Texas Strange

by West, Terry M.

  “Oh, Christ,” Luke said, preparing himself. “What is it?”

  “A psychic was brought it more than a decade ago,” Harlson said. “Maybe you’ve heard of her- a little old lady by the name of Bertha Hobbs?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” Luke said. “She died in a retirement home a few years ago. She was a pioneer in the psychic field. She was one of the first people in these parts to come forward with her abilities. I had heard she had a stroke or something."

  “Well, yeah, the or something definitely applies here,” Harlson continued. “Bertha was contacted by the former police commissioner and she was asked to help. She had assisted the department on many cases in her youth, but she was in her sixties when we recruited her for this case. They took her to a crime scene, like I did with you today. The only difference is, she found something. And it made her lose her mind. She had a seizure and kept babbling over and over, 'the wolf, the wolf'. I don’t know what she saw, but she was never the same again. Bertha was a shell of her former self after that and she was put into the nursing home without a peep to the press. That’s why we waited so long to bring in another psychic. Someone considerably younger than Bertha Hobbs.”

  “Thanks for not telling me sooner,” Luke said, thinking that information could have helped him fortify himself. Old or not, Bertha Hobbs had been a powerful psychic. He was growing very angry with all of this.

  “What are you worried about?” Harlson asked, shrugging. “She was an old lady. You’re supposed to be the best there is. That’s what I’ve heard anyway.”

  “So the department has been priming me for this? I don’t like being fattened up like someone’s dinner, pal. And I also don’t like working with someone who doesn’t put his cards on the table and all but calls me a fraud,” Luke exclaimed, pain flaring in his head as his temper rose.

  “Take it easy. I’m a realist, so sue me,” Harlson said. “I don’t buy into mystic shit that easily, but to tell you the truth, sport, I hope you’re on the up and up. You lead me to the Keepsake Killer and I’ll be your biggest advocate. I want to feed that fucker his balls. I didn’t want to scare you away from this case and if you ask anyone about me they’ll tell you I’m the biggest prick around. This shit was dumped in my lap and so were you. So let’s make the best of it or tell each other to fuck off and return the wedding presents.”

  Luke calmed down, respecting the building pain in his head rather than Harlson. “I’ll help you. Because it’s what I do.”

  “Okay,” Harlson said. “I’m sorry. For better or worse, we’re partners on this.”

  Harlson looked at his watch. “Oh, Christ, I gotta get downtown. I’ll settle the bill. Meet me at the station around ten a.m. tomorrow?”

  “I’ll be there,” Luke agreed, standing.

  “No hard feelings, huh?” Harlson said, extending his hand. “I’ll do you right from now on.”

  “Okay,” Luke said, shaking Harlson’s hand. Upon contact with the detective, Luke was filled with dread. There was something wrong with Harlson. Terribly wrong. An air of impending doom surrounded the detective. Luke’s mind was invaded with an image of Harlson in an examining room. A doctor pointed solemnly to an x-ray that showed a malignancy in Harlson's stomach. The word inoperable floated out of the doctor's mouth.

  “How long?” Harlson asked the doctor.

  “A year, at most,” the doctor reported.

  “Are you okay?” Harlson asked Luke. The detective had a look of unease on his face.

  “I’m fine,” Luke replied, managing a smile. “It’s just that damned migraine of mine.”

  “You should visit your doctor,” Harlson advised.

  “Yeah,” Luke agreed. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Luke left the diner.

  ***

  Harlson watched intently as Luke pushed the diner door open and marched toward his car.

  Well, I'll be damned, Harlson thought, reaching for another smoke. The son of a bitch knows.

  CHAPTER 4

  Luke passed the Good Year blimp station. Home was only one hour away, if the traffic on Interstate 45 stayed smooth.

  He gazed at the green fields on the side of the Interstate, frowning at the patches of dead, yellow grass and hoping that this summer would not bring another drought.

  He had the AC turned full blast, and he had thrown his suit jacket in the back seat. He had lived in Texas most of his life, and he was amazed that he was not yet used to the cruel summer heat. Either that hole in the ozone layer was expanding, or his tolerance for the warmth was diminishing with his health.

  Luke’s migraine had settled down somewhat, making him only want to claw out one of his eyes. Though still in agony, he was grateful that the torture was a little more endurable. He thought again of the vision he had when touching Harlson. He seldom pulled visions off of breathing people, but they usually came to him for a reason. Luke figured the scene could have been worse. It could have been a gruesome crime scene decorated in Harlson’s guts. Still, he felt sympathy for the man. Cancer had taken Luke’s mother. It was a shitty but common way to go.

  Luke cracked his window and took a breath of fresh air, inhaling the aroma of manure.

  “I’m still too far from downtown,” he muttered, grimacing and rolling the window back up.

  He fished the fresh cigarette pack from his shirt pocket and opened it.

  He had promised Tammy that he would quit, for many reasons, but without his nerve-soothers, he thought he would go mad.

  Luke lit one up and took a drag that burned a good inch off of it. There goes fifteen minutes of my life, he thought, recalling the sermon his mother used to give him about smoking. She had claimed that every cigarette a person smoked took fifteen minutes off of their life.

  Thinking of his mother brought back memories of growing up in Pleasant Storm, Texas to his mind. His father, Richard Glover, had owned a feed store in neighboring Mercury, Texas. Farmers from three counties used to buy their livestock supplies from the Glover Rural Supply store.

  It was Richard Glover’s policy for getting whatever a person needed in a short amount of time that made him so popular with the locals. Luke’s mother, Glenda, helped out Richard at the store on a part-time schedule and she did the majority of the house and light farm work. She was also a very active PTA member who had been too involved, sometimes, as far as Luke had been concerned. He didn’t see it, back then. But now he understood how truly blessed he had been. His parents had been wonderful people.

  Luke’s thoughts traveled back to the accident at the Campbell house that had unlocked his strongest ability. It had been a Halloween challenge from Darryl Presley. Darryl had been a troubled youth. He was short but had bulked up to counteract his height. Total Napoleon complex. The boy was used to constantly proving himself, and so he always dared and bullied people into things. Darryl Presley (no relation to Elvis, he always said) ended up dead in his twenties. He was stabbed in a bar fight over a woman, Luke had heard.

  Now, going up into the Campbell attic on Halloween was a rite of passage. Of course, no one as sensitive as Lucas Glover had ever gone up there before. When he got to that attic and saw that thing- figment, ghost, demon, whatever the hell it had been-

  He pictured the spinning fiend in his head. Luke had only glanced at it for a second, before he turned the wrong way and tripped over his feet. There had always been rumors that Adam Campbell’s murder spree had been prompted by a Satanic or supernatural influence. After that night, Luke believed the rumor.

  Luke woke the next day in a hospital bed. He was released a day later, diagnosed with a mild concussion that he didn’t think was very mild, considering the perpetual migraine he had suffered for a week afterward. Had he known at that age that the pain of a cluster migraine would one day rule his being, in retrospect Luke suspected that he would have killed himself.

  The power came to Luke a month later. He had just finished helping his mother wash the dinner dishes. Richard was at the
store working on his books, so the dishes were a small task that night.

  Luke went into the restroom and he washed his hands in the basin. As the lukewarm water rinsed soap suds off of his hands, Luke was suddenly riddled with an image of his father clutching his chest, falling from his desk chair and trying to get back on his feet.

  Richard kept one hand gripped to his upper body, and he clawed at the air with his other, reaching for the phone. The vision ended with Richard slumping to the floor, his eyes closing and his body dying.

  Luke was filled with terror. He didn’t know what to make of the vision.

  He told his mother about the vivid image, and she quickly discounted it as an overactive imagination.

  Luke was persistent enough to have Glenda call the shop. There was no answer. An hour passed before Glenda agreed to drive to the store. She was visibly growing with alarm.

  Luke didn’t know if it was the prospect of being a widow or having a freak for a son that scared her the most.

  When they arrived at the store and went into Richard’s office, they found him dead- killed by a major heart attack.

  The incident brought about a fear that rivaled Luke’s grief. The bar of soap he had used the night of his father’s death was the bar that his father used more than anyone else to clean the daily grime from his hand.

  Another month passed before Glenda acknowledged Luke’s ability. She told Lucas of the witch burnings in Salem, and she warned him never to reveal his gift to anyone. She reminded him of where he lived. Texas. His home was a place where religious leaders insisted on counties dry of liquor and promoted the burning of controversial books and the alienation of anyone who questioned the function of religion in modern society.

  Lucas loved Texas. But he realized even back then that it could be a dangerous place for someone like him to exist. There were good people out there, but there were also people who were ready to destroy what they feared or couldn't comprehend.

  So he had kept the power to himself until his second year at North Texas State University in Denton, Texas. He was sitting in his dorm room with four friends and a free spirit named Kelly Bartlett who had graciously liberated him from his virginity the year before. He was getting high on a Saturday night.

  Three healthy tokes from a bong had loosened him up and his friends were already on the subject of psychic power, so he had shared the accident at the Campbell house and the night of his father’s death. He opened up and he told them everything.

  Lucas had lived a sheltered existence under his mother’s supervision. Especially after his father died and his power had flared up. But he had found a certain, philosophical freedom among the fellow draft dodgers and frustrated artists who had attended his university. That was what college had been all about, he concluded. A place to find your path in the world.

  By the time he received his Bachelor's degree in English, he had already decided to follow it up with a degree in Transpersonal Psychology, a field that was just gaining recognition at a small college in Weatherford, Texas.

  And the rest is history, he thought, crushing the remainder of his second cigarette out in the car ashtray. He had decided to devote the rest of his life to using the ability that either God Almighty or a freak accident or a strange bargain between the two had granted him.

  Now, though, Luke was really beginning to believe that his gift was taking some kind of toll on his body.

  He used a portion of his brain that few utilized. Luke had often wondered why it was said that people only use a small fraction of their brain. Maybe it was because the unused section harnessed abilities that would wither their flesh in an instant if called into service.

  He lit another fifteen minutes off of his life and he gave the radio another chance. He managed to get a station that was playing elevator music. It would suffice. More nonthreatening melodies followed. Luke left the station on, deciding that the castration of classic rock songs was soothing. He passed downtown Houston as the tall, glass buildings that huddled together like a football team down in score glinted under the sun.

  Houston was a big town, but downtown was a speck compared to other big cities. The majority of space in Houston was taken up by suburban communities and small commercial strips.

  Luke realized that any out-of-towner who came to Houston looking for a modern day Dodge City would be quite shocked at the yuppie infestation of the once rustic city.

  There were still farmers and cowboys, but the majority of them despised the cultural injection from immigrants and non-natives who had moved to Houston for better job opportunities. The die-hard Texans lived in towns like Humble or Dickinson on the outskirts of Houston.

  Luke was on the 610 loop now, fifteen minutes from his home in the suburb of River Oaks. He decided to hide the pack of cigarettes so Tammy would not be upset with him for breaking his vow to lead a nicotine free life.

  He had hardly thought about the Keepsake Killer after lunch, and that was intentional. Tomorrow would be another day to search for the maniac.

  His aching noggin needed a break, so he punched his imaginary time

  clock and wondered what Tammy was making for dinner.

  CHAPTER 5

  “What should I do?” Tammy Glover asked, wrapping the phone cord nervously around her free hand.

  “I would suggest a very long vacation,” Dr. Spencer replied over the phone.

  Tammy groaned and she sagged against the small bar that separated the kitchen and dining room.

  “I haven’t been able to convince Lucas that time off will help his condition, doctor. He thinks that working harder will help him with this block he’s been having.”

  “I don’t want to alarm you, Tammy, but some experts have a theory that people with supposed psychic abilities can tax themselves into an early grave. Using their talents can affect their physical state. Luke has been at this a very long time. I urge you to stress the importance of a break from his routine. At the rate he’s going, he’ll kill himself.”

  “I don’t care if I have to sedate him and spirit him away in the middle of the night,” Tammy vowed, rapping the bar with her knuckles.

  “That’s a girl,” Dr. Spencer replied.

  “I am not a girl, Dr. Spencer,” Tammy chided him, but in a friendly manner.

  “I meant no offense, Tammy,” Dr. Spencer said. “I’m just an old man with bad habits, I guess.”

  “I’m not offended by you,” Tammy said with a smile. “You remind of my father. But the feminist in me had to say something.”

  “I understand,” Dr. Spencer said. “Getting back to your husband- make him realize the importance of relaxation. It’s the easiest fix in the world, if he will listen. He just needs to step back from life. Otherwise, I am really afraid he could harm himself. The man’s general health is in danger. I watch his numbers drop like a bad stock every month. I am only confiding to you because we’ve been so close throughout the years. I am extremely concerned about your husband. This is a conversation I have had with him many times, but I get nowhere. I turn to you now as a hail Mary from the midcourt. And when he comes at you with confidentiality breach, tell him I don’t give a damn. A doctor may, if consistent with such professional judgment, discuss an incapacitated patient’s condition with a family member over the phone. And as far as I am concerned, your husband is in a stubborn coma.”

  Tammy laughed at the joke, as a courtesy, but she was worried. “You’ve been a tremendous help, Dr. Spencer.”

  “I know most of what I do for your husband is guess work and speculation. There was no chapter on dealing with ailing psychics in my medical education. Still, a week or two at a nice cabin close to a river is a prescription I can whole-heartedly prescribe. Hell, I might pack up Mrs. Spencer and join you.”

  “Sounds good to me. If I can’t get through to him this time, I’ll give you a call.”

  “You do that. Give Luke my best.”

  “Will do. Goodbye, Dr. Spencer.”

  Tammy put the receiv
er back in its cradle, her resolve and determination at their peak.

  Lucas was running himself into the ground.

  He had spent over ten years assisting the authorities with numerous investigations. His best-selling memoirs had afforded him a lasting financial security. There was no sense in Luke continuing with what Tammy regarded as his self-imposed civic duty. Let them get another seer. Luke had given his prime years to the force. He was tired now and he deserved a rest.

  She was so vehement about Luke washing his hands of the strenuous police work that she considered threatening him with divorce if he did not listen to reason. She would not stand idly by while the man dug his own grave. Tammy looked at her watch and she grimaced, anticipating that Luke would be home soon.

  She opened the oven door and checked the shepherd’s pie she was preparing for dinner. She gave the dish another ten minutes, closed the oven door, and then she went to the refrigerator and pulled a few frozen vegetables out of the freezer.

  She popped a packet of broccoli and cheese into the microwave oven and set the time.

  Tammy walked over to the bar and sat down. She noticed sales circulars resting on the bar. They were already advertising back-to-school bargains, although summer still had a month and change to go.

  This time of year depressed Tammy. She and Luke were childless. They had tried for years to have a baby before going to the doctor and having tests run. Luke was sterile- a condition that Tammy sometimes suspected was brought about by his abilities.

  The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, as her Baptist father would have put it.

  Tammy swept her long blond hair out of her blue eyes, which were warming.

  She quickly wiped them dry, remembering that this day would be served addressing the issue of Luke’s retirement.

  Tomorrow she would realize the few remaining childbearing years she had left and she would cry over it then. Tonight she had to save her husband’s life.