by Diane Hester
‘No. Nothing.’ She twisted her sweater cuff. ‘What good is seeing things after they happen? The bodies would’ve been found eventually. Knowing where they were didn’t help anyone. It couldn’t save Martha Daniels or Bethany Willas or …’
He gave her a moment. Then, very gently, ‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me, Lindsay. If your gift does nothing but bring you pain and helps no-one, than it isn’t much of a gift, is it?’
She blinked back sudden unwanted tears. Dear god, he did understand.
‘At the same time, you should keep in mind that this information is coming to you even when you’re essentially in denial about your abilities. Even when you’re trying your hardest to suppress them. Were you to let down those barriers, it’s possible you could see a great deal more.’
She wiped at her face. ‘I never imagined I had a choice.’
‘In most cases people don’t. Psychics can’t normally choose whether or not to have an insight. But yours might be an exceptional case. If you’ve had a powerful negative experience and your fear of your ability is great enough, you could well be suppressing some of what comes to you.’
Fear of your ability. Negative experience. She pulled her jumper closer around her.
‘You told me in our first meeting that you never dream,’ he said.
‘Until recently I hadn’t had a dream in over ten years.’
‘You might think you hadn’t but in actual fact you dream every night. You simply chose not to remember them. In the same way some trauma victims block out all memory of their ordeal, you may block certain psychic information from surfacing into your conscious mind. The question is why?’
Lindsay shifted under his gaze. She drew herself up and managed a smile. ‘Well, considering my goal is to stop having visions, that doesn’t really matter, does it?’
Chapter 20
Rain drove in sheets down the residential street, drumming on Mac’s windscreen and reducing the houses on either side to blurs of light in the swirling darkness. He sat staring at the nearest blur, unable to force himself from the car.
It wasn’t the weather keeping him here, hands twisting around the steering wheel. It wasn’t that he knew now why Lindsay had come, that this wasn’t a clandestine meeting with the killer but another of her volunteer stints for the elderly. Had it been any other home in Adelaide he wouldn’t have hesitated to follow her inside.
Of all the facilities she could’ve chosen, why this one? It wasn’t particularly close to the uni. It had little in the way of rewards to commend it. Had she come to visit? Did she know someone here? What pleasure could you give an audience that in all likelihood didn’t know you were there?
Mac squeezed the bridge of his nose. He’d hoped when she’d left her flat that evening it would be for another fitness class. The one he’d followed her to Monday night had been on campus and though it’d been raining then as well, she’d walked the distance, Mac slipping through the shadows behind her.
The moment she’d started up the gymnasium steps he could have left. The moment he’d seen her through the window, assured himself she was actually there to run the class, he could have gone home.
Could have, but didn’t.
Instead he’d stood hunched against the wind, chilled to the bone, just watching her. Something in her willowy grace, her straight lithe body that made her appear at once painfully fragile and indomitably proud, had fixed him to the spot.
Feeling on a par with the deviants he often pursued, he’d stood there until the class had finished. Then, as students began coming out, he’d slunk away before she could see him.
He didn’t particularly like what he’d done, he wasn’t proud of it. Yet he knew if he’d been given the chance tonight he’d have done it again.
Instead he was here.
Mac leaned towards the passenger window, trying to glimpse the building beyond. He had to go in. There was always the chance she was meeting someone, someone who wasn’t one of the residents. Bracing himself, he opened the door and stepped out into the storm.
He ran up the sloping drive to the building. Beneath the portico that sheltered its entrance he paused to shake the rain from his coat. He looked at the brightly lit sign above the door. Muscles taut, he pushed inside.
Almost at once his coat was too much for him, clinging to his shoulders, dank and heavy, as though he carried a wet dog on his back. Why did they keep these places so stiflingly warm?
From the day room, straight ahead up the corridor, he could hear the sound of a piano playing, the same old-time melodies Lindsay had chosen at the last place. He started forward. One quick look was all he would need to confirm it was her; then he could leave.
Three steps from his destination he slowed to a stop, fighting to breathe. A nurse came out and nearly walked into him.
‘Oh!’ she said, laughing. ‘Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Can I help you?’
‘Yes, I … I’m here to see Elvira Macklyn.’
‘Ah, you must be her son, Mr Macklyn. I’m Denise Schiller; we spoke on the phone.’ She extended her hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you.’
Finally. Though she didn’t speak it, he heard the word in the woman’s tone. Along with others. Where have you been? Your mother’s been here for three whole days and this is the first you’re coming to see her?
‘You’re brave being out on a night like this,’ she said. ‘Mrs Macklyn is just through there. She was still awake so we thought she might enjoy the music.’
‘How has she been?’
The woman’s bubbly demeanour deflated. ‘About the same. No post-surgery complications, she’s healing nicely. But I’m afraid she still hasn’t spoken.’
Mac nodded. Nor would she recognise him. Not even if he said her name, kissed her cheek, touched her hand. As she had been since regaining consciousness. If you could call it that.
‘Go on in and join her,’ the sister urged.
‘I’ll just dry off a bit first.’
Her smile was knowing. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’ She walked away.
When he was ready. Could such a time come? Making the arrangements by phone to get her here had spared him so far. But sooner or later he would have to face her. And he wasn’t here now because he was ready.
People passed him—visitors, nurses, a woman pushing a trolley of refreshments—and still he stood in cowardly silence. All the while the music played, an element of blessed normality to which he could cling.
At last he convinced his feet to move. The first of a row of beds came in view, its occupant a tiny frail creature lost amid mountainous pillows and bedding.
He let out his breath. It wasn’t her. Nor were any of the next six patients, none of whom looked up as he stopped in the doorway. They lay in their beds staring vacantly, an expression he’d come to both fear and despise.
At the end of the room, her back turned towards him, Lindsay sat at an aging upright. Its tinny, out-of-tune notes spilled out, a pitiful vehicle for her talent. Yet she seemed oblivious, swaying in contentment as though it were a grand on a concert-hall stage.
Mac slid further into the room. Beds encircled it. No wheelchairs here. No murmur of singing, however feeble, to accompany the music. Just sickness, age and vacant stares.
One in particular stopped him cold.
He stood at the foot of his mother’s bed. Staring down at her haggard face, the body half gone beneath the blankets, he felt hot rage burn in his veins. She could have prevented this. Instead she’d chosen to believe that charlatan. He’d been telling her for years the man was a fraud but she’d never listened.
A bolt of insight knocked him back. Was that why he’d made the decision he had? Was that why he’d given the doctor permission? To punish her for not listening to reason?
He forced himself closer, bent down into her field of vision, reached out a hand. Something flickered behind her eyes and he pulled back sharply. If she came out of it now, her mind restored, the person she’d been …
<
br /> His chest grew tight. To wish anything less, to even think it, was beyond reprehensible. Yet as long as she stayed in this mindless state she could never ask … never suggest …
All at once he couldn’t draw breath. He hurried from the room and out of the building.
Chapter 21
Mac stepped from the elevator into the apartment building’s second-floor corridor. Lindsay was refusing to pick up his calls again. And since her flatmate now appeared to be following suit, the pair had left him little choice but to come to their flat and hunt her down in person.
He proceeded up the hall till he found their number and knocked on the door. No-one answered.
He took out his notebook and consulted his list. Lindsay’s only class for the day was at two o’clock and it was now just after noon. She could be at the library, Ikeman’s lab, or any of a hundred other places. But something told him she was here and simply not answering.
A hunch? A feeling? Smirking at the thought, he tucked the notepad back in his pocket. He knew her a bit better now, that was all. And what he’d learned of her also suggested she wasn’t answering because she knew it was him.
He knocked again, loud enough to wake her if she was napping. Still no response. Perhaps she wasn’t in after all. He started to turn away and stopped.
An image of Lindsay flashed in his mind—as she’d been three days ago, wide-eyed and staring in the grip of her vision. Despite what he’d said to her at the time, he was convinced something had happened to her. Not a psychic episode of course; something physical. She’d been essentially helpless when she’d fallen against him. If something like that happened to her when she was alone …
He tried the door and found it unlocked. ‘Ms Cavenaugh?’ No-one answered. He strained to listen and thought he heard something. He opened the door.
Lindsay sat cross-legged in the middle of the living-room floor. He nearly rushed forward before realising there didn’t appear to be anything wrong with her. Her eyes were closed, her face serene, her hands resting lightly on her knees.
‘Lindsay?’
No reaction. Couldn’t she hear him? He stepped closer and saw the answer. Earbud cables from the iPad sitting beside her trailed up and disappeared beneath her hair. At the volume most students listened to music she probably wouldn’t have heard a cannon go off.
Folding his arms, he leaned against the wall and looked about him. The room was lit by a single large window overlooking Pultney Street. The sill was lined with pieces of pottery, brightly glazed, all handmade.
Not Lindsay’s style, he decided. Hers was more likely the knitted throw that draped the couch. All sensuous textures and muted colours. He could almost see her nestled beneath it, legs curled up, eyes half closed …
He focused his thoughts.
Between the couch and chairs that lined one wall and the entertainment unit opposite, a mock Persian rug adorned the floor. The rug on which Lindsay now sat. Mac stepped forward and squatted down directly in front of her.
She was wearing only a crop top and leggings. The bruises on her arm and neck were clearly visible against her pale skin.
He winced at the sight. In the three days since they’d mysteriously appeared they had faded only slightly. In that time he had asked himself repeatedly how such a thing could’ve have happened. Yet he still had no explanation.
Slowly he reached out towards her throat. His fingers entered the envelope of warmth surrounding her body and stopped bare inches from her flesh. The marks looked painful. If she’d acquired them via some psychic link with the murder victims would they hurt as much as normal bruises?
He shook his head at his line of thinking. He was starting to sound like bloody Sam!
A change in her breathing drew his attention and he lowered his hand.
Her eyes fluttered open. For a moment she gazed at him unseeing, then something came forward from the back of her eyes and they widened in fright.
‘Oh! What—’ She scrambled to her feet and stood gaping down at him. ‘I don’t believe this. What are you doing here?’
He rose and stepped back. ‘Came to talk to you. I knocked but no-one answered.’
‘So you just walked in?’
‘Your door was unlocked.’
‘Unlocked? But I was sure—’ She waved a hand. ‘So what if it was, it doesn’t mean you can just waltz in here.’
‘I was checking to make sure you were all right.’
‘I would be, if you’d leave me alone!’
He shoved aside a vague sense of guilt at having frightened her. It wasn’t going to stop him doing his job. ‘I’m afraid I can’t oblige you on that.’
She turned away, clearly struggling for control. On the back of a chair hung a long-sleeved blouse. She pulled it on and turned back to face him. ‘What do you want?’
‘What were you doing on the floor just now?’
‘What did it look like? I was meditating.’
‘With headphones on?’
‘I was listening to a recording Dr Ikeman gave me. It contains a special sound technology that alters brainwaves. He thought it might help me control my spells.’
‘Control in what way?’
‘Control, as in stop. If you hadn’t noticed they don’t exactly bolster my mental state.’ She tipped her head. ‘Is this what you came here to ask me about?’
‘So what’s with the recording?’
She took a deep breath. ‘According to his research, ESP experiences occur most often when a person’s in a certain brainwave state, like the one achieved during deep meditation. The recording’s meant to show me what the different states feel like.’
‘How’s that supposed to stop your visions?’
‘Well, he’s not sure it will. He’s never tried to do this before so at this stage he’s just experimenting.’
‘On you.’
‘That’s right. I asked him for help and came up with this. At the very least it’s supposed to relax me.’
Mac gave a huff. ‘I’d say he needs a different recording.’
‘It was working just fine till you showed up. I’m never relaxed when you’re around, Macklyn.’
Her mouth snapped shut. He may have been reading too much into it, but she seemed nonplussed by the words she’d just spoken.
‘Look,’ she went on, ‘Ron’s theory is, if I can learn to recognised what the different brainwave states feel like, I might one day be able to control them and therefore possibly control my spells.’
Mac arched a brow. ‘Ron told you this, did he?’
‘He’s trying to help me. And since my welfare is of no interest to you, why don’t you tell me what you really came for.’
He held her gaze. ‘I think you know that. That’s why you’ve been avoiding me the last three days. It’s that little matter we failed to go into in that classroom the other day. Adelle Phillips.’
Her reaction was much like the first time he’d said the name—she drew a sharp breath, her body stiffened. Then all the fight seemed to go out of her and she closed her eyes. ‘Can’t you give me any peace?’
‘You mean the kind Bethany and Martha now have?’
Her eyes flew open. ‘That’s not fair. I did everything I could to help you. I told you everything I knew.’
‘And now you’re going to tell me a little bit more. Now you’re going to tell me about Adelle.’ In that instant he had to ask himself—why was he taking such a hard line on this? Was it just to gain clues in a murder case? Or to compensate for something he’d begun to feel?
‘Adelle Phillips was a girl at my high school. She was epileptic. One day she had a seizure near a dam, fell in and drowned.’
He waited. ‘And?’
‘Clearly you already know the story, why are you even asking me?’
He just stared back.
Her anger dissolved. For a moment immense sorrow filled her eyes. ‘I told police where her body was.’
‘How did you know?’
‘T
he same way I knew about Martha and Bethany. Of course the police didn’t believe me then any more than you do now. But I was too young to prosecute and there was no evidence I was involved.’
Her gaze hardened. ‘That didn’t stop them hounding me however. They followed me everywhere. Came to our house, my classes at school. They questioned my parents, my teachers, classmates, everyone who’d ever known me.’
‘Hence your existing grudge against cops.’
‘Can you blame me?’
‘If the police were just following logical leads then, yeah, I can.’
‘There were no leads. There was nothing at all to suggest Adelle’s death was anything but an accident. Sheer close-mindedness was all that drove the police to suspect me. Their inability to accept something they didn’t understand. And as far as I can see nothing has changed.’
Despite her bold words her fingers trembled as she plucked at her sleeve. ‘How well did you know Adelle?’ he asked.
‘Not well. She was new at school. She’d only moved to our town that year.’
‘Why do you think you had a vision about her, a person you hardly knew?’
‘How should I know? I didn’t know Martha or Bethany either. I’d never even met them.’
‘So you did meet Adelle.’
She shifted. ‘I might have. I … I don’t remember.’
He studied her face, her anxious expression. At times she seemed so desperately fragile. At others …
With his questions now answered, his mind drifted back to the night before—the nursing home, her sweet music floating through those grim sterile rooms. Why did she do it? While other singles were out raging at clubs, why did she prefer the company of aging invalids?
And her choice of music, those nostalgic old tunes—nothing a woman her age should treasure. Yet she played them so beautifully, as though finely attuned to the memories they would evoke in her listeners. Listeners who perhaps had little else but memories left.
How many desperate lives had she touched? Given solace? As she had to him. Could his mother have been one of them? Could music reach her, even in the twilight state where she now existed? The thought brought a burning tightness to his throat.
