A Jeff Resnick Six Pack

by L. L. Bartlett

  I gave her a smile. “No, babe, everything’s okay.” I retrieved the now-full ice bucket and followed Maggie back to the living room.

  Irene blossomed into the equivalent of a Broadway producer as she directed the catering firm where to place the food. Next she bossed the family to the table, and dutifully every one fell into line like drafted soldiers, taking their seats.

  The caterers were dismissed and Irene directed the dissemination of turkey, cranberries, and vegetables. The Brennan clan dished out huge portions of stuffing and all the other accouterments, while I took a small scoop of potatoes, a slice of turkey and a spoonful of stuffing.

  I glanced at my watch and figured Richard and Brenda were probably halfway to Cozumel. Brenda had been disappointed when Richard announced he’d booked the trip for Christmas Day. She’d wanted to put on a complete holiday feast, but I’d convinced her that January 6th—Epiphany—could be her last stab at making merry for this holiday season.

  The Brennan family weren’t great conversationalists, but Irene was asking each in turn how they liked the food. While occupied, their collective disdain for me had diminished, but I still found it weird that they’d taken on Irene’s dislike for me as a form of family unity.

  I pushed a morsel of stuffing around my plate before forking it into my mouth.

  “What’s the matter, Jeff, isn’t the food good enough for you?” Irene eyed me with scorn.

  Well, at least she addressed me by my name and not Hey, you. I swallowed. “It’s very good. I’m just not a big eater.”

  “I wish I had your lack of appetite,” Maggie said and gave a hollow laugh. “Everything’s delicious, Irene.” Maggie would’ve said that even if she was choking on it.

  Irene turned her attention to her father and I poked at the mashed potatoes on my plate. Maybe we’d only have to stay another hour. But there was still that mound of gifts to open. Did the Brennan clan open them one-by-one, or did they have a rip-fest with wrapping paper flying and demolish the pile in record speed? I could only hope .…

  I took a bite of turkey, chewing slowly when I was hit by a sudden sense of panic emanating from nearby. I swallowed quickly and for a moment the meat caught in my throat. I grabbed my drink and took a gulp, but the panic I felt kicked into high gear.

  Someone at the table was choking—couldn’t communicate it—and a flame of fear coursed through me.

  My gaze darted to those at the table, but everyone seemed to be conversing or fixated with the food on their plates.

  Then I knew.

  I shoved back my chair with such force that the table shuddered.

  “Jeff?” Maggie asked.

  I ignored her and stumbled against Peter’s chair, shoving him forward and nearly into his plate.

  “Hey!”

  Like magnetic force, I felt drawn to the kids’ table, panic nearly choking me, too.

  The smallest boy at the satellite table had placed a hand on his throat. I grabbed him from behind, pulled him off his chair and placed my clenched fist against his sternum and gave a mighty jerk. The boy made croaking sounds, and his panic kicked into overdrive.

  I gave him another two quick jerks and a hunk of turkey ejected from his mouth, landing on Eleanor’s plate.

  “Eeeoooooo!” she wailed, and jumped to her feet. Her plate went flying and crashed against the wall, where it shattered into a dozen pieces.

  Irene shot out of her chair like a missile. “What the hell are you doing?” she screamed.

  The boy—Brian?—was limp in my arms, coughing, struggling for breath.

  “Put that child down,” Irene hollered, and launched herself at me.

  I dropped the kid back into his seat, but Irene crashed into me, her arms flying—windmill style—slapping at me, shoving me backward.

  “You goddamned bastard—you’ve ruined our Christmas!”

  I tried to get around her, but Irene had forty or fifty pounds on me, and I slammed into the buff-painted wall. A framed picture fell, glass shattering as it hit the hardwood floor.

  “Mama, Mama!” the little boy wailed.

  Peter was suddenly there, yanking his wife off of me, grabbing her arms and pulling her away.

  Sandy had grabbed her son in a fierce hug, patting his back.

  “I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t breathe!” the boy cried, and buried his face in her sweatered shoulder.

  “How did you know?” Sandy asked, her face taut with fear. “You couldn’t see the kids from your seat. How did you know?” she demanded.

  All eyes were on me. Maggie hadn’t told them about my gift. Instead of gratitude, the entire family looked at me with suspicion—as though I had caused the kid to choke.

  “What are you?” Irene asked.

  I saw a wild-eyed Maggie standing behind her confused parents. “I’ve had enough,” I told her, and headed for the front door. Grabbing my jacket—from the closet floor—I struggled into the sleeves and yanked open the front door, letting it slam behind me.

  I made it to the car by the time Maggie came running after me, sans coat. “Jeff, wait!”

  I opened the driver’s door, the dome light spilling wan light onto the darkened, snowy drive.

  “Where are you going?” Maggie said.

  “Where else? Home.”

  She stood there, hands cupping opposite elbows, shivering in the cold. “I don’t think they realize you just saved Brian’s life.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think I’ll hang around to wait for their show of appreciation. Give my regrets to Irene, will you?”

  “Jeff, please come back in. I’ll explain everything. I’ll make them understand.”

  “You can’t. Don’t you see, Maggie, Irene has already poisoned them against me. Maybe she’s right. Maybe I’m nothing but trouble for you. You might just be better off without me.”

  “But I think I love you.”

  That would never be good enough for her close-knit family. With a failed marriage behind her, Maggie already had a blemished record where men were concerned.

  “I love you, too, but—” They were never going to accept me, and shoving that fact down her throat on Christmas Day was too cruel for even me to attempt.

  “Can someone drive you back to Richard’s to pick up your car?”

  “I’m coming back with you now.”

  “No, you’re not. That’ll just put a bigger wedge between you and your family and I don’t want that for you. Sandy and Dave live in Tonawanda, don’t they? That’s not too far from Richard’s house.”

  “But—”

  “Go on. Go back in. Smooth things over. It’ll be okay.”

  But instead of retreating, she shuffled through the inch or so of new snow and threw herself into my arms, swamping me with a tsunami of emotions: love, shame, and pride all rolled together in an almost overwhelming amalgam.

  “I’m so ashamed,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “How could my family let me down like this?”

  “They’re just worried about you being with someone like me.” And probably with reason.

  She held onto me with fierce determination. “I love you,” she asserted, and yet this thing inside me that could tap into others’ emotions told me she really wasn’t sure what she felt. Oh yeah, she felt some kind of affection, but deep down love? No, she just wasn’t sure.

  And why should she?

  I kissed the top of her head, then pushed her away. “You’re shivering. Go back inside. If you want to come back to my place later, I’ll wait for you. If not … that’s okay, too.”

  “I’ll be there. You can’t keep me away.”

  Yeah, but how much longer would she feel that way? Irene held much more influence over her than Maggie realized. I pulled her close again, hoped I imparted some of my warmth. “I love you, Maggs.”

  “I love you, too.”

  She didn’t. Yet. Maybe never. But that was okay. I could accept it.

  At least for now.

  COLD CASE

  Psyc
hic Jeff Resnick has no expectations when investigating the disappearance of a four-year-old boy, until he confronts the mind responsible--a shattering experience for all involved. (This story was the inspiration for the novel Bound By Suggestion.)

  “You’re not the first psychic to come through Paula’s apartment, Mr. Resnick.”

  Hands on hips, Dr. Krista Marsh stood before me. Her heels gave her an inch or more on me. Blonde and lithe, and clad in a turquoise dress with jet beads resting on her ample breasts, she was the best looking thing in that lower middle-class apartment.

  “I don’t use that term. Con-artists, liars, and frauds take advantage of people with problems. I’m just someone who sometimes knows more than I’m comfortable knowing.”

  Truth was, I hadn’t wanted to be there at all, giving my impressions on the fate of four-year-old Eric Devlin. He’d gone missing on an early-autumn evening some eight months before. One minute he’d been there—riding his Big Wheel in front of the apartment building—the next he was gone. Like every other good citizen, I’d read all the stories in the newspapers and seen the kid’s picture on posters and on TV. The only place I hadn’t seen it was on the back of a milk carton.

  I was there as a favor to my brother—actually, my older half-brother—Dr. Richard Alpert, who’d joined me on that cold gray evening in early May. Richard was Paula Devlin’s internist at the university’s low-income clinic. He liked Paula and hated how not knowing her son’s fate was tearing her apart. He hoped I could shed some light on the kid’s disappearance.

  I’m not sure why Dr. Marsh was there. Maybe as Paula’s therapist she thought she could protect her patient from someone like me.

  So, there I stood, in the middle of Paula’s modestly furnished living room, trying to soak up vibes that might tell me the little boy’s fate.

  Paula waited in the doorway, looking fearful as I examined the heart of her home, which she’d transformed into a cottage industry, distributing posters, pins, and flyers in the search for the boy—all to no avail. Vacuum cleaner tracks on the carpet showed her hasty clean-up prior to our arrival. Too thin, and looking older than her thirty-two years, Paula’s spirit and her determination to find her missing son had sustained her over the long months she’d been alone. The paper had never mentioned a Mr. Devlin.

  “I don’t know if I can help you,” I told Paula.

  She flashed an anxious look at Richard, then back to me.

  “Where would you like to start, Mr. Resnick?”

  “Call me Jeff. How about Eric’s room?”

  A sixty-watt bulb illuminated the gloom as the four of us trudged down a narrow hallway. Paula opened the door to a small bedroom, flipped a light switch, and ushered us in. “It’s just the way he left it.”

  I doubted that, since the bed was made and all the toys and games were neatly stacked on shelves under the room’s only window—not a speck of dust. A race car bedspread and matching drapes gave a clue to the boy’s chief interest—so did the scores of dented, paint-scraped cars and trucks. I picked up a purple-and-black dune buggy, sensing a trace of the boy’s aura. He’d been a rambunctious kid, with the beginnings of a smart mouth.

  “He was a very lively child.”

  “He’s all boy, that’s for sure,” his mother said proudly.

  She hadn’t noticed I’d used the past tense. Either that or she was in deep denial. I’d known little Eric was dead the moment I entered the apartment.

  I gave her a half-hearted smile, replaced the toy on the shelf. There wasn’t much else to see. I shouldered my way past the others and wandered back to the living room. They tried not to bump into each other as they followed.

  A four-foot poster of Eric’s smiling face dominated the west wall. He’d been small for his age, cute, with sandy hair and a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of his nose.

  An image flashed through my mind: a child’s hand reaching for a glass.

  I hitched in a breath, grateful my back was to Dr. Marsh. A mix of powerful emotions erupted—as though my presence had ignited an emotional powder keg. Like repelling magnets, guilt and relief waged a war, practically raining from the walls and ceiling.

  Composing myself, I turned, a disquieting depression settling over me.

  “Ms. Devlin—”

  She stepped forward. “Call me Paula.”

  “Paula. Did Dr. Alpert tell you how this works?”

  “He said you absorb emotions, interpret them, and that sometimes you get knowledge.”

  “That’s right.” More or less. “There’s a lot of background emotion here. May I hold your hand for a moment? I need to see if it’s coming from you, or if it’s resident in the building.”

  Without hesitation, she held out her hand, her expression full of hope. And that’s what I got from her: Hope, desperation, and deep despair. She loved that little boy, heart and soul. And there was suspicion, too, but not of me.

  I released her hand, letting out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

  “Paula, ever heard the expression about a person taking up all the air in the room?” Her brows puckered in confusion. “You’re broadcasting so many emotions I can’t sort them out. I know you want to stay, but I can’t do what I have to if you’re here.”

  “But he’s my son,” she protested.

  Dr. Marsh stepped closer, placed a comforting hand on Paula’s shoulder. “You want him to give you a true reading.”

  I turned on the psychiatrist. “I’m not a fortune teller, Dr. Marsh.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend,” she said without sincerity.

  “I’ll go if you say so, Krista.” Paula grabbed her windbreaker from the closet and headed for the door. Once she was gone, my anxiety eased, and I no longer needed to play diplomat.

  “What’re you getting?” Richard asked.

  “The kid’s dead—been dead since day one. He wasn’t frightened either, not until the very last minute.”

  “You’re talking murder,” Richard said. “Not Paula.”

  “No. I’m sure of that.”

  Dr. Marsh eyed me critically, brows arched, voice coolly professional. “Are you well acquainted with sensing death, Mr. Resnick?”

  “More than I’d like.” I glanced at Richard. “What’s this about a pervert in the neighborhood?”

  His eyes narrowed. “It hasn’t been reported in the media, but Paula told me about the cops’ prime suspect. A convicted pedophile lived three units down at the time the boy disappeared. They’ve had him in for questioning five or six times but haven’t been able to wring a confession out of him. How’d you know?”

  “From Paula—just now. She’s afraid he took her kid.”

  Dr. Marsh frowned. She probably figured I was just some shyster running a con. Can’t say I was sorry to disappoint her.

  “You got something else,” Richard said. He knew me well.

  “I saw something, but it doesn’t make sense.” I told them about the vision.

  “Close your eyes. Focus on it,” he directed.

  I shot a look at Dr. Marsh, saw the contempt in her gaze. Skepticism came with the territory.

  My eyes slid shut and I allowed myself to relax, trying to relive that fleeting moment.

  “What do you see?” Richard said.

  “A kid’s hand reached for a glass.”

  “Is it Eric?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Describe the glass.”

  I squeezed my eyes tighter, trying to replay the image. “A clear tumbler.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “Liquid. Brown. Chocolate milk?”

  “Look up the child’s arm,” Richard directed. “Can you see his clothes?”

  The cuff of a sleeve came into focus. “Yeah.”

  “The color?”

  I exhaled a breath. Like a camera pulling back, the vision expanded to include the child’s chest. “Blue...a decal of—” The image winked out. “Damn!”

  “Give it a couple o
f minutes and try again,” Richard advised.

  Uncomfortable under Dr. Marsh’s stare, I wandered into the kitchen again. I couldn’t shake the feeling of...dread? Whatever it was surrounded me, squeezing my chest so I couldn’t take a decent breath.

  Hands clenched at his side, Richard studied me in silence. We’d been through this before, and his eyes mirrored the concern he wouldn’t express for fear of embarrassing me. He knew just what these little empathic forays cost me.

  Turning away from his scrutiny, I went back into the boy’s gloomy bedroom. Though banished from the apartment, Paula’s anguish was still palpable. How many times had she stood in that doorway and cried for her child?

  I ran my hands along all the surfaces a kid Eric’s age could’ve touched. After eight months there was so little left of him. His clothes in the dresser drawers, neatly folded and stacked, bore no trace of his aura. I pulled back the bedspread, picked up the pillow, closed my eyes and pressed it against my face. Tendrils of fear curled through me.

  Airless.

  Darkness.

  Nothingness.

  Death.

  A rustling noise at the open doorway broke the spell. Dr. Marsh studied me as she must’ve once looked at rats in a lab. Her appraising gaze was sharp, her irritation almost palpable. Even so, she looked like she just walked off the set of some TV drama instead of the University’s Medical Center campus. I’d bet her brown eyes flashed when she smiled. Not that she had.

  “I understand you’ve done this before,” she said.

  “Define ‘this,’“ I said.

  “Helping the police in murder investigations.”

  “Once or twice.”

  “Are you always successful?”

  “So far,” I answered honestly and replaced the pillow, smoothing the spread back into place.

  “And what do you get out of it?”

  Her scornful tone annoyed me.

  “Usually a miserable headache. What is this, an interrogation?”

  “I’m merely curious,” she said. “My, we are defensive, aren’t we?”

  “I can’t answer for ‘we,’ but I’m certainly not here to fence with you, doctor. If you’ll excuse me.”