—BARBARA KINGSOLVER
Grazing the back of his fist over his jaw, Jason feels the night’s growth of beard—each bristle standing at attention like an undaunted soldier. So far, my moves have been smart and careful. I can’t slip up now. Bleary-eyed, he lifts his heavy head to peer through the wall of glass in Thoreau cottage, now weeping with rain, and sees morning clouds sloppy in a drunken sky.
He struggles to sit upright as he pulls fragmented pieces of yesterday’s events out of his foggy brain to examine.
I remember the UPS truck delivered my packages. I brought them to the cottage, opened them, and celebrated their arrival with my good friend, Jack Daniels. Oh shit! I missed dinner at the main house.
Gingerly turning his head, Jason spots an empty fifth lying on the floor, its shiny black cap lost to abandon at the side. He blinks as he turns his head with deliberate care and sees his Beretta laying on the counter of the small, well-lit kitchen. He adjusts his gaze downward, his line of vision now level with the top of the almost empty desk. Its well worn surface is interrupted by the solitary presence of a speed loader.
He exhales with relief, then smiles as he considers the ease with which he can load magazines to maximum capacity, Thirteen, my favorite number. With tentative caution, he rolls to all fours and pushes himself from the floor. The room swims in gentle waves around him. Once he’s upright, another memory comes to the forefront of his mind. A woman—that woman—was here last night. Who am I kidding? She’s not a woman, she’s a viper. Lethal. She said, “You’ve gotten predictable, Jason, and in this business, predictable is one step from being dead.” Jason shivers.
Second to Libby, Fran arrives at the tai chi pavilion and removes her shoes before ascending the steps. “Last night when you said, ‘rain or shine,’ you meant it, didn’t you?”
“I sure did,” Libby returns with an easy smile.
“How long have you been doing tai chi?”
“Niall would tell you, ‘since the day after dirt,’” Libby teases, “but the truth is, I’ve been practicing tai chi for about thirty years. I started in my early twenties and fell in love with it. It’s become a way of life.”
“Well, I can understand why. I’ve only tried it a few times, and I’m hooked. If for no other reason, it makes the words flow when I sit down to write,” Fran says, her voice tinged with delight.
“It has a way of dissolving blocks—energetic and otherwise,” Libby says. “I’ve learned that with regular practice, tai chi provides me with a complete workout, deep relaxation, a clear mind, inner peace, and it leaves me feeling both rested and invigorated.”
Over Libby’s shoulder, Fran watches Cynthia moving toward the pavilion with graceful purpose. She arrives under a head of steam, accessorized with a thick, turquoise cuff bracelet on her left wrist and its more-slender twin on her right. She slips out of her shoes, climbs the steps, and announces, “I’m ready and rarin’.”
Fran admires the way Cynthia’s short, choppy hairstyle accentuates her elfin face, although tall and willowy, she is anything but.
Fran turns toward the movement in her peripheral vision.
Like a shaft of happiness piercing a dull pewter sky, Emma’s and Mick’s arrival illuminates everything in its path. Hard to look away, Fran, Libby, and Cynthia watch with keen interest as Mick removes Emma’s shoes, pausing to pinch a painted little toe, before removing his own and ascending the steps two at a time.
Emma rolls up the ramp with ease.
Buoyed by joy, it seems that neither of them touches the ground.
Fran, riding a wave of happiness generated by those around her, watches as Libby faces the group and begins the class with the gesture of Namaste—a slight bend at the waist, hands steepled together in front of her heart—an expression of respect and goodwill.
Fran and the others follow suit. Libby turns around, and with her characteristic calm and casual authority, begins leading the class in a slow, graceful routine that combines movements from martial arts with stretching and balancing. Fran is glad to let go of her need to control and allows herself to become absorbed by the flow.
From the back of the tai chi pavilion, Mick watches Fran, Cynthia, and Emma move in harmony, looking for proper posture, stepping in subtly to help refine body mechanics when needed.
He remembers the first time he saw tai chi. He was about seven years old, and from his young perspective, it looked more like a dance than exercise or a martial art as Libby practiced the smooth and slow motions in their backyard. To his young eyes, it was impossible to tell when one posture ended and another began.
An almost imperceptible ripple in the air lifts the hairs on Mick’s arms. Raising his eyes, he sees a thin, silvery curtain in the distance—a line of rain. There won’t be much outdoor work today. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll hole up in my place and continue working on the manuscript.
Thanks to Libby’s artistic flair, the interior colors of Mick’s cabin—indigo and cream, with a few splashes of soft yellow—welcome him home at the end of each day. Libby was careful to keep his masculine taste in mind.
With reading as a favorite pastime, his well-used books fill the built-in shelves. A French club chair and ottoman with worn leather upholstery sit on a muted rug facing the stone fireplace. The exposed logs and wooden beams of the rustic interior create a restful atmosphere, a perfect retreat for encouraging the flow of thoughts.
It also places him a stone’s throw from Thoreau—Jason’s cottage. I wonder what he’s been up to, Mick thinks, as Libby brings the session to a close.
Blinders on, heads bent with focused determination, each of the guests—except one—work on their manuscripts. Sedulous wordsmiths, they hunker over laptops in their cottages throughout the day.
The sky with its sleepy shade of gray-blue and the intermittent rain is conducive to creativity.
Taking brief, periodic breaks to stretch and grab a quick bite from their well-stocked kitchens, thousands of words assemble themselves on pages, some orderly, others haphazard, as the writers in residence paint vivid word pictures.
Fran sits at the large, smooth, walnut desk in Dickens cottage baring her soul in the pages of Mother in Waiting: The Stigma of Childlessness. Even though she pauses now and then to wipe tears from her eyes, she finds the view of the woods gentle and encouraging. She’s glad she’s here at Pines & Quill where she feels positive internal and external changes taking place. She looks at her left hand and smiles at the white line on her finger, sans wedding ring.
In Brontë cottage, Cynthia slips her “writing pendant”—a beautiful, multi-faceted piece of blue topaz—over her head. While doing so, she speaks out loud. “I invite the energies of inspiration and creativity to flow. Thank you, and so it is.”
She stretches out her long legs on the cozy, jewel-toned window seat cushion. Now and then her toes wiggle with excitement as her manicured fingernails breeze across her laptop keys, breathing life into the pages of Guide Lines: The World In the Palm of Your Hands.
With brows knit in concentration, Emma’s eyes are laser-focused on her laptop screen. Her fingers are a blur of movement. She’s glad to have Hemingway’s company.
He’s laying on the floor next to her wheelchair at the battered oak desk in Austen cottage. Whimpers and twitching paws are sure signs that Hemingway’s enjoying a dream adventure while Emma forges ahead in Moving Violations: A Sassy Look at Life from a Wheelchair.
After being left high and dry by Hemingway who apparently doesn’t appreciate his pacing, Mick settles himself at his desk. At first, it feels as though he’s taken two steps backward in Collateral Damage: Incidental Devastation. But then he finds his footing, gains ground, and makes significant strides with the refrigerator’s strangely mellifluous noise keeping him company.
Smelling of shaving cream, coffee, and a ghost of whiskey, Jason is the first to arrive at the main house at ten minutes to six. Dressed in a fresh shirt and cargo-style khaki pants, he enters the kitchen and extends
Libby a bouquet of breathtaking flowers: orange roses and alstroemeria, yellow Asiatic lilies, pink Matsumoto asters, hot pink miniature gerberas, and green button spray chrysanthemums—accented with oregonia and solidaster—arranged with care in a substantial crystal vase.
Libby is taken aback. “Oh, my goodness,” she says.
Not one to miss details, Jason notices her polish-free, well-manicured hands as she accepts his offering. She’s dressed for comfort in leggings and a knee-length, tropical print tunic with turn-back cuffs and a shirttail hem.
“Thank you so much. To what do we owe this beautiful arrangement?”
“It’s my way of apologizing for having missed dinner last evening. I got caught up in my manuscript and ended up burning the midnight oil. I found Belle Flora in town today, and hopefully, they’ve helped me save the day,” he says through a carefully assumed, penitent smile.
Fran arrives as Libby’s accepting the rippled crystal vase with a scalloped pewter rim.
Jason’s pleased with Fran’s response to his gift.
“It’s the most exquisite bouquet I’ve ever seen,” she gushes.
Jason also notices that Fran’s a softer, more relaxed version of herself than when she first arrived. He takes in her hip-length, cotton gauze tunic in dusty aqua over wide-legged, chocolate gauze pants and sandaled feet. She would be a delight to eliminate.
Clearing the centerpiece and replacing it with the stunning, flower-laden vase, Libby looks up when Mick and Emma arrive, their faces still bearing sunshine. The artistic side of Libby appreciates Emma’s taste in clothes. She’s wearing a scoop-necked willow-gray tank paired with a soft, drapey avocado topper that sets off Emma’s auburn hair and moss-green eyes.
Turning to Mick, Libby’s heart nearly bursts at the happiness shining from her brother’s eyes. Sliding a knowing, sideways glance at Niall, her eyes say, See? I told you so!
The floor-length, relaxed elegance of Cynthia’s West Indies caftan underscores her statuesque figure as she enters the kitchen. The dark taupe fabric accents her liquid-brown eyes as she takes in her surroundings without effort. Notwithstanding the chunky necklace around her slender throat that seems to dance with bedazzlements, her intuitive radar kicks into overdrive.
Something is wrong. Something menacing. I can’t quite put my finger on it. How imminent, she can’t tell. Positioning herself next to Jason, silent warning bells begin to clang, putting her heart and head on red alert. Keeping her face a pleasant mask, she accepts the proffered glass of wine from Libby and says, “I’ve never had wine on ice.”
Apron-clad, Niall turns from the stove. “I think you’re going to enjoy it, Cynthia. You’ll find this vibrant wine exudes notes of ripe apple and a hint of lemon citrus. A crisp white, it has a modest fizz. And the wedge of lime I squeezed in serves to enhance the fruitiness, making it even more refreshing.” He places a towel over his arm and bows from his waist like a waiter.
Laughing at his antics, Cynthia asks, “What smells so heavenly?”
“That would be dinner,” Libby answers. “Niall’s made spicy cornmeal-crusted scallops with wild sweet fern butter, lobster creole-stuffed eggplant, and yellow water lily leaves stuffed with purple rice.”
“That sounds delicious,” Cynthia says.
“But first, we’re going to enjoy double tomato bruschetta,” Niall says, carrying a large platter and setting it on the table.
After an avid conversation comparing writing accomplishments and obstacles, they adjourn to The Ink Well for after-dinner drinks. Jason’s abstention from alcohol throughout dinner hasn’t gone unnoticed by anyone, least of all, Cynthia.
During the meal, Cynthia took the opportunity to “listen between the lines,” homing in on the energetic impressions she received. And though she can’t explain why she feels compelled to lead the conversation back to Mick’s manuscript and learn more, it seems imperative.
“For dessert this evening we’re having apricots, raspberries, and goat cheese with blackberry drizzle.” Niall’s announcement is greeted by oohs and aahs as he sets the dessert-laden tray on the center coffee table.
Looking at Mick, Cynthia asks, “If I understand correctly, the sniper who killed your partner, Sam, was never caught. Is that right?”
The pain in Mick’s dark green eyes overshadows his mouth, bracketed with sadness. “Yes, that’s correct.”
All eyes are on Cynthia. If anyone had bothered to look at Jason, they would see that an alert, extremely attentive demeanor has him sitting ramrod straight, at full attention.
“Did your department enlist the aid of a forensic intuitive to help with the case?” she asks.
His curiosity piqued, Jason leans forward and asks, “Hire a psychic?”
“Yes. I’ve been involved in many cases throughout the southwest including Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and most recently in Nevada.” She has everyone’s rapt attention.
Jason asks, “Under what circumstances does a police department decide to involve an intuitive consultant in an investigation?”
“It varies by state and department, but in the most recent case, I was brought on board two days into the search for a kidnapped child. The parents were out of their minds with fear and grasping for anything to find a trace of evidence.”
Jason’s more than intrigued. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. He asks, “At any point did you feel that the child could be dead?”
“Yes. I’ve worked several kidnapping and homicide cases. After about forty-eight hours we’re typically looking for a body.”
“If you don’t mind my asking,” Mick says, “what is it, exactly, that you do?”
“I don’t mind at all. Normally, I use a photograph of the missing person or an item that belongs to them.”
“What happens then? What do you do with it?” Jason asks.
Choosing her words carefully, Cynthia answers. “I use what’s known as psychometry. I hold the photograph or item in my hands and tune into the personal energy signature of the individual. Much like a radio station, I fine tune my frequency to the frequency of what I’m holding and receive information. I can usually tell if they’re alive or dead, what they’re feeling emotionally if they’re alive, and what’s happening to them. I don’t have the means of solving the case, but I can give the police some guidance, a place to look, or an avenue they didn’t know existed.”
“Can you tell where the person’s at? Their geographic location? Is that something you can sense?” Mick asks.
“Not always, but many times. In the most recent case, I sensed that the child was still alive and saw him with men—one in particular. When I confirmed that I could describe him, they brought in a police sketch artist.”
White-knuckled, Mick’s hands are knit together tightly. “What happened next?”
“I described the impression that I received. The boy was abducted from the parking lot of a store. He was bound, gagged, and hidden under a camouflage tarp, like hunters use, in the back of a truck, then driven to a cabin. I could see what it looked like and described it and the surrounding area. Then I saw an impression of a ridge. It turned out later that the cabin was located on Ridge Road.
“The part that helped the most, however, was a large, distinctive belt buckle one of the abductor’s wore. The police artist’s rendering of my description confirmed it was a rodeo prize and they were able to narrow the search considerably.”
“What was the outcome?” Jason asks.
Cynthia looks into his ice-gray eyes. Her intuition is on high alert. The something that is wrong, the something that is menacing, is Jason. “Because he had sexually molested the child, the ringleader, the man with the belt buckle, received a life sentence. The other men are serving twenty years each.”
“Cynthia, I’m very impressed. What you’ve shared with us is incredible. I’m curious to know if you’ve ever worked on any cold cases?” Mick asks.
“Yes, I work on those periodically.”
“What’s yo
ur rate of success with those types of cases?” he asks, barely suppressing the hopeful excitement in his voice.
“I don’t know for sure, but I’d say just about half the time, about fifty percent.”
Hemingway enters the room and saunters over to Emma. After circling a few times, he settles down on the floor near her feet.
Jason leans back in his chair. His face is impassive. Fifty percent accuracy on a cold case is too close. Sweat trickles down his skin on the inside of his shirt. He remembers as a young teenager eavesdropping on a conversation not meant for his ears, between his mother, a social worker, and the school psychologist, after yet another “incident,” this time involving a dismembered dog. His ears perked up when his mother said, “I don’t understand all this psychobabble. Are you saying that my son, Jason, is a psychopath?”
Clearing his throat, the psychologist tried again. “Mrs. Berndt, psychopaths lack the neurological framework to develop a sense of ethics and morality. Violent and cruel, they show no remorse for their actions because they don’t feel emotion.”
“But my son can be charming.”
“Yes, I’m sure he can be. And while psychopaths don’t feel emotions, they learn to mimic them to gain people’s trust. They’re highly skilled at what’s known as ‘impression management.’ That’s part of what makes them so dangerous, Mrs. Berndt. That, and the fact that they don’t have a moral compass, a sense of right and wrong.”
Those words left an indelible impression that Jason has used many times over the years as a gauge, a measuring stick. I’m not a psychopath, he reassures himself. If I were, I wouldn’t feel satisfaction every time I kill. Psychopaths don’t feel emotion.
He looks at Cynthia, his face a composed mask of indifference. And tonight, I’m going to break your pretty little neck.
CHAPTER 15
“With most of my books, I’ll actually go out and look at the setting. If you describe things carefully, it kind of makes the scene pop.”
Indelible Page 13
