He dropped the receiver in its cradle.
“Who’s dead?” India asked, shivering now that the fire was little more than embers.
He grimly recrossed the room, buttoning his jeans. “Darrell Finn, of two gunshot wounds to the chest. A wino stumbled over him in an alley off Division Street about twenty minutes ago.”
“Who—”
“Who do you think?” He grabbed his sweater with the T-shirt still inside it and yanked them down over his head.
“No,” she said as he sat on the edge of the sofa to tug on his socks. “I don’t believe it. Tommy wouldn’t—”
“Tommy would.” He attached his ankle holster, checked the little revolver and replaced it, then pulled on his sneakers and tied them. “I don’t want to believe it, either. But that doesn’t make it any less possible.”
“Jamie, please. Hear me out.”
“I don’t have time to hear you out, India.” He rose, swiftly buckled on his shoulder holster, and slipped the big blue steel pistol into it. A banging sounded at the front door. “That’ll be Len. I’ve got to go.” With a smile he nodded toward her bare shoulders peeking out from the afghan she clutched around herself. “Go on upstairs now before you give the kid a heart attack.”
He kissed her quickly but thoroughly, then strode toward the door, saying, “We’ll talk when I get back.”
* * *
INDIA TREMBLED AND wept as they strapped her down for the electroshock treatment. Indifferent doctors and nurses tightened the bindings and checked the equipment, muttering things she couldn’t understand. She struggled frantically against the restraints, begged to be let go, but they ignored her completely.
Perry was there, offering cocktails to her parents.
But I’m not crazy! she screamed.
Of course you are, Perry replied silkily. You’re completely insane.
He turned and handed a drink to Jamie, who accepted it with a bemused chuckle. Silly girl thinks she can read minds.
She awoke with a moan of despair, then covered her face with her hands and curled into a ball. “Oh, Jamie,” she whispered hoarsely into her pillow.
* * *
JAMIE CAME BY at noon and sat in the waiting room until India was finished with her last appointment. She found him hunched over, elbows on knees, contemplating the bulky object he held, wrapped in black plastic and tagged as evidence. When she sat on the chair next to him, he wrapped a hand around her head and drew her face to his for a lingering kiss.
Finally he released her, then looked back down at the plastic-wrapped bundle, turning it over thoughtfully. India expected him to say something about the case, but instead, he said, “Have you ever been to Ireland?”
“No.”
“I haven’t been there since I was ten, but I’ve been thinking about going back, just for a visit. Have you ever heard of Dunmore, on the south coast?”
“Is that where you grew up?”
He shook his head. “We lived nearby, in Waterford. My da cut glass in the factory, when he was working. Waterford’s nothing special—just an ugly old port city. But Dunmore...” He smiled wistfully; his accent, India noted, was particularly strong this morning. “It’s not much, just this little fishing village, but going there is like stepping back in time. It’s an innocent place, a very simple place. And very beautiful. The countryside around there is all rolling hills, the greenest you’ve ever seen. And the ocean’s like a living thing. The waves can hit the shore so hard, they shoot up the cliffs and down into the chimneys of the houses on top.” He grinned at her skeptical expression. “You don’t believe me. I should take you there and show you.”
“No, I believe you.”
He took her hand. “I’d like to take you, anyway. Not now, but in June or July, when it’s warm. I remember this inn. Very quaint—thatched roof, the whole nine yards. You’d love it.”
“I don’t know...”
He gave her hand a squeeze. “Just you and me, India. And the rest of the world can go to the devil, just for two weeks. What do you say?”
“Jamie, I...” She shrugged helplessly.
“You don’t have to answer now. Just think about it, all right?”
She nodded. Biting her lip, she lowered her gaze to his big hand, wrapped around hers. She was way too close to opening up her heart to him, way too close to saying, yes, take me to Ireland, take me away, make love to me forever and ever and ever. She could love this man, could give herself completely to him. But then what? How long could she sustain a relationship with him before the weight of his disbelief destroyed what they had?
She cleared her throat. “Have you eaten? I’ll make you something.”
He sighed and released her hand. “Don’t have the time.” He opened up the black plastic, revealing an olive green canvas knapsack, from which he withdrew a flat, nickel-plated pistol. “I’ve got to get this to forensics, but Sam wanted me to bring it by so you could—” he shrugged “—you know. Do your thing.”
“A reading?” He nodded without looking at her. “Is that the murder weapon?”
“Most likely.”
“Did you find it in the alley?”
“No, there was no weapon in the alley. Just Darrell—dead about six or eight hours by my guess, but the coroner will tell us for sure. I did, however, find two spent casings that came from a .32 caliber semiautomatic, like this one. A .32 auto is the only kind of gun I’ve ever known Darrell to carry, and his piece was missing. That led me to believe he’d been shot with his own gun, which was then removed from the crime scene by the killer.”
He rubbed his jaw. “I wanted to find the gun, but I thought I should talk to Missy first, so I went to her place—this little apartment by the train station. She had a black eye, a fresh one—Darrell’s handiwork. Turns out she’s had a restraining order against him, but he didn’t pay much attention to it. She turned white when I told her her husband was dead. First thing she asked was whether Tommy did it.”
“Really?”
“Remember, at the lumberyard, when Tommy threatened to kill Darrell if he ever came near Missy or the baby again?”
“Yeah, but—but that was just talk.”
“Talk leads to action, India. I got an arrest warrant drawn up and went to Lorillard. Tommy was at his locker in the basement, getting ready to leave. He put on a pretty good display of surprise when I told him his cousin was dead. Almost had me going for a minute there—till I found this—” he handed India the shiny little gun “—in his locker, hidden in the knapsack.”
The weapon was smooth and cold and heavy in her hand. “Are you allowed to search someone’s locker without a warrant?”
“I can search anything within arm’s reach of the guy I’m arresting. That’s how I found the magazines under Tommy’s bed the other time.” He sighed raggedly. “Tommy really lost it when I came up with the gun. Started screaming that he’d been framed. Screamed all the way to the station, screamed the whole time he was being booked. He actually came up with an alibi for the night of the lumberyard fire, but I don’t buy it—he’d say anything at this point.”
“What’s his alibi?”
“He says he’s been staying with Missy at night, to protect her from Darrell. I asked him why he didn’t just tell us so in the first place, and he said he thought it would look bad for Missy to be cohabiting with a man while she’s trying to fight for custody of her son.”
“Sounds reasonable to me,” India said.
He shrugged. “Alibis generally sound reasonable. It’s not hard to come up with a good one if you put your head to it, or to get someone to corroborate it, the way Missy did this one. The judge wasn’t that impressed. He set the maximum bail. It’s so high, there’s no chance of him ever coming up with the bread. He’s in for keeps this time.” He nodded toward the gun. “So, what do I tell Sam? Any psychometric vibes?”
India closed her eyes and held the gun between her palms. The lingering energy was muffled, as it often was with inanimate ob
jects, but clearly recognizable. “There’s a lot of Darrell here. You can tell Sam this was definitely his gun. There’s a little bit of you, too, just from recent handling. No one else.”
“No Tommy?”
She shook her head. “No, Tommy’s never fired this gun.”
“You don’t know that for sure,” Jamie said. “Maybe he wore heavy gloves while he did it.”
“If we’re talking about heavy gloves, it could have been anyone, couldn’t it? It didn’t have to be Tommy.”
He dropped his head into his hands. “Yeah, but it was.”
“How do you know?”
“I know. Look, I don’t like this any better than you do—”
“Here.” She returned the gun to him and took the knapsack, holding it in her lap with her eyes closed. She fingered the rough fabric, feeling the muted buzz of Tommy’s psychic energy, and nothing else. “This belongs to Tommy,” she said. “It was probably already in the locker when the killer went to hide the gun in there. It’s full of his vibes, but they’re all... I don’t know how to describe it. They’re benign. Harmless. There’s no way he ever murdered anybody.”
“India, please. The facts are the facts.”
“Tommy’s innocence is a fact, Jamie. I know it, and if you’d just listen to your blue sense instead of denying it so stubbornly, you’d know it, too. Tommy Finn did not kill his cousin.”
“I need proof, India, not just wishful thinking.”
“I have the proof right here in my hand.”
“That knapsack? That’s not proof.”
“To me it is.”
He shook his head slowly. “Then I guess we’ll just have to disagree about that.” He took the knapsack from her and replaced the gun inside, then secured it within the black plastic.
India thought her words out carefully. “Jamie, I don’t think you understand, not really. This isn’t just something else we can ‘agree to disagree’ about. This is too important. It has to do with what I am, who I am, intrinsically. And it has to do with your faith in me.”
He set the evidence bag on the floor. “Look, I know you’ve had some bad experiences. I know you’ve been hurt—”
“I’ve been worse than hurt, Jamie. I’ve been through hell, twice. First with my parents, and then with Perry. All I ever wanted was just for the people who said they cared about me to have a little faith in me. And that’s all I want from you—just a little faith.”
“Darlin’, asking me to believe In ESP is like asking me to believe that the world is flat.” He laid a hand gently on her cheek; it struck her that he looked completely drained. “I have to get this to forensics, India. And then I’m going to get some sleep.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I want to take you out to dinner tonight. A real date. How would that be?”
“I don’t know, Jamie. I don’t think so. I need some time to think.”
There was a long pause while Jamie searched her eyes. Finally he got up and turned to stare out the window, hands on hips. “Don’t do this, India,” he said quietly.
“Do what? I just need some time—”
“Darlin’, I’m thirty-four years old. I know damn well what it means when a woman says she needs some time to think. You’re burning me off.”
“Jamie... I’m sorry. It’s my fault, for letting myself get involved with you. It really wasn’t a good idea.”
“Not a good idea?” He spun around, his expression incredulous. “I don’t know about you, but I’ve been thinking last night was just about the best idea I’ve ever had. I’ve never—never—experienced anything like that. And now you’re asking me to just shrug it off like it was nothing.”
“You’re asking me to shrug off your disbelief in me. I can’t, Jamie. I can’t. Don’t you understand that?”
He came and knelt before her. “We can work it out. Let me take you to dinner tonight. Talk to me. Tell me what it’s like for you when you have a psychic experience. Let me try to understand...”
“So you can analyze my delusion? Decide exactly what kind of nut I am, and then try to cure me?”
“India...”
She took his hands, her throat tightening, her eyes stinging. “Jamie, please. Don’t make this harder than it has to be. You can’t imagine how grateful I am for what you’ve done for me. You’ve enabled me to touch people again. But we’ve reached an impasse here, and I don’t think there’s any way through it.”
“There isn’t, if you won’t give it a chance. I know you’re scared—”
“I’m terrified. I’m—” She choked back a sob as tears slid down her cheeks. “I just don’t think I can go through it all again—that hell of trusting someone, loving someone, and having them think I’m c-crazy. It would kill me.” She broke down, crying in earnest.
“Shh...” He gathered her in his arms and patted her back. “All right, darlin’. All right. Hush now. That’s right.” He pulled a folded tissue out of his pocket and dabbed at her face. “Tell you what. I’ll give you what you originally asked for—a little time to think. I’ll back off for a while. I don’t have to stay here at night, ‘cause Tommy’s behind bars—he’s not a threat anymore.”
Tommy was never the threat, India knew, but she kept the thought to herself. Nine days had passed since the Firefly delivered his note to her, and no attempt had been made on her life. Most likely the whole thing really had been a bluff, just as Jamie had thought. She’d lock her doors at night and leave the lights on; no harm would come to her.
Jamie kissed her eyelids. “How would that be? If I just gave you some time? So you could relax and get used to the idea of being with me?”
“Jamie, please don’t expect that to happen,” she replied brokenly. “I can’t be with you if you don’t believe in me. No amount of time will get me used to the idea.”
“Give us a chance, India,” he said huskily.
He tilted her chin up and brought his mouth close to hers, but she wrested her head to the side and rasped, “Please go. Please.”
He stilled, his body tight as a bow. Finally he picked up the evidence bag, rose, and walked to the door. He opened it and stood for a long moment with his back to her, ignoring the chilly breeze that swirled in from outside. “I’ll call you.”
“Don’t. Please.”
His shoulders sagged. “Is this really want you want?”
She swallowed hard as fresh tears poured down her face. “It’s what I need. I’m sorry, Jamie.”
“So am I.”
He shut the door behind him and walked away.
Chapter Nine
* * *
“THE ESPRESSO HERE is superb,” Alden said. “But not if you let it grow cold.”
India tore her gaze from the window next to their table, through which she’d been watching a young couple kissing on the sidewalk, her mind consumed with thoughts of Jamie. Four days had passed since she’d last seen him—four empty days, four days of loneliness and misery. She’d asked him not to call, and he hadn’t, but that didn’t stop her heart from racing with anticipation every time the phone rang. Afterward, she’d chastise herself for her weakness. Sometimes she’d cry.
She looked down at her tiny ceramic cup, still filled to overflowing with inky Italian coffee, a sliver of lemon peel untouched on the saucer next to it. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very good company, Alden.” She picked up the peel and twisted it, squeezing out fragrant beads of lemon oil, which she rubbed onto the rim of the cup.
Alden drained his cappuccino and dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “Oh, I don’t mind a bit of silence. But it troubles me that you seem so out of sorts. Especially since I had ulterior motives for inviting you to breakfast. Makes me feel like a cad.”
India smiled. “You’re the only man I know who can get away with using the word cad—or with wearing an ascot, for that matter.” She sipped her lukewarm, lemon-scented espresso as she studied Alden. The ascot was a deep burgundy paisley, very rich looking against his white silk shirt and brass-buttoned nav
y blazer. “So, what are your ulterior motives?”
“First tell me what’s bothering you.”
Her gaze returned to the window; the young couple was gone. “Several things.”
“Could one of them be James Keegan?” He chuckled at her nonplussed expression as he withdrew a box of Dunhill cigarettes from his inside pocket and opened it. “Do you mind?”
“No, but you can’t smoke in here.”
“You can if you tip forty percent.” He slid out a cigarette and tapped it on the table, clearly unconcerned. “It’s perfectly obvious Keegan doesn’t credit your powers. Curious—he seems a bright enough sort. One would think he’d be more open-minded.”
“You’re the only person who’s ever believed in me unequivocally,” she said.
He struck a match. “I pride myself on being quite unlike everyone else.”
She grinned knowingly. “A cut above?”
He lit the cigarette. “How about ‘a breed apart’? Sounds more egalitarian.”
“Since when have you been egalitarian?”
He chuckled good-naturedly. “You’re changing the subject. We were talking about you and your troubles.”
“I’d rather talk about you and your ulterior motives. Care to share them with me?”
He drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “It’s about that young man they arrested.”
“Tommy Finn?”
Alden nodded and sat forward, his elbows on the table. “You worked with Keegan on the case. Tell me the truth. Do you think Tommy murdered his cousin?”
India drank some espresso and replaced the little cup carefully on the saucer. “No.”
“Do you think he set those fires?”
“No.”
He sat back, his gaze never leaving hers. “Neither do I, but I wanted your opinion. I know that kid. He’s worked for me for six months. I couldn’t believe he was guilty, but I had to be sure.”
Her eyebrows rose. “You put that much stock in my opinion?”
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