by Rita Herron
Black rapped his knuckles on the desk. “Let’s get on this before this guy strikes again and hurts someone else.”
The meeting dispersed, and Bradford headed back to his desk. He wished like hell they’d get a lead, that one of the spectators or Rosanna would remember something.
The image of her hobbling up the steps, wearing nothing but that flimsy hospital gown and robe rode through his head, and he went to his computer.
He’d run a background check on her and see what he found out, see if she had any skeletons in her closet, what she might be hiding.
He’d been a cop too long not to trust his instincts. She had been lying about something and he intended to find out the nature of that lie, and the reason for it.
Uploaded by Coral
Chapter Six
ROSANNA RESTED FOR a while, but nervous energy kept her from relaxing. That and nightmares of Natalie and the fire.
Shadow curled up next to her and Rosanna stroked the space between his ears, making him purr and close his eyes contentedly. Remembering the meeting at CIRP with the other research project members, she dragged herself from bed, showered and dressed in a sundress, then fed her cat and called a taxi.
A half hour later, curiosity rooted her to the seat as five members of the experiment gathered in a seated circle to discuss their expectations of the project.
Each of these five people believed they possessed some sort of special ability. The study consisted of other small groups focusing on various talents, as well as another group being given an experimental drug scientists believed would enhance chemicals in the brain and stimulate natural sensory abilities that people already possessed but normally didn’t access.
She had never openly discussed what had happened with her father years ago, and had tried to suppress any gift she might possess for fear she might hurt someone else. Only Granny had known because of her sixth sense. Granny had also caught Rosanna experimenting in her bedroom, trying to move a book. But Rosanna had failed, and had been relieved that she had. She’d hoped her memory of her father’s death was skewed by childhood trauma, that she hadn’t actually caused the objects to move, and killed him.
But through the years, she’d experienced moments where, when she was upset, odd things had happened—a glass spilled over and shattered or a picture fell off the wall. In joining the study, she hoped to prove that these were coincidences, not a power she possessed.
A power that would make her a freak.
The thirty-something, sandy-haired Dr. Klondike folded her hands. “I’d like for each of you to describe your special ability.”
Tension thrummed through the room as everyone shifted in the metal chairs. Apparently the others shared her anxiety over revealing themselves.
“I understand your hesitancy,” Dr. Klondike said, offering a smile. “Most of you have probably faced ridicule and skepticism when you’ve discussed your special ability. But you’re safe here. Your confidentiality is well guarded, and no one is going to pass judgment on you.”
Rosanna relaxed slightly. True. They had signed confidentiality clauses prohibiting them from discussing the study or any individual’s personal skills.
A beautiful, curvaceous girl in her early twenties with cornrows raised her hand. “I have dreams that come true,” Shamera admitted. “Some are good, some aren’t.”
Dr. Klondike patted Shamera’s hand in encouragement. “Those are premonitions,” she explained. “You aren’t making those things happen, Shamera. But in sleep, you’re relaxed and your mind is open enough to tap into the psychic energy you possess.”
The man next to her, a thin, wiry fellow with curly brown hair and a goatee spoke up next. “My name is Terrance. Sometimes I can read people’s minds.”
Everyone shifted, restless again.
He laughed. “That’s why I don’t like to tell people. My last girlfriend wanted me out of her head.”
A ripple of laughter filtered through the room.
“But it’s not like I read everyone or that I can control it. Sometimes it drives me crazy. I have so many voices in my head; I can’t sort them out or even think. Sometimes I hear things I don’t want to hear.”
“We can help you learn to focus,” Dr. Klondike said.
He jiggled his foot, his eyes twitching nervously.
The third member, a pale-faced emaciated woman clenched her hands in her lap. “I can float outside my body.”
“You mean levitate?” Dr. Klondike asked.
“I don’t know what you call it, but when I sleep, I leave my body and float above it. I actually watch myself and can see if someone comes in the room.”
“I talk to the dead,” a sixty-something lady with gold spangled earrings blurted. “Ghosts, they come to me day and night wanting me to help them move on. Wanting me to talk to their loved ones for them.”
“So we’ll be working with you as a medium,” Dr. Klondike said, turning to Rosanna.
Rosanna licked her dry lips. “I can move things, at least I did once a long time ago,” she said quietly. “I think it’s called telekinesis.”
“That’s right,” Dr. Klondike said. “You said you did it a long time ago?”
The memory of her father coming toward her, the firepoker flying from the wall, then the deer head, flashed back. But she couldn’t reveal the details. “When I was four. But my father said I had the devil in me, and I haven’t done it since.”
Compassion radiated from the doctor while others muttered similar comments they’d received.
“My mother claimed I was possessed,” the medium said. “She tried to perform an exorcism to rid me of evil.”
“My family thought I was schizophrenic,” Terrence admitted. “They kept me drugged for years. I joined this study, hoping to get off of the meds because they make me so tired I can’t function.”
“My grandmother and aunt are both voodoo priestesses,” Shamera said quietly. “I inherited my ability from them.”
Rosanna thought of her own grandmother, the daughter of a Native American shaman who had a special gift of healing. Other stories about gifted Native Americans echoed in her head. A witch doctor who healed by touch. A warrior whose hearing was so astute he could hear an attack coming from miles away. A brave who could walk on fire without getting burned. Another who could throw flames with his fingertips.
Dr. Klondike turned to another man on her left. He was tall, thin with neatly clipped brown hair, dressed in nice slacks with a button-down blue shirt. He’d been listening quietly, looking distant. “And you, sir?”
He cut his gaze toward Rosanna for a brief second, and a shiver rippled through her. His eyes, behind the horn-rimmed glasses, were a cobalt-ice-blue.
“Kevin,” he said in a slightly nasally voice as he whipped his head back toward the doctor. “I can freeze things with my hands.”
The mind reader cleared his throat and shifted restlessly, and out of the corner of her eye, Rosanna saw his eyes widen briefly.
Kevin gave him a cold look. “What are you doing””
The mind reader gripped the edges of the chair. “Uh…nothing. I just had something in my throat.”
Tension stretched between the two men, and Rosanna wondered if the mind reader had tapped into Kevin’s thoughts. She fidgeted, reminded herself that she should guard her own thoughts from the man.
“We’re off to a great start here,” Dr. Klondike said calmly as if to dispel the anxiety. “We’ll meet twice a week for support sessions, and each of you will set up individual appointments. Don’t forget before you leave to stop by the lab. We need another blood sample for testing.”
The initial tension had dissipated, and everyone stood, making eye contact, and offering smiles of acceptance.
Dr. Klondike approached Rosanna. “Miss Redhill, we’re holding a special session on telekinesis now if you can stay.”
Rosanna nodded and followed her into an adjoining room where ten other people had taken seats. For the next hour the
doctor in charge, a rail-thin salt-and-pepper haired man named Dr. Salvadore, led a discussion on mind over matter, which rolled into a hands-on experiment where he challenged each participant to concentrate on his or her skill.
Rosanna focused intently but was unable to even move a pencil. “Maybe I was wrong and I’m not telekinetic.” She hoped that was true. Then she could let go of her guilt.
“If you haven’t actively used your powers, they may be weak,” the doctor explained. “Sometimes people who don’t understand their abilities think their gift is evil, but it’s not. It’s scientifically based. Humans only use ten percent of their brains. That’s the reason for our study. We believe the brain is being wasted, and those with special abilities can be useful to the world. Using that gift just requires taking control of mind over matter.” Dr. Salvadore gave her a quick pat of encouragement. “It takes time and practice to learn to draw on your energy and hone your skill.”
“The only time I’ve ever felt I could move objects was when I was really angry or upset,” Rosanna admitted.
The doctor smiled knowingly. “Because you unconsciously accessed a part of your brain that you normally don’t use. That anger released endorphins, which caused you to drop your barriers, lose control of your inhibitions and utilize your power.”
His theory made sense.
Some of the others failed at their first attempts as well. A young boy in his teens seemed to be the strongest. He summoned a penny, then a pencil, then finally moved a notebook across the table, drawing applause from the participants.
As the session ended, Rosanna left the room, not surprised to see two other rooms emptying with other groups dispersing. She headed to the lab, dread clenching her stomach at the thought of having blood drawn again. When she’d made her initial visit to the research park, a gangly guy named Louis had drawn her blood. While he put a Band-Aid on her arm, he’d invited her to dinner. She’d turned him down, then felt guilty later because he’d looked deflated. But she’d been too nervous about the experiment to accept a social invitation with someone who worked at the center.
This time, a slender woman in her early twenties with gray-green eyes drew her blood, and Rosanna relaxed, grateful not to have to face an awkward meeting with Louis.
Relieved, she limped to the front desk and asked the receptionist to call a taxi to drive her to her shop. Outside, the hot summer air caused her hair to stick to the back of her neck. She lifted it with one hand and fanned herself, then removed a water bottle from her bag. She drank deeply as others from the experiment filed outside and walked past her heading to their cars.
Beside her, a small fire erupted in the trash can. She jumped up, and doused the flames with her water.
She hadn’t noticed anyone smoking or near the receptacle…
That strange feeling of being watched crept up her spine again. Her heart racing, she glanced around and saw a man disappearing around the corner.
The conversations from her meeting rolled through her head. The special gifts and powers. The Native American folk legends she had heard from her grandmother. One in particular nagged at her memory banks. The flamethrower. The small warrior had so much heat in his body that he didn’t need flint to create tiny sparks of fire. Flaming Hands, they called him, because he simply had to focus, concentrate and draw upon the heat and energy in his body and the fire would combust. In the legend, he used his power not only to keep the tribe warm, but when they were attacked by soldiers, he’d staved off the attack by throwing fireballs at the enemy.
She stared at the burning trash. Was it possible that someone in one of the groups here possessed that ability?
No…that was crazy. Someone must have dropped a cigarette inside the wastebasket, and it had simply taken a few minutes for it to catch fire…
BRADFORD WAS STILL contemplating the information he’d found on Rosanna Redhill when he stopped by her shop. Her father had died suspiciously at their house when she was four years old.
Apparently he had suffered a head injury from a firepoker and a bookcase had fallen on him and crushed his internal organs.
Bradford had discovered an article about the death with a photo of Rosanna included. She had been such a fragile looking child with that wild red curly hair and those luminous big green eyes. Instantaneous compassion for her had filled him.
Her story disturbed him and triggered more questions. She had been alone in the house when her father died. According to police reports, she had been traumatized, and unable to tell them who had killed her father.
A neighbor had heard the commotion, come over and discovered Mr. Redhill’s dead body on the floor. According to her, Rosanna’s mother hadn’t been around for years.
Although police had finally located her, she had given up all rights to Rosanna, so the four-year-old had been sent to live with her grandmother in Savannah, and had undergone counseling. But she’d never divulged the details of her father’s murder.
Even more interesting, her grandmother had been a practicing witch doctor.
Bradford was well aware that Savannah had a diverse cultural makeup, including the Gullah people, believers in the supernatural, and followers of witchcraft and voodoo.
Rosanna Redhill’s shop, Mystique, obviously catered to that population. A bell tinkled on the door as he entered the store, a mixture of scents assaulting him. He quickly scanned the room for Rosanna, but didn’t see her so he assumed she’d stayed home to rest. A teenager with a half dozen piercings, tattoos and burgundy hair worked the register, while a few customers roamed the store.
Candles, herbs, roots and God only knew what else filled shelves, which lined the room. Sage, Sandalwood, St. John’s Wart, salt, saffron, mandrake root, leek, hemlock, graveyard dust, toad’s legs, raven’s blood, rabbit’s ears, witches grass wormwood…The list went on and on.
The selection of candles and oils was just as varied with names like Master Candle, Court Candle, Black Devil Candle, Black Serpent Candle, Lucky Oils, Money Oil, Black Powers Oil, Passion Oil…
All ingredients for voodoo and witchcraft spells.
Books about Reiki, voodoo and witchcraft, and recipes for magic spells filled one wall while a wide array of voodoo dolls, gris-gris, masks and mojos occupied another corner. To the left, he noted a section housing books about local ghost legends, Native American folklore and hand-woven baskets created by the Gullah people along with gift items including a collection of herbal and medicinal teas, aromatherapy candles and bath products.
The bell tinkled again, and he pivoted and saw Rosanna limp inside, carrying an oversize mustard-yellow bag over her shoulder. Today she wore a dark green sundress and sandals, with her hair pulled back at her nape with a ribbon. His gut tightened, his awareness of her natural beauty striking him again.
Yet she looked troubled about something, deep in thought, even shaken.
She’s grieving for her friend, he reminded himself. And judging from the dark circles beneath her eyes, she hadn’t rested when he’d left her at her apartment.
She glanced up and saw him, and a wary expression clouded her eyes.
That nagging feeling that she was hiding something returned to dig at him.
With her troubled background and upbringing, she might have serious issues, maybe even psychological problems stemming back to the day her father died. He’d read about children who’d witnessed a parent’s murder at a young age and repressed the memory, and the devastating effects the trauma could have on the psyche.
Yet one more reason for him to treat her with suspicion and to avoid a personal involvement with her.
ROSANNA WILLED herself not to react to the detective, but the sight of his dark, intense eyes boring down on her made her squirm. She felt as if he could read her mind, and he knew that he made her nervous.
Between the club last night and the small fire in the trash bin at CIRP that had erupted out of nowhere, she was plenty antsy. “Detective Walsh?” Rosanna asked as she approached him. “Did y
ou find out who set the fire at the bar?”
His jaw tightened. “Not yet, we’re still investigating.”
She clutched her bag tightly, maneuvering the merchandise aisles until she reached the register. Something about his breath, his scent, the whisper of his husky voice drew her. But judging from the scowl on his face as he skeptically examined a book of love potions, he disapproved of her store and its contents.
Inhaling a deep breath, she smiled at Honey, one of her salesgirls, and gestured that she’d take command of the register. Honey grinned and went to straighten merchandise and greet customers.
Feeling calmer with the space between them, she turned back to the detective. “How can I help you?”
“Have you’d talked to Natalie’s parents?”
Emotions flooded her throat. “Yes, on my cell phone on the way over here. They’re devastated.”
He gave a clipped nod. “Understandable.”
“She was their only child.” Rosanna clamped her teeth over her lower lip to keep from spilling out the terrible grief churning through her.
“Did they mention funeral arrangements?”
“They’re holding a small memorial service at the Savannah Methodist Church at 2:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon.”
“Thanks. I assume you’re going?”
She fiddled with one of the voodoo dolls on the counter. “Yes, they asked me to sing.” Now why had she told him that?
“You sing at church?”
A flush scalded her neck. “You sound surprised?”
“I just don’t see you as the religious type.”
“Why not?”
He gestured around her shop with a scowl.
Her hackles rose. “Most beliefs in witchcraft, voodoo and New Age theories are based on spirituality, Detective.”
He didn’t look convinced. “I didn’t mean to insult you. It was just an observation.”
A tense second passed.
“I’m sure it means a lot to them to know that she had friends,” he finally said.
