by S. E. Harmon
He laughed. “The mechanics of it all can be a little confusing, but I firmly believe that everyone has tools in their psychic toolbox. They might not know how to access them, or even want to access them, but the possibility is there.”
“Most people would find that an exceedingly hard pill to swallow.”
“Our everyday, run of the mill senses are augmented with intuitive capability.” He smiled, noticing my distraction with the overgrown garden and gestured. “We can walk through here, you know. I know it helps sensories like yourself to be close to growing things.”
A sensory who needs to be close to the Earth? I blinked at him. “I’m not sure you understand what I’m trying to do here—”
“You’re trying to understand yourself better and control your gift. Doing that requires that you accept all parts of yourself, not just the parts you like. The Rain who sees ghosts is the same Rain who works for BBPD… the same capable Rain you’ve always been.” He nodded toward the garden again. “Walk and talk with me.”
“But—”
He pointed at my shoes as he kicked off his sandals. “And take those off.”
I was done arguing. I stepped out of my boots and put them neatly at the base of a tree before following him into the garden. The space was wild and beautiful, a profusion of colors so crisp and sharp they almost felt like technicolor. It was cooler there, probably because of the canopy the towering trees created …almost like a little pseudo rain forest right there in the middle of campus.
I hated to admit it, but I did feel better the moment my feet hit the soil. Dakota observed me with sidelong glances that he thought I didn’t notice. From the little smile on his face, I didn’t have to admit anything.
“You still look six,” I informed him.
He grinned.
I was in the dining room, aka my makeshift office, when I smelled something good enough to make my nose twitch. Indignant at being ignored, my stomach growled and clenched painfully. I looked up to find Danny in the doorway, two bags of takeout in his hand.
“I hope you haven’t eaten already.” He held up the bags. “I brought Mexican.”
“It smells good.” I leaned back in my chair, rubbing at my bleary eyes. “I didn’t even hear you come in.”
“I see why. You looked like you were trying to puzzle out all the world’s mysteries.”
“Not all the mysteries. Just one in particular.”
His mouth quirked. “I’m certainly glad you survived the bomb that went off.”
I glanced around a little sheepishly. I was normally a pretty neat guy, but nothing got in the way of my research. I had both my laptop and Mason’s laptop plugged in, blocking one pathway with cords. My whiteboard blocked another corner—and yes, I was addicted enough to whiteboards to have one at home and one in my office. Papers were spread on the table from end to end and considering how long the table was, that was quite the feat. I’d even occupied two of the chairs with my attaché case and files.
I ran a hand down my face, a little embarrassed. “You know I’ll clean it all up.”
“I assumed you would,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “That wasn’t a criticism.”
Just an observation, then? I stared at him for a few moments, a little stymied. I’d decided a long time ago not to slap labels on what we had. But I should probably know if I was living with my boyfriend.
I wasn’t very good at just floating along. I didn’t like upheaval. I liked security and schedules and stability because they appeased the squarest parts of my heart and that was never going to change. If I had to guess, I’d probably trace the origins to side effects from growing up on a converted school bus in a hippie commune, a group that picked up and moved whenever the fuck they felt like it. The presence of ghosts popping in and out of my life made me crave that stability even more.
I’d be okay if Danny needed some space. I’d be okay if he wanted to move in together. I just needed to know. Where were we exactly, relationship wise? Did he want to take a step forward or back? I knew there was a surefire remedy for my confusion—to ask those questions aloud.
I just wasn’t sure I was ready to hear the answers.
“So.” He looked around for a free space to put the takeout bags and finally decided to put them on a chair. He sat across from me in another. “How was your day?”
I knew that benign question was nothing but code. I wasn’t eager to rehash my session with Dakota just yet. “It was fine.”
“I had a productive day, too,” he said, eyeing me. “I told my mother I’d come by the next couple of Saturdays too. There are a lot of things over there that need fixing.”
It took me a few seconds to extract the subtext from his pretext. I’ll be busy on Saturdays, so feel free to make these appointments a regular thing.
“That’s nice of you.” I rolled my shoulders uncomfortably. “Let me know if you need some help.”
“Most of it is just one-man jobs I’ve been putting off,” he said casually. “If there’s… something else you want to do on Saturday, you should feel free.”
“I’ll certainly keep that in mind.” I narrowed my eyes at him, projecting some code of my own and a flashing red light his way. Back off, Irish. I don’t want to attack you, but my claws are coming out without my permission. “Didn’t you say something about giving me food?”
“Oh, so now you’re desperately hungry?” His gaze shifted to the whiteboard behind me. Admittedly, it was a bit of a hodgepodge. I dedicated the entire surface to everything related to the missing eight—pictures, missing flyers, and enough tiny writing to make my eyes cross. “Are those the guys from Chevy’s list?”
“Yeah, these are the eight,” I said. “I’ve been trying to find common threads.”
He squinted at my notations. “What are those multicolored lines? Some sort of map?”
“What?” I twisted around in my chair to follow his gaze. “No, those are the common threads. The blue line between the bottom four represents the mode of disappearance. All of them were seen getting into the passenger side of a blue or black car.”
“I hate to point out the obvious, but those are two entirely different colors.”
“You know how eyewitnesses can waffle. And depending on the gradient, a blue could definitely look black.”
“What does the red line on the top row represent?”
“Um… those are men who’ve been missing over ten years. Wait, no.” It took me a moment to decipher my own code. “Their cars were found abandoned in shopping plazas.”
“The same plaza?”
“No, but they were all found in an area unmonitored by CCTV. That can’t be a coincidence.” Before he could ask, I pointed at the bottom row. “That yellow line represents the men last seen at a Greyhound bus station.”
“Paul Marks and Abraham Bell?”
“Exactly. Samuel Abbot and Silas Black were last seen at a bar, which is represented by the blue circles here.”
“The same bar?”
“Well, no. But Samuel was also seen getting into the blue or maybe black car….” I checked my notes to follow the circular line and made a small sound of triumph. “Which connects us back up here. As you can see, it all makes sense.”
“As I can see?” He lifted an eyebrow. “You’d have to be the guy in A Beautiful Mind to follow this board.”
I huffed. “It’s not that bad. I mean, it’s certainly a little …busy, but there’s a concentric pattern here if you just—”
“And since when are serial killers so all over the map?” He went on. “You said yourself that routine is very important, and they don’t like to deviate.”
Well, well, well, look who earned his merit badge in listening skills. Three months ago, I’d done a lecture on serial killers as a favor to Graycie, and invited Danny along. I glanced up at the top row a half hour in, only to find Danny slouched in his chair with the hood up on his sweater. By the forty five minute mark, his eyes were closed and his mouth lax in sleep
.
“I knew you weren’t asleep that whole time,” I accused.
His mouth quirked. “Osmosis can be a dangerous thing.”
I had to admit he’d made some good points—not the osmosis thing, but the rest—which was extremely annoying. Serial killers loved their routine. They would deviate if they had to, but that was never the plan. Spontaneity provided unknown variables, and unknown variables could be uncontrollable. A loss of control to a serial killer was never acceptable.
“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” he said, “but I am looking for a connection that spans all of their cases.”
“Well, they’re all within the twenty to thirty age range. All slight in build. They’re all relatively short, in fact, none of the eight are over five nine.”
“That could be because he was looking for an easy target to overpower.”
“Easy is never a factor for a serial killer. If his type was a six-foot-four musclebound guy, he or she would figure out a way to get it done.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek as I thought. “No, he picked these people for a reason. We just have to figure out what it was.”
“Is there any pattern in their disappearances?”
“They all went missing approximately three to five years apart. A large interval, but a pattern nonetheless.”
“Why such odd intervals?”
“Depends on the stressor that triggers him to kill. You know, there’s a school of thought that says serial killers go through stages.”
“Oh God,” he muttered. “I’m having a flashback. Put a laser pointer in your hand and a pair of wireless frames on your nose, and I’m—”
“About two seconds from never getting blown again? Good deduction, my love.” I went back to my original train of thought. “The stressor occurs during the Aura Phase, when he’s losing his grip on what’s real and what’s fiction. The cooling period that created the interval occurs during the depression phase, right after the killing.”
“What makes him start up again?”
“The scope of his emptiness and loneliness grows. It becomes crystalized and interminable. He’d have no choice but to begin the cycle anew.”
“They’re all from such different walks of life. How you connected all these is beyond me.” I opened my mouth to argue, but his next words took the wind out of my sails. “But I do trust your instincts.”
“Oh. Well, thank you,” I said awkwardly.
“Don’t mention it.” His eyes twinkled again. “And I mean that literally. I could go the rest of my life without hearing you drone on about serial killers.”
I glared. “And how exactly is dinner getting here? Grand Canyon mule?”
“Fine.” He chuckled as he got up from the table. “Don’t get started on something else. It’ll only take a minute for me to reheat the food and dish it up.”
I watched him leave, a small smile playing on my mouth. A few moments later, I heard the rustling of bags and clanking of plates. The sounds of him moving around in the kitchen were soothing. The jangling of silverware was unmistakable. A door shut loudly and the microwave started to hum, and so did Danny.
I leaned back against the table, arms crossed, staring at the board. Despite the best of our efforts, I still had two too many suspects. Was it Luke, finally getting rid of the brother he could never measure up to? A lifetime of resentment could certainly create enough rage to kill.
But then there was Carter. Mason had rejected him. That couldn’t be an easy pill to swallow for the man who didn’t like hearing no. Maybe Carter had decided to kill the man he couldn’t get out of his mind. I certainly couldn’t dismiss Casey. He was in love with Mason, and Mason didn’t look at him the same way. Unrequited love could make people do strange things. Unthinkable things.
At this point, I knew that a stone-cold killer lurked behind one of those smiling faces. But who? Which one of them was capable of killing not only Mason and Hunter… but also eight others? It wasn’t going to be easy to figure out.
Unfortunately for our killer, I never shied away from a challenge.
Chapter 25
I met with Dakota the next Saturday. Things started much like our previous session, except the unpleasant addition of Wallace in less clothing. He greeted me at the door in ratty boxers, gnawing on a Slim Jim. He offered me a bite of the snack and shrugged when I declined.
My nose twitched. The entire room smelled like sodium and by-products. “How many of those have you had?”
“Seven, I think.” He shrugged. “I have an exam on Monday. Can’t stop to eat.”
Or shower. Or dig up a much needed bottle of Febreze. When Dakota finally emerged from his room, I couldn’t suggest another walk quickly enough. He agreed with his customary bright smile, and we left Wallace and his smells behind.
Even though we strolled the campus without a destination in mind, we eventually wound up in the same garden we’d visited before. As usual, Dakota was a fountain of information. I liked the way he talked about ghosting in a universal sense—not in a Rain Is So Creepy sense.
“So you’re saying everyone has some version of my ability?” I asked.
“In one form or another. Take clairvoyance for example. Have you ever talked to someone who had a dream about a deceased love one? Most people just brush it off when they wake, like maybe they were just thinking about that individual earlier and it leeched into their dreams. But was it just a dream? Or were they actually visited in their sleep?”
“Well, that would make them different. And admitting you’re different than you thought can be a scary thing,” I murmured.
“Who’s to say what’s different and what’s not?” He shrugged. “And let’s not forget about claircognizance.”
“Can’t forget about what I don’t know about,” I said with a raised eyebrow.
He laughed. “That feeling when you know something without a doubt, with every fiber of your being, and there’s no logical way that you could or should. Or clairsentience, when you get that feeling in your gut that something isn’t right. Some have even experienced clairaudience, when you hear a thought that can’t possibly belong to you, like a name or a thought or even a word.”
I chewed on that for a bit as we walked around a small pond. It burbled quietly, adding to the peaceful nature. Large, colorful koi darted about in the water and they seemed to track our path around the pond, clearly used to being fed. The ground near the pond was damp and mushed under my toes, but I didn’t even mind. We paused by a tall, flowering plant and Dakota bent to take a sniff.
What Dakota said made a lot of sense. In law enforcement, I’d come across a few people who’d experienced clairsentience, that strong feeling that told them what to do and what not to do. Get in the car, or keep walking. Have another drink, or go home early. Chance going out to your car by yourself, or wait for security to escort you.
Sometimes whether a person lived or died depended on if he ignored or listened to that stray thought. As for clairaudience, I once had a dream talking with a man in German. I spoke four languages, but German wasn’t one of them.
Several of the flowers were wilted and limp, and Dakota touched one of the drooping blooms absently, his lithe fingers gentle. “We only access a miniscule portion of our brain, but that doesn’t mean the rest isn’t utilized. It’s like a computer that way, always gathering data. Even if we never utilize any of that data, it remains on our hard drive. Maybe you just have more access to that data than most, and that’s nothing to be afraid of.”
Dakota certainly had an interesting way of looking at things, and I kind of liked his viewpoint. I wasn’t a freak or something mythical or magical. I just had more access to my brain than most.
I sighed. “Well, you’ve certainly given me food for thought. Maybe I’ll….”
Dakota glanced over at me with a quizzical look. “You’ll what?”
I didn’t respond. I was too busy realizing that I wasn’t the only one who had secrets. He followed my gaze, only to find that the
previously limp husk of a flower was once again lively and bright pink. Several vines curled toward his hand, and before my incredulous gaze, one of them curled around his wrist. It was like they were drawn to him.
He yanked his wrist back, cheeks blooming as pink as the flower. “Shall we go on?” he finally asked.
“What are you?” I asked slowly.
“That’s not important.”
Wasn’t it? My mind worked in overdrive as I tried to puzzle it out. “Those plants are drawn to you. Is that why you like walking in the gardens? Are you some sort of… some sort of….”
I was stumped and he certainly wasn’t going to fill in the blanks.
“I did say people like us had a connection to nature,” he said stiffly.
“People like us? You see... ghosts?”
“No. People who are different. We connect with the earth differently.” His cheeks were still pink. “But we’re not here to talk about me.”
We weren’t when he was just an overly curious grad student with surprisingly helpful advice. Now that he was some sort of plant whisperer, you could say I was more than a little intrigued. The mulish set of his mouth told me that he wasn’t going to tell me a damned thing.
I stared at him for a few moments, brows drawn. It fucking figured that the most competent paranormal therapist I could find was even stranger than I was. On a brighter note, at least I knew his advice was probably sound.
A rumble of thunder broke our stare-off, and I glanced up at the sky. Then at my watch. “It looks like it’s going to rain soon. We should head back.”
He nodded, and we started to retrace our steps back through the garden. He was the first to break the awkward silence between us. “You should grow some sort of garden as a quiet sanctuary,” he ventured.
“I don’t exactly have a green thumb.” And I liked to spend my weekends as God intended—sans pants, exploring the insides of my eyelids in a soft, cozy bed.
“Your mother could help you. She’s into gardening, isn’t she?”
