Tuesday's Child (Book 1 of Psychic Visions, a paranormal romantic suspense)

by Dale Mayer

  Realization hit.

  She spun around to find a massive fireball below. What the hell? She had to be dead. But instead of the horror or shock, she expected to feel, she felt good. In fact, she felt great. She turned to the ever-smiling stranger.

  "Let's go, sweetheart."

  Sam didn't know why he'd called her that, but she bloomed under his loving gaze. Honestly, she was so damned grateful to be out of the car, she let him get away with it.

  Holding hands, they floated higher into the cloudless blue sky. Then when the crash site below had become a tiny speck, Sam felt a hard flick on her arm and the words, "Thanks. I can take it from here."

  And she woke up.

  ***

  6:05 am, June 16th

  Stunned and disoriented, Sam lay rigid in bed. The sense of loss overwhelmed her. He was gone. She needed his gentle warmth. He made her feel loved and cared for. Bereft, hot tears welled at the corners of her eyes. She didn't want to be back here in her own body. She wanted to be that other woman. That lucky woman.

  Sam stopped in shock. That woman was dead! How lucky could that woman be? She'd be fine now, happy and at peace...with that man at her side. Lucky to be so loved.

  And who the hell was he?

  Sam couldn't believe her vision. Even now, instead of being overwhelmed with shock and pain, she felt uplifted.

  Mystified, she questioned the difference this time. Not the death itself, that part unfortunately, had been normal, right down to the excruciating pain. But afterwards...? She didn't know who the man had been or what he might have been to the victim, but he'd cared about her. She wished she'd had her wits about her to talk to him at the time. Now it was too late.

  There'd been one other major difference in this vision.

  Always before, Sam had been forced to endure the horror of what one human being could inflict on another. This had been her first accident. Or was it?

  What's the chance someone killed the woman to make it appear like an accident?

  Sam narrowed her eyes, thinking. Given her relationship to violence – and there's no doubt the woman had died a violent death, had foul play been involved? Sam replayed the video locked into her psyche. The brakes hadn't responded, neither had her steering wheel – then they weren't built for flying. Suspicion remained. Intuitively, she felt more was involved. But could she prove it? No. She did know the woman had not been sleeping at the wheel or drunk. Living her last moments had given Sam clarity into the woman's mental state. There hadn't been any drugged or hallucination type of sensation.

  Her car had to have been sabotaged. Sam snorted and threw back the blankets. So what? Just because she 'thought' foul play had been involved didn't mean it had been. Or that she could convince the police of it.

  Grabbing up her journal, she wrote down as many details from this vision as she could. A process she went through every time. The impressions about the man were so clear, so poignant she had to write them down. Finally, she was done. Closing the book, she put it beside her bed, ready for the next time. She stared at it for a long moment. If anyone found her journals...she glanced over at the box beside her suitcase...they'd be used as evidence against her.

  She had to question what her role was this time. She hadn't been able to help the poor woman. If she had a 'gift' then she wanted – no needed – to use it to make a difference. And had yet to do so. The idea, the concept...to help the victim find justice tantalized her. And then again, attempting to help these women meant working with the police. Bile immediately bubbled up in her stomach.

  Sam leaned over, reaching for clean jeans and a t-shirt – dressing while deep in thought. Making a quick decision, she reached for the card and punched the number on her cell phone before she had a chance to change her mind.

  "Hello?"

  Fear caught her sideways. Words refused to come out.

  "Hello. Who is this?"

  The sharp demanding tone made her wince. She glanced at the clock on the stove and grimaced. He'd been asleep.

  "God damn it, answer me." Anger reached through the phone to squeeze her vocal cords.

  Samantha rushed into speech. "It's me. Huh, hmmm, Samantha Blair."

  "Samantha," he said, enunciating the words slow and clear as if trying to place her.

  "You came out to my place at the lake to ask me some questions yesterday," Sam started to explain.

  "Oh. That Samantha." The anger shifted down to a growl.

  She could almost see him shift into gear.

  "What can I do for you?"

  "Umm." Now that she had him on the phone, she didn't quite know what to say. "I know that some of the stuff that I told you might have been a little difficult to believe." She paused, not quite knowing where to go from here.

  "Maybe," he answered, huskiness clouding his voice as if he was still groggy from sleep. It did funny things to her stomach.

  She focused on his answer, his wariness. Determinedly, she forged ahead. "I saw an accident happen this morning. I thought if you could verify these details, you might have more faith in the other information I gave you."

  Dead silence.

  Oh God, why had she called him? She chewed on her bottom lip. What madness possessed her to call? She glanced out the window. It was just starting to get light outside.

  "What kind of car accident?" His voice sounded brisker, more alert.

  "A woman drove over the cliff and crashed onto the rocks below." She hesitated for a moment then rushed into speech. "The thing is...this time I recognized the spot. She drove off at Emerson Point."

  "Emerson Point?" Now she had his attention. He was all business.

  Feeling reassured, she continued. "Yes. She went through the guardrail. The car landed on its wheels before exploding."

  "Hmmm. Time frame?" He cleared his throat.

  That husky sound made her stomach do a slow tumble. Sam struggled to consider his question. But images of him leaning against the head of his bed, running a hand through his ruffled hair, the blankets resting low on his hips made her swallow and close her eyes. What had he asked? Oh yeah, it had been something about time frame. Had the accident been in real time? She cleared her throat. "I think around six this morning."

  "You think?"

  She hated the apologetic tone in her voice. "I woke as it happened. All I can say is that I think it played out in real time."

  More digestive silence.

  "Right. Make of car, color, and license plate? Anything specific that you can tell me."

  "I experienced her death the same as always. So, I couldn't see the license plate because I was, in effect, driving the car. She drove a dark colored Mercedes. I don't know the model."

  "How did you know the type of car then?"

  "Because I could see the logo inside the car."

  Sam could hear the scratching of pen on paper. She waited.

  "Right. Anything else?"

  "Her name was Louise." Sam's voice hitched and stopped, surprised. Where had that come from? The name danced though her head. It felt right.

  She took a deep breath, knowing this could be the point where he suspended belief. "And I think she was murdered."

  ***

  6:10 am

  Brandt rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Jesus, what a way to wake up. Every time he spoke with this woman, he couldn't get a grip on her. Was she for real?

  He threw back his duvet and headed for a shower. At least this time, she'd given him something concrete. If it checked out.

  Two hours later, at the station, he stood frowning down at an accident report in his hands. Incomplete as yet, just chicken scratch as the cop on the scene hadn't had a chance to finish the paperwork.

  "Jackson, any sign of foul play?" Brandt glanced up from the paper, his piercing gaze nailing the young traffic cop.

  "No, sir," Jackson said shifting his large weight from one foot to the other. "Not that I could see."

  The younger man rubbed his face, fatigue pulling on his skin, giving
him a much older appearance. The job did that to everyone after a while. "There isn't much left. The fire burned everything to ash."

  "There weren't any secondary vehicle marks on the highway indicating she might have been forced off the road?"

  "No, nothing like that. Her car headed straight for the guard rail, went through and over."

  Brandt shot him a hard look. "Suicide?"

  Jackson shrugged. "No idea."

  He looked like he didn't give a damn. It must have been a long night. Brandt nodded and handed back the report. "We'd better find out." He turned away, heading down the hallway.

  "Uh, Brandt, sir?"

  Brandt stopped before slowly turning around. "What?"

  "Do you know something about this woman? Something that pertains to the case? Because this seems straightforward. Open and shut type of thing."

  You mean, ‘you don't want to be bothered’ type of a thing, Brandt thought, his cynicism rising to the surface. Too often, it was more a case of working in the areas where progress could be made and leaving the time-wasting for others. Still, his placement here put him in an awkward position.

  "Maybe," Brandt answered. "Then again, maybe not." He turned and walked away. He needed to talk to Samantha again.

  The hot July sun shimmered between the leaves to bounce off the hood of his truck as he drove past the gingerbread house. The place was a remarkable landmark. Further down, fir growth grew thick on the left and several poplar groves dotted the fields on the right. Signs of improvement done over the years blended into the natural habitats. Drainage ditches ran along the side of the well-maintained road. Generations had put their heart and soul into developing this place.

  Brandt could only wish he had something as nice to pass on to his kids.

  Kids. He grimaced. He didn't dare go there. It led to his mother and all her machinations. The truth was, at thirty-five he'd given it a whole lot more thought than he wanted to admit. Especially to his mother. He saw the worst that people could do to each other, and at other times, events were so poignant they made his heart hurt. It was at those times, he gave serious thought to his future. Thankfully, these lapses were short-lived. The divorce rate in his profession was out of this world. He'd be willing to try, but honestly, he'd never met anyone he couldn't live without.

  Besides, it would take a unique woman to accept his work.

  He rounded the last corner. The old homestead sprawled off to one side, lazy and serene. Except for the dog barking on the porch, the cabin appeared deserted.

  Braking, Brandt brought the truck to a gentle stop beside her red one. Was that rust or paint that gave the vehicle its color? He studied it closer as he opened his door and hopped out. It didn't look road safe. He frowned. She needed a better set of wheels.

  The screen door banged shut.

  Brandt turned quickly. Sam stood, arms akimbo, apparently surprised to see him.

  "Louise Enderby drove her Mercedes off the highway between 5:45 and 6:30 this morning," he said as way of greeting. Alarmed, he watched the color drain from her face. Brandt reached out to steady her, except she pulled back before he had a chance to make contact. His left hand still in midair, Brandt blinked at the speed she'd moved to avoid him.

  In general, women liked him. He couldn't remember a time when one had avoided his touch. He didn't know if he should be amused or insulted. Instead, he felt oddly hurt.

  "Why did you come?" she asked.

  He glanced at her in surprise. "I thought you'd like to know."

  She frowned. "You could have called me."

  "But then I wouldn't be able to see you in person. By the way, was this morning's call an emergency?" He raised his eyebrows.

  Samantha frowned. "I couldn't leave her alone in the car."

  Interesting wording. Alone. He had to know. "Why?"

  Her solemn gaze studied him for a long moment. She sidestepped the answer. "The bastard needs to be caught."

  Brandt's heart stalled before starting again – double time. "The bastard?" Did she know about the serial killer he'd been chasing this last year? How could she know anything? Unless she was for real? God, could she help? Hope flared deep within.

  "The killer."

  Oh, that bastard. Damn. His heart rate returned to normal. "I'd like to ask you a few more questions. May I come in?"

  She took a step back, paused, then stepped off to the side giving him room to pass.

  Brandt walked inside. It seemed as bleak as he remembered. The threadbare furniture, plank floors – everything clean yet old. Bare kitchen counters…only one mug stood by the sink full of water.

  He stopped in the middle of the room and turned to stare at her.

  She hadn't moved.

  What was wrong? He opened his mouth to ask, when she walked to the stove and put on a teakettle. As usual, she had on a sweater several sizes too big that hung almost to her knees, only this one was a brown cable type of thing. Threadbare jeans and white cotton socks completed the picture. And the perpetual braid down her back. He eyed her outfit. She barely made five feet and her clothes accented her thin frame, but there were hints of curves in all the right places.

  "Do you want a cup of tea?"

  He'd rather have a coffee, yet with no coffeemaker in sight, there didn't appear to be much choice. And her offer could be deemed a definite step forward in the social game. Even for a prickly female like her.

  "Thank you. I'd appreciate that."

  He watched as she pulled out a teapot and teabags from the cupboard. She never made idle chitchat or unnecessary movements. Economical all the way. She fascinated him. He couldn't think of another person like her. He walked over and sat on the same sofa as last time. "This is a nice place."

  "I like it."

  "Have you been here long?"

  She shot him a suspicious look. "You mean you don't know already?"

  His lips quirked. "I'd like you to tell me."

  Samantha shrugged. "I've been here close to six months now."

  "And before that."

  She rolled her eyes. "Before that, I was somewhere else."

  "Of course you were," he murmured. Her full history had been on his desk half an hour after he'd learned the details of the car accident she'd 'seen.' It hadn't taken long as there'd been little to add to what he already knew. Today's accident had opened doors for him. He wanted to learn the extent she was willing to fill in the missing details.

  "Did you sabotage her car?"

  She froze in the act of pouring water into the teapot. Her back went rigid. Fury visibly radiated through her bunched shoulders, rage-like waves he could almost touch. Ever so slowly, she finished filling the pot and replaced the kettle on the stove. Just as slowly, she turned around.

  Brandt prepared to be blasted and found himself stunned at the pain evident in her eyes. Anger, yes, but he'd also hurt her. He grimaced. Damn, he'd judged that badly. He couldn't figure her out and had automatically tried to shock her out of her silence. Instead, it appeared he'd locked her deeper inside.

  "I'm sorry. I had to ask."

  She stared down at the kitchen floor, the muscles in her jaw twitching. She walked to the small fridge and pulled out a carton of milk. After a long moment, she shuddered once before answering, "When I have these visions, I'm not on the outside looking in. I'm inside these people staring out." She shot him a look. "Believe me, it would be much easier if it were the other way around."

  That was understandable. If what she said were true, she must experience what they experience. He didn't think that included the pain – no one could stand that. Still, being inside must forge a personal connection. And how hard would that be given the eventual outcome?

  He waited until she'd brought his tea. "Can you do this at will?"

  "No."

  Did that make it better or worse? Brandt stayed silent. She didn't offer any more information. "What about controlling it?"

  "I wish."

  "So, what can you do?"

&nbs
p; "Endure." She bit her lip afterward, but it was too late. The word had slipped out.

  God. Brandt paused, cup midway to the table. So softly spoken, the word said so much. He stared at her. She didn't like her gift. She hadn't learned to live with it yet. Or to control it. It controlled her. A rush of sympathy washed through him. Gifts like these, if real, were very unforgiving.