corporate climber clawing his way to junior partner at — what’s that place called? ‘Valley Virgins’?”
“Valley Visions,” I corrected.
“Yeah, I guess virginity’s probably not at the top of their list. You guys have a sweat lodge out back?”
“It’s just a retail store!” I said, choosing not to share that Vivian actually had floated the possibility of a sweat lodge at our next company retreat. I was pretty much the only male employee, and my co-workers were all well past forty. I planned to insist on bathing suits. Especially for Vivian, although in her case, for the opposite reason. Vivian has to be at least fifty, and considering her age, she is way too hot.
She still rocks the Willowy Waif look, with flowy hippie skirts, floaty long hair that blondes well, and wrinkles that vanish when she laughs, which is often. Honestly, it can be unsettling. People are supposed to age. Especially women.
“Okay, okay,” Mark said. “Valley Visions. Got it. You’re New Age optometrists.”
“Listen, I know you’re all into this skeptic thing,” I said hotly, “but you don’t have to scoff at everything. Vivian is an expert, she’s studied with all kinds of gurus, like in India. Or it might have been an Indian guy in New Jersey, but anyway, she’s been all over the spiritual realm, she knows about empathy and shielding and … oh!”
I nearly gasped. Another brilliant idea. In less than a week. Was this becoming a habit?
“Don’t stop,” Mark said. “So far, the evidence is overwhelming.”
“Shielding,” I repeated. “That’s exactly what you need.”
“I’m afraid to ask…”
“Shielding is how empaths block emotions so they don’t get drained. Vivian can totally train you!”
Mark’s eyebrows shot up with interest, but he studiously savored his faux oatmeal. “Does my whole suit have to be tinfoil,” he said, “or can I get by with just the hat?”
“Mark, seriously. If you’re really going to do this, you can’t go collapsing every time an interview gets tough. You barely made it home last night.”
“I’m not usually like that!” he snapped. “You’ve only seen me under unusual circumstances.”
“I know! Usually you’re holed up on top of a mountain!”
He glowered. But he didn’t have a comeback.
“Just try it,” I coaxed. “Take me to work and meet Vivian. What have you got to lose?”
He hesitated. “I’m not going to start praying to Vishnu or something.”
“She’s not like that! She’s completely nondenominational,” I said. “Plus, if you don’t give me a ride, Ceci has to drop in to pick me up.”
“What? Her? Here?” he cried, his alarm only slightly exaggerated. “And you were trying to get me all worried about jail?”
But by the time we pulled into the tiny parking lot at Valley Visions, he’d gotten all nervous and skeptical again.
“They really like orange,” he said, as we got out.
I’d noticed that too, my first time, but I think it looks odder than it is because the store’s on one of Back Mosby’s two busy roads, which means it’s surrounded by the usual garish franchises. Compared to them, Valley Visions looks like an old dentist’s office that someone randomly painted orange.
Inside, Vivian was laughing behind the main counter, squeezed into a tight rainbow tee that shouldn’t have looked good on her. I mean, seriously, she could be my mom. My grandma, maybe. I focused on her neck wrinkles, and balance returned to the Force.
She gave me a friendly smile, then her eyes widened at Mark. “Wow!” she said. “You’re so good looking!”
Mark looked stunned.
“Don’t worry, she does that,” I muttered. At least, she had once. With that yoga model dude who didn’t believe in death. Or taxes. Personally, I didn’t think Mark’s head shave had been that transformative, but like I told you, I never know what women are into. Raising my voice, I said, “This is the guy I was telling you about.”
“Ah,” she said. She cocked her head and gave him a slow stare. Right in the face. Her lips parted in a dreamy smile, her eyes dilated, and she absently twirled her hair.
Mark was transfixed, looking amazed and slightly horrified.
“Um?” I said.
He looked like he was having trouble breathing.
She chuckled and snapped out of it.
Mark gulped for air and started coughing. For real.
“Sorry, babe,” Vivian said. “I’ve been wanting to try that for twenty years. You’re the real deal. And you need shielding bad.”
“Fricking creep,” Mark gasped, still trying to get his breath.
Vivian can be unique, but I’d never seen her get within a hundred miles of the actual preternatural. Awe and fear prickled me all over. “What just happened?” I demanded, and my voice may have quavered.
She just winked and tossed her hair. “Come on, Mark. Back room.” She skipped out from behind the counter.
He looked scared.
Vivian trilled a laugh. “I promise not to aura Earth Mama attraction again. Not on purpose, anyway.”
“Whoa,” I said. “You mean you amped up your feeling that you liked him, and he vibed it, and then it made him feel like he liked you back?” My mind was exploding with possibiliti
es.
She shrugged. “I’d think he’d be used to that by now. I’m sure it’s not easy being an attractive empath.”
“Well, he only just shaved his head,” I said. “Before, he had this gross fringe.”
“What did you do?” Mark said. “That feeling was so … intense … how can you switch it on and off?”
“Babe, I’m a seeker. If twenty years of yoga, meditation, fad diets and community theater won’t train a girl to control her feelings, what will?” She sighed, and muttered, “I finally meet an empath, a handsome empath, and he has to be too young. Maybe in ten years.”
“You’ve got to let me watch you train him!” I begged. “Please!”
“What about the store?”
“I’ll keep an eye out!”
She considered, then smiled. “Fine. I’m sure Mark wouldn’t mind a chaperone. But lock the front door.”
“But we might get a customer. I can check—”
“Do it,” she said, in that low voice that always creeps me out. Her face went grim and wrinkled, like a cloud covering the sun. “And double check the ward.”
The ward is this crinkly dried herb over the door that is never properly fastened. Every time it falls, more bits of possibly magical plant matter get ground into the carpet.
I locked the door, ensured the safety of the ward, and hustled back to join Mark and Vivian. She was fiddling with the door to the back room, which always sticks, and he was staring, bemused, at the fountain.
Did I not mention the fountain? One whole back corner of the store has this waist-high stone wall, it’s a triangle that fills the corner, and it has this nice little fountain. All around the stone are tastefully placed statues for sale, like the Buddha, or a girl with antlers, or that elephant god with lots of arms that I can never remember the name of.
“New Age kitsch,” Mark said, with an air of reverie. “Who would have thought?”
“I wouldn’t say kitsch,” Vivian said cheerfully, still struggling with the door.
I might say kitsch, I thought. I might say it about our forty-plus varieties of incense, or the glittery shelf of puzzles, or maybe the gigantic wall rack of peace-loving/FOX-News-hating bumper stickers that supply our entire bioregion with embarrassing free speech. But so what? That stuff’s not what we’re all about.
