by Hinze, Vicki
And Sarah James’s case had proven Caron right; she was cursed. That case, a year ago, was the last she’d helped Sandy with, and after it, everything had changed. After nineteen years, the images suddenly had stopped.
Now they were back.
Why did she have to go through this again? Why?
The need to hear someone’s voice—anyone’s voice—hit her hard. Caron sent the phone a desperate look. She could call Dr. Zilinger, her analyst, or her aunt Grace—anyone but her mother. Her mother never had understood why Caron didn’t just “ignore” the images, and all the explanations in the world hadn’t convinced her mother that Caron could no more ignore them than her mother could have ignored the pain of childbirth.
A sense of urgency seeped through Caron’s chest. Sandy. She had to talk to Sandy. She grabbed the phone and dialed.
It seemed to ring forever, but he finally answered, “Yeah, Sanders here,” he said.
His familiar gruff voice helped ease the lump from her throat, but the tightness in her chest remained. “Sandy.” Why, after all this time, was talking to him so difficult? “I’m on my way to your office. We have to talk.”
“Caron?” He sounded surprised.
She supposed he was surprised. It had been nearly a year since her last call. “Yes, it’s me.”
“What’s wrong?”
His wary tone held fear, a fear she’d felt before and had hoped she’d never feel again. But now she was. The receiver in her hand grew sweat-slick. The words choked her.
“It’s happening all over again.” Her voice cracked. She slumped against the counter and held on.
“I’ll come to you. Where are you?”
“No.” She was scared stiff, but she couldn’t lean on him, or on anyone other than herself. If nothing else, she’d learned that. Her temples were pounding. Rubbing circles on the left one, she forced her eyes open. “No, I’ll come to you.”
She slid the receiver back onto the hook, her hand shaking. She should have been stronger and not deluded herself into believing that the images would never come back. But she hadn’t. Now she would have to fight this battle the same way she’d fought all the others—alone.
Caron grabbed her purse and headed for the door.
Outside, she dipped her head against the rain and ran, dodging murky puddles and dark patches of soft, squishy mud. Water gushed along the curb to the drain and splashed down with a hollow thunk somewhere beneath the street. She took a giant step over the water and climbed into her Chevy. Then while the engine warmed, she tissued the raindrops from her face.
The images were back. When they’d stopped, she’d felt naked without them. The way a man must feel when he discovered he was going bald—at the mercy of his body, helpless.
She tossed the soaked tissue onto the floor mat. Seeing the images was like that. She was helpless to stop them. No matter how much she wanted just to teach her students, just to be normal, she was reduced to suffering the empathy pains and the emotional upheaval of the victims, and to wondering, Why me?
A crash of thunder shook the car. A bare-limbed oak tree to her right became the image of a dark-haired man with a stubbly chin and wicked green eyes. He belched, and the smell of beer nearly gagged Caron. Lightning flashed, a little sizzle rent the air, and then, as quickly as it had come, the image disappeared. Shaking, Caron rolled down the window an inch. Rain and fresh air rushed into the car on a chilly gust. The wind whistled and whipped at the craggy oaks lining the scrap of lawn in front of the apartments.
The limbs looked like sneering gargoyles, twisted, grotesque and menacing.
“God, help me,” Caron whispered. “I’m suffering a landslide.”
A horn sounded in a long, steady blast from in front of the corner store across the street. Her stomach muscles clenched. Seeking solace in common, ordinary things, she gripped the steering wheel hard and watched the wipers sweep the windshield, click at the base, then sweep back again. The store’s illuminated yellow sign flickered as the power fluctuated. It read “2 Liter Cokes $1.29.” A car sped past, kicking up a spray of water, and a kid hung out the window yelling at a second guy who was getting into his car. “Hey, Bobby, come on, man!”
She didn’t know either boy, but at that moment she knew their thoughts and feelings. Knew them physically. Bobby was late for the basketball game. David, the one hanging out the window, was ticked that he was missing the tip-off.
There was no solace.
The little girl’s image snapped back into focus. Caron felt the child’s fear, the grisly sense of betrayal, and cringed. She couldn’t ignore the images. Not now. Not ever. She had to accept the inevitable. The images had come again, and she was doomed to suffer them.
Every self-preserving instinct in her body screamed for her to run. Yet she couldn’t. Whoever she was, this child was hurt and confused and afraid, and she was not going to face whatever happened alone.
Caron straightened, slammed the gearshift into Drive, and pulled out into traffic, hoping her bravado would outlast the time it took her to drive to police headquarters.
“Anytime today would be just fine, ma’am.”
Caron jerked and looked back. A drop-dead-gorgeous guy in a flashy black Porsche waved an impatient hand for her to vacate the parking slot.
“I’m coming, not going,” Caron said, sliding the man a withering look and easing the Chevy alongside the curb. Not even his looks could excuse his sarcasm.
The man nodded, then drove on.
“Charming,” she muttered, tugging her keys from the ignition. She snatched up her purse, then went inside.
Detective Hershel Sanders was in his same dismal office. Surrounded by gray metal cabinets and awful green walls, and so cramped he couldn’t turn around without bumping his little paunch, Sandy sat buried behind the mountain of files on his desk, an unlit cigar stub clamped between his teeth.
According to Dr. Zilinger, Sandy hadn’t lit up since Jim Garrison dragged New Orleans into national focus, claiming Kennedy’s assassination was a political conspiracy. The district attorney had lost his job, and because Sandy had agreed with him, he’d been demoted and left to swelter in this hole ever since, punching the clock and waiting for retirement.
Caron plastered a smile to her lips, folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the doorframe. “Still hiding behind the clutter, Detective?”
Sandy looked up. His gaze, seen through his black-framed, half-moon glasses, hadn’t yet focused. A shock of blond hair sprung out from his head. He’d been forking his fingers through it again. He should let it grow and ditch the glasses and the stubby cigar. It’d take ten years off of him.
For a second, his jaw hung loose. Then he whipped off his glasses and slapped his palm down on his desk blotter. “Where’ve you been, kid?”
To the fiftyish Sandy, the twenty-six-year-old Caron would always be the seven year old she’d been when they first worked together. “Oh, nowhere special,” she said.
She knew she was being evasive, but she didn’t want to share her “normal” life with him. She wanted to hoard every moment of that time to herself. A normal life was all she’d ever wanted, and she’d had a taste of it. Now that the images were back, her memories of normalcy were even more precious, and more private.
She walked in—and saw that he wasn’t alone. A man pushing thirty sat scrunched up in a chair, his shoulders wedged between two file cabinets. Big, brawny, beautiful—all those words came to mind. His hands were fisted inside the pockets of his black leather bomber jacket. And the look on his face made his feelings clear. He didn’t like her.
That set her back on her heels. When the surprise settled, she nodded in his direction. “Sorry I interrupted. I thought Sandy was alone.” Then she recognized him. He was the guy who’d been driving the flashy Porsche downstairs. Remembering his sarcasm, she frowned, not much liking him, either. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
He let his gaze slide down her length and linger on her ch
est before returning to her face. “I’m a friend of Sandy’s,” he said, in a tone that told her he wasn’t impressed with what he saw. “A private investigator.”
“I see.” She flushed heatedly. Whether because of the intimacy in that look, or in anger because he’d so brazenly perused her, she wasn’t sure. Probably a bit of both. If they’d been alone, she’d have found out. But they weren’t. Sandy was watching—avidly. She forced herself to be civil and extended her hand. “I’m Caron Chalmers.”
He seemed reluctant, but clasped it. His hand swallowed hers; it was as huge as the rest of him.
“Yes, I know.” His grasp was firm, strong, and he didn’t flinch, slump or look away. “Parker Simms.”
The man was gorgeous, one any woman could appreciate, but the emotions seeping from him were alien to her. No one ever had looked at her with such raw animosity. But why? A parking slot didn’t warrant this kind of emotion, not even for a guy driving a Porsche.
They hadn’t met before; she was certain of that. A woman wouldn’t forget meeting a man who looked like him—and she’d never forget being looked at in the way he was looking at her. Feeling crowded, uncomfortable, she stepped back.
Sandy cleared his throat. “I thought Parker should be involved in this.”
She darted a look at Sandy. He refused to meet her gaze. Her insides started rumbling, but she forced herself to calm down. “You told him about me.” She tried not to let it, but resentment and accusation edged into her voice.
“I had to, Caron.” Sandy’s eyes held an apology. “For both our sakes.”
Her purse strap slipped off her shoulder. She shoved it back. Why did every man in her life have to betray her? Was there an invisible bull’s-eye drawn between her shoulder blades, a sign that read “Men, Stab Here?”
“I’m worried,” Sandy said with a lift of his hand.
He was worried; she could see it in his expression. But she wasn’t sure whether or not his concern appeased her. Her phoning earlier had cued Sandy that she’d imaged a victim. His calling in his detective friend could mean he doubted that there was a case. It could also mean that he thought she needed a keeper. And a keeper she would not tolerate. “I work alone.”
“So do I.” Parker’s voice was as cold as his chilly look.
She didn’t know what to make of his remark. “If you feel that way, then why are you here?”
Before he could reply, the phone rang. Sandy didn’t answer it. His faded blue eyes flickered an uncertainty that the smile he’d carved around the cigar couldn’t hide. “I asked Parker to come. I thought he could listen in and maybe help.”
Sandy was still ducking his phone calls—and he was darned nervous, busying himself ruffling through an inch-thick stack of pink phone messages on his desk. He’d known that she wouldn’t like Parker Simms being here, and he hadn’t been at all sure how civil she’d be about it. Somehow that doubt made his having violated her trust easier to take. Still, she was feeling darned bitter.
Explaining her gift in the past had netted two effects. One was her being used; the other, her being ridiculed. She didn’t care for an encore to either experience.
Working alone was easiest, best. Yet after what happened to Sarah, could Caron afford to turn down reliable help?
Emotionally torn, she nodded toward the mystery man.
Parker Simms nodded back, but his expression didn’t soften. What was with him? Her having interrupted his meeting with Sandy couldn’t raise this much hostility any more than the parking slot could, especially considering Sandy had brought Simms here to hear what she had to say. So what had she done to irk him?
She focused, trying to pick up on his emotions. Though they were strong and turbulent, she couldn’t peg them—or the source of his animosity.
That surprised her. She cocked her head. But then, she wasn’t able to read everyone. With Sandy, the minute he looked into her eyes, it was as if some magic shield slid into place and hid his thoughts. She didn’t probe. It’d taken years of working with him, but she’d come to trust him. With Parker Simms, it was more complex than that, though she couldn’t say exactly how or why...not yet.
Sandy stuffed the cigar into an overflowing ashtray he kept on his desk for appearances, then stood, curled a beefy arm around her shoulder, and squeezed reassuringly. “Dr. Zilinger didn’t tell me you were back in town.”
“I haven’t called her yet.” Caron hugged him back, feeling self-conscious. Parker Simms had the most intense gaze she’d ever seen. And the most sinfully gorgeous gray eyes. Long, thick lashes and black-winged brows.
“Ah, then I was wrong.” Looking relieved, Sandy sat down again, retrieved the cigar and lazily sprawled back. The chair springs creaked. “This is a social call.”
She wished Simms weren’t here, wished she could talk freely to Sandy and openly explain the situation. Outsiders just didn’t understand. For the most part, she supposed, her gift frightened them—though she had a hard time imagining Parker Simms being afraid of anything. The man seemed more likely to incite fear than to suffer from it.
“I wish this was a social call, Sandy. Until three days ago, it would have been.” She let him see the truth in her eyes. “But not anymore.”
“What happened?” He rocked forward, picked up a pen and held it poised over his blotter.
She looked at the scrawls in the margin, unable to watch him during the telling, or at Simms during the objecting. “Can we speak privately?”
Simms didn’t move. She hadn’t figured he would.
Sandy rubbed his jaw. “Parker’s here for a purpose, Caron. I haven’t forgotten what happened last time. He can help...if you’ll let him.”
He couldn’t help. For some reason, the man strongly disapproved of her, and he made no bones about letting her know it. His body language was as expressive as a chalked blackboard. “I work alone,” she reminded Sandy.
“I’m staying, Ms. Chalmers.” Parker glanced at his watch. “Accept it, and let’s get on with this.”
“Ease up, Parker.” Sandy frowned, then motioned to a chair and softened his voice. “Come on, Caron. Talk to me.”
Caron stayed where she was. She hadn’t asked for Parker Simms’s help. His hostility, whatever the reason for it, wasn’t her problem, and she slid him a hard glare to let him know it.
He didn’t so much as blink. Disappointed, she focused on Sandy. “Three days ago, the sensations started coming back.”
“Sensations?” This from Simms, complete with a frown in his voice.
“The feeling of being on the brink,” she explained. “Of something big about to happen.”
“What?” Curiosity replaced the frown.
“I didn’t know, I just had the feeling.” She forced herself to be patient, looked up at him, and immediately wished she hadn’t. His grimace could stunt growth.
“But you found out,” Sandy said.
She nodded, then leaned back against the wall, lifted her chin and stared at a water spot on the ceiling. “That afternoon. I was checking out at the grocery store. I handed the cashier a fistful of coupons. ‘Customers and their damn coupons,’ she said.”
“I don’t get it.” Sandy shrugged. “That’s rude, but not odd.”
Caron slumped, dreading Parker’s reaction to this. She deliberately refused to look at him so that she wouldn’t see it. “The woman hadn’t said a word.”
Understanding dawned in Sandy’s eyes. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.” Caron rubbed her temple. “She was cracking her gum, and I was looking at her lips. They hadn’t moved.”
“You heard her thoughts,” he said softly, sliding the cigar into the ashtray.
Hearing Parker’s sigh, she winced inwardly. “Yes,” she answered Sandy, knowing they both knew exactly what her hearing the woman’s thoughts meant. Caron’s time without imaging, her time of freedom and peace, was over.
The “gift” was back.
“What did you do?” His voice had an odd
catch in it.
She let out a self-deprecating laugh. “Flatly denied that it was happening again. Refused to accept it.” She’d cried all the way home, too, mourning the loss of her normal life in Midtown, and her students, who deserved a teacher who wasn’t distracted by visions. She didn’t want the gift. She’d been blessed enough.
Sandy leaned forward. “Could you?”
“What?”
“Refuse to accept the images?” Parker said, interrupting them. Muttering his impatience, he propped his elbows on his knees.
“I tried.” She had. But by the time she’d stored the chicken noodle soup on the pantry shelf, she’d known she had to help. That was when she’d first “seen” the little girl...and when all hell had broken loose inside her.
Sandy frowned, clearly perplexed. “So you can refuse them, then?”
He was hoping for a way out...for her. But, though she appreciated his concern, there wasn’t one. Not one she could live with, anyway. “No, Sandy. I can’t refuse them.”
“That would be too convenient.” Parker’s voice held a condescending smirk she thoroughly resented.
Sandy rubbed his jaw, then his nape, studying her for a long minute. He put down the pen and laced his hands across his desk. “I’m going to be blunt here, Caron.”
“Okay.” Hadn’t he always been?
“Can you handle this?”
Though it stung, it was a fair question. One she had been asking herself since her first inkling that the images were returning. She’d agonized, rationalized, but no matter what path her thoughts had taken, all roads led back to one. “I don’t have any choice.”
“Of course you don’t.” Parker grunted, making it clear that he’d meant the exact opposite of what he’d said.
That was the one. The proverbial back-breaking straw. Who did this guy think he was? She frowned at him and held it so that he wouldn’t miss it. “I’m sorry you don’t approve, Mr. Simms. But I haven’t asked for your approval, or for your help, so could you can the sarcasm?” She slid her gaze to Sandy. “This is hard enough without a stranger’s censure.”
