Psychic

by F. P. Dorchak

  “No, I’m sorry — I shouldn’t have snuck up on you like that,” Viv said, setting down Lizzie’s milk and juice. “I’ll get another glass and clean this up,” she said, as she took over clean up. “Ready to order?”

  Lizzie’s images of the dark man began to drain away — not entirely, but enough so she could refocus on the reason she’d come here in the first place.

  “Yes, I’ll have the pecan waffle.”

  “Very good. I’ll have it right up.” Viv leaned in to her, and in a lowered voice, said, “I’ll bring two — the second one’s on me.” She winked and left, making one last swipe of the table with a dish rag.

  Up ahead, the children continued their spirited cacophony, but now actually began to dart about and among the patrons and their tables. It seemed very odd and rude public behavior to be allowed by any parent. They should be better controlled—

  Viv returned with Lizzie’s replacement water and quickly left. Lizzie took a sip of the juice. As she set the glass back down, she was suddenly bumped into, causing her to nearly spill the glass’s contents. It was a bump that actually felt like a burn, and she shot a hand to her shoulder where the contact had been made. In a grimace of pain, she looked up.

  “Pardon me,” the man said, in a gruff, cold voice, and continued forward, working his left shoulder.

  The man from the counter.

  Lizzie looked behind her. She sat before the restrooms.

  How had he gotten past her?

  Lizzie watched in stunned silence, rubbing her arm. The man took his seat at the counter. He never looked back to her, nor seemed to give her a second thought. She watched as he gave the server his order. Watched as glasses of milk and orange juice were also placed on the counter before him, and from which he immediately took a sip of his orange juice.

  Lizzie looked away; checked her “burned” arm. Of course, there was nothing wrong with it. The stinging and searing sensations had also passed.

  She shivered, briskly rubbing her arms.

  There was no other place to sit to avoid her direct line-of-sight view of the man, so, in an effort to get her mind off the guy, she grabbed an unused newspaper from a nearby table. But, as she sat back down, she was again bumped, this time by one of the children, children who were becoming increasingly boisterous, and had, apparently, found their way down to her end of the restaurant.

  “Excuse me,” came out of her before she realized it, and in a tone that’d surprised her for its annoyed severity.

  The child, an adorable chestnut-haired beauty of about five, she guessed, stopped. The girl-child turned to Lizzie, and in a most genuine and apologetic tone said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, well… thank you.”

  The girl smiled warmly to Lizzie, then returned to chasing her sister (she surmised) down the narrow restaurant to the opposite end. Their activity seemed to grow continually nosier, and Lizzie couldn’t fathom such odd public behavior. Who and where were their parents?

  Lizzie returned her attention to her new-found paper; again glanced behind her.

  How were all these people getting behind her without her seeing them — and why were they all ramming into her? Did she have a “kick me!” sign pinned to her back?

  Lizzie grabbed her orange juice to take another sip — saw the man at the counter drink from his — and changed her mind, picking up her milk, instead.

  From the already warm temperature outside, so early this morning, it was definitely going to be a hot one…

  The waffles had been great.

  Lizzie took a sip of water and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She loved the rich smell and taste of real maple syrup, and loved that it came directly from trees. Such a pure food! Sap tapped from a tree boiled down to get rid of the water to the desired flavor. That’s all it was. Pure and simple — until someone figured out a cheaper way to make it using flavored mixes and corn syrup. Took all the mystique out of it; the in-touch-with-nature part.

  Lizzie sighed in stuffed relief; again checked on the dark man at the counter. She’d noticed he’d also finished his breakfast and was actually in the process of paying. Reading the paper had been a good distraction from the man; sometimes her ability could be such a burden, especially when she’d “locked onto” unsavory situations or individuals and couldn’t disentangle herself from them.

  It was like a bad taste in your mouth you couldn’t rid yourself of.

  But she actually felt better, now, and, she also noted, the kids were still here, but no longer as noisy and rambunctious. Good. Guess the parent or parents had finally stepped in.

  “Is there anything else?” Viv asked, again standing beside her table. “A piece of breakfast pie, maybe?”

  “Pie? Oh, no—”

  “Sure?” Viv playfully insisted, scribbling on her ticket and eyeing her.

  Lizzie nodded in the affirmative, “I’m sure — thank you.”

  “Okay.” Viv deposited the check on the table. “Have a great day!” “Oh, and one thing, if I may,” Lizzie said, as Viv began to leave, “those children… down there — have they bothered any of the other customers?”

  Viv looked down the length of the restaurant then back to Lizzie. “No… did they bother you?”

  Lizzie opened her mouth to say something, when she noticed that the group seemed to have thinned out considerably. No longer was there the large crowd of screaming kids she’d earlier observed. In fact, she didn’t even see the child who’d earlier apologized.

  “Huh. Well, no, I guess not.” Lizzie narrowed her gaze and cocked her head, somewhat confused. “Guess they left.”

  “Sorry, I’ve been so busy I hadn’t noticed. Sorry if they’d upset you,” Viv said, “kids’ll be kids, won’t they? I have two of my own, so, sometimes — noisy or not — I tend to tune out noisy levels at work. But I’ll keep an eye out for them. You have a good day, ma’am!” Viv departed.

  Lizzie reached for her pocketbook inside her booth. When she turned to leave, the little girl who’d earlier bumped into her and apologized stood quietly before her, eyes big and wide.

  “We’re sorry, ma’am. We didn’t mean to be so noisy.”

  Lizzie again looked around. Patrons at nearby tables eyed her. Lizzie cleared her throat.

  “Well… you and your siblings did get a little out of control, you know,” she said in her most motherly sounding manner.

  “I know. We do that sometimes. We were just having fun.”

  “Fun is okay, honey, but when you’re out in public you need to be mindful of others, so you don’t annoy them.”

  “We only annoyed one person,” the girl said simply, still staring at Lizzie with her wide-eyed and deep, all-consuming gaze.

  Lizzie removed her pocketbook and counted out her money, still looking to the sweet little girl. “But, had you been more mindful you wouldn’t have annoyed anyone. Where are your parents?”

  The little girl smiled. It was a big smile, a radiant smile, one that filled Lizzie with goose bumps. Suddenly the girl’s eyes were all Lizzie knew… eyes… deep, dark… comfortable. Without moving her lips, the girl replied, But Mommy, you know the answer to that!

  And was gone.

  Lizzie gasped and fell back into her booth. She laughed loudly and unabashedly, and nearby patrons continued to glare at her.

  “Sorry! I’m so sorry!” she apologized to those around her.

  No matter how many times this happened to her, it still never failed to — occasionally — catch her off-guard… especially when she wasn’t thinking straight, or was so focused on having to have her damned waffles…

  2

  Lizzie closed the door to her trailer behind her. After running errands and meeting with a couple friends for a walk, if felt good getting out of the heat. She picked up the little yellow ducky toy on the floor at her feet, and tossed it over toward the door that read “No Grownups Allowed.” Lucy chased after it. With a deft mid-air paw swipe, she knocked it back to the floor. Lizzie then entered the
kitchen for a glass of lemonade. It was a hot one out there, had to easily be in the nineties. The air conditioner was sweet relief, and she was thankful she’d closed all her curtains before going out. She brought the glass of lemonade across her forehead and cheeks, then took a deep drink… when the image of a smiling man holding a condensation-covered glass of iced tea filled her mind.

  She looked to the refrigerator.

  “But, I don’t have any…”

  Lizzie went back to the freezer to add additional ice to her glass, sipping more lemonade to make room. Returning to the living room, she collapsed into her favorite recliner. The image of the smiling man remained strong.

  She closed her eyes.

  Who are you? she asked, mentally.

  The man smiled.

  No name?

  I have no name, he replied.

  Why not?

  No need.

  What do people call you?

  Whatever they wish. I don’t bother many folk.

  Are you bothering me? she asked, mentally smiling.

  This bother you?

  No, she said, and laughed aloud. I just find you… curious. Who are you, why are you contacting me?

  Whether or not you know it, you already know me. I’m interested in the same things you are.

  Okay…

  Children.

  A knock at her door jarred her back to the present.

  She shot to her feet.

  Bad vibe. Baaad vibe…

  Lizzie stood holding her upset glass of lemonade. Half of it had spilled onto her lap and the carpet.

  The knock continued.

  Dark vibe…

  Chiding herself, she went to the door and peeked through the peephole.

  And dropped the glass.

  It was the tall dark man from the Waffle House.

  Dark man.

  Black. Black, blaaack…

  (red!)

  The knock continued.

  “Missus Gordon? Victor Black, FBI,” the man called through her door. “I need to speak with you.”

  Dear God, she thought, FBI? What have I done?

  “Missus Gordon?”

  Lizzie stood, frozen, before the door.

  Did he know she was home?

  Of course he did; he’d obviously followed her. Had seen her enter her trailer.

  She tuned in to him; still sensed that earlier “bad vibe”… along with another feeling, one she could only describe as… evil…

  “Just a minute!” she shouted back, and picked up her glass. She rushed back into the kitchen and grabbed a towel, and her gaze fell upon a box of tea bags on the counter, back by the toaster. She looked to them questioningly on her return trip to the living room. She hastily began sopping up lemonade from the carpet.

  “Just a minute!” she again shouted to Mr. Black-from-the-FBI.

  She dropped the towel to the stain and stood on it for several antsy, uncomfortable moments. Retrieving the soaked towel, she rushed back into the kitchen, tossed it into the sink, and, on the way back in, grabbed the tea-bag box. Examined it. It was real all right. On her counter.

  She knew she hadn’t had any tea bags — yet here they were.

  She tossed them back onto the counter and returned to the door. Catching her breath and straightening herself out, she opened it. Mr. Black stood on the other side of the screen door. She quickly clicked on the lock to the screen-door handle.

  “Is everything all right?” Black asked.

  “Everything’s fine — sorry,” she said, wiping away loose hair behind an ear. “I’d just spilled a glass of lemonade and was in the middle of cleaning it up, as you can see,” she said, wringing wet hands to her sides and drawing attention to her damp lap. Black remained expressionless.

  “What can I do for you, mister—”

  “Black. Victor Black. FBI.” He showed his badge.

  “How do I know you’re really who you say you are?”

  “You don’t. Just have to take my word for it. Or call the district office. May I come in—”

  “To be perfectly honest, sir, I don’t feel entirely comfortable with that. I’d like to know why you’re following me, and how you know my name. I saw you at the restaurant.”

  Black cracked an awkward — pained?—smile.

  “Ma’am, I work for the government, and I intentionally sought you out. I’m following you, as you put it, because I need to talk with you about a sensitive matter. May I?” Black tucked away his badge.

  Did she let him into her life, behind the closed doors and drawn curtains of her trailer, like some horror-movie vampire, or did she say no-thank-you and take her chances with whatever law she might be breaking?

  “Mrs. Gordon, I understand your hesitation. I’ll stand right here — won’t move — and you can call the Denver office. I see a phone back there. Give them a call — the number’s most likely on the very front page of the phone book — and give them my badge number,” he said, again pulling his badge from his jacket and holding it out to her.

  Lizzie unlocked the screen door and quickly grabbed the badge. She then closed and locked the main door.

  She hefted the badge uncertainly, as she picked up the phone book and went to her phone. Finding the FBI number, indeed, on the “Emergency” page at the very front of the book, she dialed it. As the phone rang, horrific images of a vampire-like Black, crawling in through the screen door overwhelmed her, and she shot a look back to the door.

  Still closed.

  Still locked.

  Still evil.

  An official-sounding voice answered, and Lizzie got right to the point.

  “I don’t mean to sound hysterical or anything, but I live in One Tree, Colorado, and have a guy, here, who claims to work for you people — a Victor Black? Can you verify him for me, and what his business with me might be?”

  “Do you have a badge number?”

  “Yes,” Lizzie replied, and gave it.

  There was a pause at the other end, and the person came back to say yes, they did have a Victor Black at their bureau, verified his badge number, and told her he was scheduled to interview an “Elizabeth Gordon.” The individual then verified her address. Not entirely satisfied, Lizzie described Black to the person on the phone — which was also corroborated — right down to his awkward smile and trick shoulder.

  “Thank you,” Lizzie said, not sure if she was pissed off or relieved, and hung up. But before returning to the front door, she unlocked and opened the back door and opened all curtains in the place. She then returned to the main door and — reluctantly — unlocked the screen and main doors. Handed Black back his badge.

  “Well, it seems today is my day for embarrassment.”

  Unaffected, Black slid his badge back into his jacket, favoring his left shoulder.

  “Come on in,” she said, “I’m sorry, but I’m sure you understand my caution.”

  Lizzie stepped aside, afraid to touch him. As Black passed by, she shuddered to a sudden chill — and noticed he hadn’t broken a sweat in his tie and jacket. In this heat. Lizzie positioned herself before the now-opened picture-window, feeling the assault of the mid-day swelter.

  “Nice place,” he said.

  “It’s not much, but it’s all I—”

  “Since your husband’s death?”

  Black turned to her. His presence seemed to consume the room, all life in the room…

  Lizzie crossed her arms. “Have I done something wrong? What is it you want?”

  Black absentmindedly smirked, then turned back around to examine the interior. Spotted the package and toy by the “No Grownups Allowed” door.

  “Children?”

  “Look, sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but I really must insist—”

  “May I?” he asked, directing their attention to the couch.

  Lizzie motioned him on.

  “Would you like something to drink?” she asked, wiping perspiration from her forehead.

  “Iced tea is fine,�
� he said, taking his seat and opening up a folder he held.

  Lizzie stared at him.

  Black never looked up, but added, “or lemonade.”

  He sat on the couch, carefully working his left shoulder as he unbuttoned his jacket. She looked to the folder he carried. A black folder.

  “I’ll check to see if I have any,” she said, and left for the kitchen.

  In the kitchen, she gripped the refrigerator door handle and paused before opening it.

  “Okay… let me guess…,” she whispered to herself before opening the door.

  Inside she found a pitcher of freshly brewed iced tea already made, already cold, and sitting on the top shelf. She shot a glance toward the glass she’d just held and spilled and saw the remnants of iced tea — not lemonade — in it.

  And on her hands.

  “Of course.”

  Lizzie returned to the living room to find Black reviewing his black folder. She placed the black tea on a coaster on the coffee table, then took a seat in a glider rocker opposite him.

  “So, what’s so important you feel you have to stalk me?”

  Black closed the folder and tapped it on a leg. “Mrs. Gordon… we know a lot about you. We’d like to enlist your assistance.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “We’ve been trying to locate this man,” Black said, handing her an artist-sketched picture from the folder. “We can’t go into detail, but suffice it to say that the least of his crimes are kidnapping and child molestation.”

  He stared at her.

  Lizzie examined the picture.

  She knew this man.

  It was the same guy from her vision.

  The one who’d been holding the iced tea. She definitely did not get those kinds of vibes from this guy at all.

  She looked to Black.

  She did, however, get those feelings from Mr. FBI sitting before her… behind closed doors… and those feelings were much stronger now. There was something not right about him. If she tried to make a run for it, she knew — knew — this man would be all over her like sharks on chum — and before she could even consider screaming. Before she could kick him in the balls or jab out his eyes, he’d be on her and that would be that. This she picked up as easily as others breathed air. This man was totally and utterly dangerous, and she had to watch what she told him — or radiated to him. He’d made no overt moves on her and had even been verified by the Denver FBI. But that didn’t mean a thing. She wasn’t stupid. He might not have killed the real Agent Black and taken his badge and identity, but he could very well be working for some other government agency, and all this had been carefully orchestrated… arranged…which she did try to tune into, but felt… distracted…