by Dale Mayer
She wiped her eyes. "Sorry. God that felt good. I haven't laughed that hard in years." It took another couple of minutes before finally, she heaved a big sigh and relaxed. Peace settled upon her, ill fitting at first, but she slowly grew more comfortable with it. Another sigh escaped, and she stretched out on the dock. The sun had lost most of its heat, leaving a slightly cooler air to wash over her heated skin.
"Well?"
"Well what?" Then she remembered – mind reading. Another giggle escaped. He shot her a dirty look, and she tried hard to stifle the rest. There was no way to stop the grin that split her face. "I'm not telepathic. I can't read minds. Okay?"
He peered at her intently. She stared back, still grinning, but serious.
He nodded once and lay down on the warm dock beside her.
Sam smiled, the wooden boards warm beneath her shoulders. It was a gorgeous day.
She was dimly aware of Brandt stretching out on the other side of Moses. She could feel his gaze. She smiled slightly and closed her eyes. Content.
Her thoughts free floated in the newly created space in her mind. Stress had fled in the face of her laughter, leaving room for peace and contentment.
Images, both colored and not, danced, enjoying the freedom to roam. Faces, images, names, and places. Nothing followed a pattern as free association flowed. In an uncharacteristic move, she let them. Amazed at the clarity, Sam could only watch in awe. Where did these come from? She recognized some of them – and some she didn't.
"What are you thinking?"
"Hmm?"
"I asked what you were thinking."
"Not thinking – seeing. Pictures, images, events." She smiled lazily, never opening her eyes.
"Anything on the murderer?"
She froze. It didn't help. The moving images sped up, tumbling over each other, impatient for their moment in the light. One face flashed, followed by another and then another. Without warning, the film stopped. A camera trained on one woman. But Sam was inside that woman staring at the camera lens. The faint reflection on the camera lens showed the vague outline of a beautiful laughing brunette. The woman smiled into the camera, amused at something the photographer said. She turned her head. Sam caught glimpses of a huge green park, flowers in brilliant vibrant beds. Several other people mingled. Someone called out a name. Her head twisted around. Her name. She was called Annalea. Sam recognized her basic essence. Sam had connected to this same soul the other day.
"Annalea."
"Who?"
She knew. "That’s her name." Sam opened her eyes to a slowly darkening sky.
"The murderer?" he asked. His voice sounded stunned, his tone disbelieving.
"No," she whispered, grief already clogging her heart, breaking up her voice. "He's stalking his next victim. Her name's Annalea."
***
2:10 pm
Even an hour ago, Sam would have said what she was doing was impossible.
It defied logic. But there it was.
She stood on the steps of the police station, staring up at the imposing front. What was even worse, was that somehow...somehow she'd been convinced to do this willingly.
Un-freakin-believable.
"Problems?"
Sam started. Brandt stood several steps above her, staring down at her with a questioning look on his face. She rubbed her damp palms on her faded jeans, glancing at her scuffed runners showing too much wear, then up at him. She wrapped her arms beneath her breasts, not quite knowing what to say. Her thick sweater was long and didn't seem to make a bit of difference to the chill deep in her bones. She stared around at the busy street before turning her gaze on him again.
"Yeah, this isn't exactly my favorite place to 'visit.'"
He grinned at her. "It will be different this time."
Should she believe him?
"I promise."
Sam raised her face to the sun, took a deep breath, got a grip on her whacked-out emotions, and strode the remaining few stairs. Once inside, she kept her focus on Brandt and followed his lead. Within minutes, she was sitting at a large table in a spacious lived-in room. It was much more pleasant. This looked like a meeting or a conference room. The sideboard held papers and books. One of the tables held used coffee cups and even a dirty plate.
"Do you want a cup of coffee before we get started? I’m not sure we have any tea."
Feeling as if she'd been caught snooping, Sam quickly nodded. "Thanks, coffee is fine. Black, please."
Brandt flashed a quirky grin as he left.
On her own, Sam glanced around at those passing through. There were no windows in the room. She'd have felt better if she could have seen the world outside – to have less of a caged feeling. She did much better in open air. She tilted her head. Maybe she should look at going into horticulture. That was outside, away from people. Yeah, she'd do well with plants. Too bad they didn't do well with her.
"Here you go. Careful, it's hot."
A cup of steaming coffee was placed before her. The heat drew her like a magnet. She wrapped her hands around the mug, almost moaning with joy.
At that moment, she looked up to catch Brandt's quizzical gaze. She flushed.
"I'm a little cold, that's all."
He raised one eyebrow and refrained from commenting.
Sam returned her attention to her coffee, staring at it longingly. With the steam still rising, she tried a sip. She choked, hastily putting it down again. She coughed again, trying to clear her throat. Dear God, how could they call that coffee? She snuck a glance at Brandt. He hadn't noticed.
Sam didn't know what to say. Brandt sat down across from her, sipping his own coffee. God, he actually seemed to enjoy it. He flipped through a file on the table. Every once in a while, he stopped and wrote a few notes on a pad of paper.
"You'll get used to it."
Surprised, Sam asked, "Get used to what?"
"The coffee." He flashed a grin at her. The wicked glint in his eyes caught her sideways. Her heart stopped, before suddenly thundering on.
"Like hell," she said when she finally managed to speak.
"You're right. I lied. You never get used to it."
A sudden commotion at the door caught their attention. An older woman, hauling a large case bustled into the room. "Sorry I'm late, Brandt."
"No problem, Irena. Grab a seat."
Irena banged the case down and shrugged out of her coat. "The weather has gone to hell out there."
"Has it started raining?"
"Not yet, but the sky is ready to explode at any minute." Irena opened her case.
Sam gawked. Wow, what a kit. She watched as Irena pulled out an art pad and a small case of art pencils.
"Okay, so what are we doing today?"
Brandt quietly explained. Sam listened, watching Irena's face intently. Her expression wrinkled once before settling into the same old cynical look. Whatever.
Brandt stood up. "Sam, I'm going to leave you in Irena's hands." He smiled at the two women. "I'll return in an hour or so to see how the two of you are getting along."
Sam watched him walk out.
"So." Irena pulled a large sketchpad toward her and reached for a thick art pencil. "Let's get started."
An hour later, Sam was so engrossed that when a heavy hand landed on her shoulder, she shot out of her chair and spun around to face the danger. Brandt.
"Jesus," she snapped when she could, her hand still covering her pounding heart. "Don't do that."
"Sorry." He held his hands out in supplication, yet his twinkling eyes paid lie to that statement.
Sam glared at him before slowly retaking her place.
"If you two are finished, can we get at it?" Irena glared at them both. "We're just about done."
Brandt walked around to stand behind the artist. He gave a quiet but deadly whistle. "Wow."
***
2:34 pm
Irena shot him a look. "I'm not done yet. Get lost."
Brandt glanced over at her. He reac
hed for the picture beside her on the table. "Is this yours, too?"
Irena took a quick peek in between her strokes. "Yes. We started with that one."
Sam slid lower in her chair under Brandt's intense gaze. "Why?"
"I do that sometimes. I started with a strong visual to help her to focus on the details. Why?" Irena frowned at him.
Brandt didn't answer. He studied the diagram. Something twigged, but he couldn't place it. The detail depicted was incredibly scary. Christ, she was good. Inside, he turned cold. His team members were going to have a heyday with this. Anyone would point out the three possibilities – either she was an incredibly gifted psychic, had a deadly twisted imagination, or she'd been there. He knew which one Kevin would lobby for.
He studied Sam, slouched in the chair. She lay with her eyes closed; gray smudges underlined her eyes, accenting her translucent skin and the fatigue.
The picture disturbed him. Irena was good. In this piece of work, she'd been damn good. The eerie details made it come alive – or appear even deader. In fact, the picture was damned near perfect. Tossed bedclothes, half on and half off, portrayed the violence with uncanny accuracy. The pool of blood on the mattress and the overturned lamp on the night table added to the impression of a great wrong having been committed. She'd given a death scene a terrible sense of life.
Softy, he questioned her further. "Sam – this level of detail?" He paused shaking his head. "Did you tell Irena about the blood dripping down on the mattress or the lamp overturned?"
Stretching her arms over her head, Sam shook her head. "I knew the bedding had been tossed around and that there was massive blood loss. I thought the lamp had dumped because the light came from the floor region. The layout details are all from Irena."
"You realize this level of detail is what will bother the other detectives?"
Sam bolted upright to stare at him. "Bother them, how?"
Pulling a chair up beside her, Brandt laid the sketch down. "They're going to say this picture has been envisioned from someone in the room, not from someone in the body, because if you were to see from her eyes only, you wouldn't have these details in your viewing area."
Sam peeked at Irena, who was listening to the conversation. "I gave her some details, her years of experience in this job allowed her to fill in the rest. But make no mistake, that picture…" She stabbed the sheet once again in his hand. "Is from one of my visions." She ran her hand through her hair. "Sorry, maybe I'm just overreacting from this morning." She turned to Irena who'd kept working, her pencil swiftly forming and pulling visions off the page.
Silence ensued in the large room. Brandt knew they were the center of attention. He cleared his throat and cast a glance in Irena's direction. She was studiously working on her drawing, keeping her head down.
"I didn't mean to imply anything. But for anyone who doesn't really understand how your abilities work, this...stuff seems, well I guess it's a little freaky, and they're going to question it."
She nodded, refusing to face him.
"Brandt, Captain Johansen wants to see you."
Damn. He glanced around at Adam, who tilted his head in the captain's direction. Brandt shook his head and motioned toward Sam.
Adam grimaced. "That's why."
Great. Cops preferred to work with what they could see, hear, and touch. That's why he'd brought Sam in today. For these pictures. That, and to hopefully shake loose more details from Sam's psyche.
"Now. And you're to take the picture with you."
Brandt glanced around the room only to find everyone suddenly busy – heads down. He glanced at Sam's bent head. "Don't panic. I'll talk to him. Everything's going to be fine. I promise."
Her eyes said she didn't believe him.
Frustrated, picture in hand, he strode past the younger detective to Captain Johansen's office. It felt like walking a gauntlet as everyone openly watched. He rapped hard on the closed door.
"Come in."
Brandt pushed the door aside and entered the room. The shades were now open, showing the heavy storm clouds of Portland beyond. Tall office buildings mixed with high-rises in the skyline. A busy world operated out there and for once Brandt wished he could join it.
"Sit down."
"I'll stand, sir." He stared straight at the captain and handed over the picture.
"What do you think?"
Surprised, Brandt could only stare at him. The captain glared up at him. "I think the two of them did a hell of a job."
The two men exchanged hard glances.
"Did she add anything new?"
"Not to this one. They are working on the next picture right now."
He nodded. Taking his time, the captain examined the picture in detail. "Does the photo match the crime scene?"
"I haven't had a chance to compare it yet. Still it lines up with what I remember."
The captain nodded again. "Does Stefan Kronos know her?"
That threw Brandt off balance. "I haven't asked him."
A keen glance came his way. "Maybe you should. Kevin doesn't feel this woman is to be trusted. In fact he puts her at the top of the list of suspects."
"He would." Brandt couldn't hide his disgust. "Kevin has yet to listen to her seriously."
"What makes you think she knows anything?"
Brandt pointed toward the sketches. "That."
The captain stared at the black image again, his lips pursed. "The question is whether the picture is too exact?"
"I'd have to compare it to the crime scene photos."
The captain nodded once. "Then do that. While you're at it, get her fingerprints and if she's willing, her DNA. That will either clear her or implicate her. She's either who she says she is or she's a suspect." He handed the sketch back. "Make sure we know which."
Brandt couldn't believe what he'd heard. "You might want to remember she came in willingly. She doesn't have to be treated with suspicion."
"Then don't. Just ask her. If she's innocent she won't mind." The captain's lips twitched into a wolf smile that made the hairs stand up on Brandt's neck. He returned to the stack of papers on his desk, clearly dismissing Brandt. "Now get those fingerprints and DNA and get her out of my station before I have a mutiny on my hands."
Brandt pulled open the door and shut it quietly behind him. Fingerprints weren't out of line; the DNA was.
Somehow, he had to gain Sam's cooperation.
Thankfully, she was still focused on the pictures. He watched for her reaction as he asked, "Would you mind offering your fingerprints so we can convince the naysayers that you weren't involved?" He tapped the paper for emphasis. "Like I said, some will take this the wrong way," he added in a low voice.
Sam froze. Irena even stilled for a long moment before her pencil returned to scribbling furiously.
Once again, Sam straightened. Calmly, she studied him. Once again, Brandt felt like a lowlife. It didn't matter that this was needed to rule her out, and it was only commonsense. No. It was the right thing to do and would stop the many conjectures and innuendos that were going to fly. Still, he felt like he'd kicked a puppy. Or maybe a cornered barn cat. "It's common to take fingerprints to rule out people."
"Only when they've been at the crime scene." Her voice was low and troubled.
Brandt tried again. "I know you're telling the truth. I've just finished telling the captain that exact same thing. That doesn't change the fact that some people here aren't going to believe anything you or I have to say."
That brought a sharp glance his way.
"If you do this, it quiets the talk and shuts up those that want to put you as the prime suspect."
"No, it won't," she scoffed. "It will rule out that my fingerprints match those you have on file, but anyone who wants to disbelieve is still going to say that I could have worn gloves."
Damn. He was hoping she wouldn't figure that out so quickly.
She hopped to her feet. "I have nothing to hide. I came here to help so take my damn prints
." She walked over to stare out the window, her face lean and hard, hurting.
Brandt hated feeling like a heel. It would help if he could explain it further. This wasn't the time or the place.
"I'm sorry. This really is the best way."
"Whatever. Just take the prints and let me go home."
"Fine." Brandt knew his irritation was unreasonable. She had a right to be dismayed, upset even, but this tired out acceptance upset him. Now that she'd agreed, how could he approach the idea of DNA? He hesitated, wondering how to start.
