by Pandora Pine
What was making him feel even more on edge was the steady stream of emotions rippling off Ronan. If his emotions were a stone dropping into a calm pond, it would send breaking waves onto the shore. Not knowing the man well enough to try to soothe him, he kept his mouth shut.
He could well imagine how difficult it was being the latest in a string of detectives picking up a case in the middle. What must be even harder was bringing a psychic to meet the parents of the missing boy. What was worse still was that Tennyson had no answers to give them at the moment.
“You’d better have something to tell these people,” Ronan grumbled from the driver’s seat as if he were the one reading Tennyson’s mind.
“It doesn’t always work that way,” he replied softly.
“Jesus Christ, Grimm, if we’ve come all the way out here and you sit there silent as the grave…”
“Calm down, Ronan. Your emotions are disrupting my ability to pick up messages.”
“What kind of bullshit is that?” Ronan pulled his eyes off the road to give Tennyson a withering glare.
Tennyson rolled his eyes. “Did you ever listen to the radio in the car and have a stronger radio station interfere with the one you’re listening to? That’s what your emotions are doing to me. All I can do is read you right now. It’s like you’re shouting over everything else I’m trying to listen to.” He sighed, there was no way Ronan was going to buy what he was trying to explain.
“Don’t you have a rock that can fix me?” Ronan sounded jovial for the first time all day.
Tennyson burst out laughing. “Am I going to need to carry a pocketful of healing crystals around for you? Where’s the one I gave you this morning?”
Ronan shrugged and mumbled something under his breath. It sounded like he said in his back pocket.
The last place Tennyson was going to go rooting around in was Ronan’s back pocket. “Here, take my hand.” He held out his left hand.
“You gonna be my rock, Grimm?” Ronan took his hand and instantly seemed to calm.
God help him. It seemed like Tennyson already was.
That same buzzy feeling of attraction that he’d felt back at the shop zinged through his body, lighting him up like a tilted pinball machine. He had no idea if Ronan was gay and in this moment, it didn’t matter one way or the other.
They were on their way to meet the grieving parents of a little boy who’d been lost for seven years. The very last thing on his mind should be how damn good it felt to hold the grumpy detective’s smooth, warm hand. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how Tennyson chose to look at it, Ronan’s touch seemed to be comforting him just as much as his own touch was comforting the cop.
With their hands joined, Tennyson was able to hear whispers from his spirit guides. He was even seeing a grainy image or two. “Cute kid,” Tennyson half-laughed.
“Who’s cute?” Ronan sounded confused.
“Michael Frye. Light hair so blonde it’s almost white, green eyes, missing front tooth. Apple tree background. Red Sox tee shirt. Must be his kindergarten picture.” Tennyson felt Ronan’s grip tighten on his hand.
He was ready for the detective to accuse him of seeing the photo on Google. He knew school photos were taken in the fall and with the kid going missing in October, he was sure this image had been plastered all over the news after Michael had been taken.
“Yeah, he was a cute kid. You able to see him now that my emotions are calmer?” Rather than sounding annoyed, Ronan sounded curious.
“Yeah, it’s almost like being able to see through a snowstorm because you turned on the windshield wipers.”
“You got a lot of metaphors.” Ronan pulled his hand back from Tennyson.
“It’s not easy to explain what I see and feel, so I look for ways to explain it that anyone can understand.” He felt cold without Ronan’s hand in his.
“This is it.” Ronan pointed to a grey row house with a fenced in yard. The fence looked to be about ten feet tall.
From the passenger seat, Tennyson could see there was a call-box at the locked gate and the second floor windows had bars on them. He wasn’t an expert in security, but the place looked more locked down than Attica. “Sweet Jesus,” he whispered under his breath.
“They can’t leave this house just in case Michael finds his way home, so they made it impenetrable. Or as much as it can be in this day and age.”
Tennyson shook his head and got out of the car to stretch his legs. Usually he’d walk around and touch things, but since the fence wasn’t here when Michael was, doing that was useless.
He turned his face to the ocean, feeling the bite of the wind. From where he was standing, he had a nice view of the harbor. To his right was the L Street Bathhouse, a summer camp hangout for kids and the home to the L Street Brownies, whose charity Polar Plunge each January raised thousands of dollars for Massachusetts Special Olympics.
From outward appearances this looked like an ideal neighborhood to grow up in. Tennyson moved down to his knees and sat back on his heels. He knew this would be the average height of a five-year-old boy. The world looked a bit scarier from down here. It would be so easy for a grown-up to grab him and shove him into a waiting car.
“What are you doing, praying?” Ronan asked.
Tennyson startled at the sound of his voice. “No, I’m imagining life from Michael’s point of view.” He shivered and it wasn’t from the cold January wind off the water. “So many dangers could come at you when you were this small. All of which you’d be powerless to fight off.”
“Well, come on, film crew is here.” Ronan extended a hand down and pulled him effortlessly to his feet.
Tennyson couldn’t help offering a silent prayer. He knew this meeting wasn’t going to be easy for any of them.
7
Ronan
Ronan paced around the spotless kitchen while Brett McCabe and the film crew set up their gear in the equally spotless dining room. He could tell from the dark circles under Jackie Frye’s eyes that she’d spent the night cleaning her already immaculate house in lieu of sleeping.
“We’re ready,” Brett poked his head in from the dining room.
Tennyson, who’d been standing at the sliding glass door looking out over the postage stamp of a backyard, silently walked toward the dining room. Brett held him back from entering at the last minute.
Before they’d come into the house, Brett had advised Ronan to let Tennyson take the lead with the parents. He could introduce them and facilitate the meeting if need be, but, Brett wanted the psychic to be the star of the show, especially if Michael’s spirit came through and everyone’s worst fear was realized.
Ronan had been raised in the Catholic Church. It had been years since he’d stepped inside Saint Theresa’s sanctified walls, but the prayers never left him. Saying the words of the Hail Mary silently to himself, he found small comfort in the rote words of his childhood. He could only hope the Blessed Mother would be there to comfort Jackie in her hour of need should Tennyson connect with Michael.
For his part, Ronan was torn. He didn’t know which outcome he was hoping for. If Michael came through in this reading, the Frye’s would know for certain their son was dead. If he didn’t, hope would be kept alive that their boy was out there somewhere. Hell, it was possible the child was living a privileged lifestyle with everything he could possibly wish for. On the other hand, it was also possible he was living a life of pure hell.
Turning toward the doorway, Ronan stood up. “Ross and Jackie, I’d like to introduce you both to Tennyson Grimm.”
Ten walked into the room and shook hands with the boy’s parents. Ronan could hear Tennyson speaking with them in low tones, but couldn’t make out the words he was saying. He knew Brett had miked Tennyson for sound, so he had no doubt every word was being recorded.
When Tennyson came back to his side of the table, he took his seat. “Thank you both for agreeing to meet with us today,” Ronan started. All of the words he’d rehearsed duri
ng the ride down here all felt stiff to him now. He was going to have to wing it.
“Is my son here, Mr. Grimm? Is Michael here?” Jackie Frye asked anxiously.
Ronan turned to Tennyson, who was sitting with a placid look on his face. He was usually good at reading people, but when it came to the psychic, he got nothing.
To be honest, he didn’t believe in any of this bullshit. He’d seen The Long Island Medium on television. For whatever reason, Josh had been obsessed with the show. His favorite episodes had been about dead or murdered kids.
Homicide detectives were a strange breed of people. They didn’t unwind like normal people with normal jobs did. If watching a staged show about a staged psychic was what helped Josh sleep at night, he’d been willing to go along with that.
Sitting here now with the Fryes and Tennyson, it felt so much more real than what he’d seen on television. He knew that Ten hadn’t seen or read any of his case file on Michael Frye. Tennyson said he hadn’t looked the case up online and hadn’t watched any of the archived news footage. For whatever reason, Ronan believed him.
Ronan studied Tennyson as the man’s attention seemed to be fixed off into space. His hands sat flat on the dining room table. Ronan could swear the other man wasn’t breathing. Seconds, which felt like hours ticked slowly by. Tennyson’s left hand twitched, as if it was about to ball into a fist. A small tear trickled down his cheek.
Ronan didn’t need the psychic to speak. He knew in that moment Michael Frye was dead.
“Hello, Michael,” Tennyson said, his watery voice barely above a whisper.
Both of the Fryes gasped and reached out for each other. “No! Oh no, no, no, no, no…” Jackie Frye wept on her husband’s shoulder.
Ross Frye held his wife and stared silently at Tennyson, who was still staring off in the distance, both hands flinching, almost as if he were being shocked by electricity.
Ronan had no idea what to do. Should he reach out to help Tennyson? The Fryes? Should he shut the hell up and stay in his seat? He’d never seen anything like this on The Long Island Medium, that was for damn sure. Grimm had damn well better not be doing this for show.
Jackie Frye reached for the tissues near her left hand and slowly pulled herself together. “He’s really here?”
Tennyson’s concentration seemed to snap as his focus turned to the boy’s mother. “He is, Jackie. He’s sitting in the empty chair to my right.”
“That was always his seat at the table,” Ross said with a glassy grin. “He liked to sit near his mother.”
“He still does,” Tennyson agreed. “Only now dinners are quiet with no one telling jokes or talking to each other.”
“Jokes?” Ross gave Tennyson a confused look.
“Don’t you remember we got him a joke book for Christmas and he’d tell us one at dinner every night?”
“What’s Irish and stays out all night?” Tennyson asked with a shy smile.
The Frye’s looked at each other with blank stares.
“Patio furniture.” Ronan answered.
Jackie Frye snorted and started to laugh. Soon, her husband joined her.
Ronan exchanged a guarded look with Tennyson, by the look in his eyes it was obvious they both knew the laughter would soon turn back to tears.
“If my Michael is telling you jokes then that means he’s…” Jackie’s blue eyes filled with tears.
Tennyson nodded. His own eyes were watery as well.
Ronan had never stopped to consider how hard this day would be on the psychic. He’d been a complete dick earlier when he’d told the other man that this case wasn’t going to end with a parade like the one the Lanski family wanted to honor Tennyson with. He knew this day was going to be a nightmare for the Fryes but he’d never given Tennyson a thought. Either he was going to connect with a dead child or have no news for parents who’d already been through seven years worth of no news.
“He’s passed on, Jackie,” Tennyson said.
“How?” Ross said.
Tennyson shook his head and sighed heavily. “He wants to tell you he understands about Max.”
“Who’s Max?” Ronan’s radar was on high alert. He had read through the case file at least a hundred times and he’d never heard that name before. Could Max be the boy’s killer?
“The puppy,” Ross said with ice in his voice.
Okay, so maybe not his killer then. Ronan tried to relax back into his chair. "What happened to the puppy?" Ronan had a bad feeling about the answer.
"We left the damned thing at the pound. Once the media coverage died down and we knew Michael wasn't coming home, we got rid of it. I couldn't stand to look at damn thing. It was the reason my son was gone."
Jackie grabbed for another tissue. "How did Michael know?"
"He can see and hear you. His spirit has been right here with you ever since he passed,” Tennyson offered gently.
"Why is he here and not crossed over or whatever they call it?" Jackie looked alarmed.
Tennyson shot Ronan a sad look. "He can't pass on until he says his piece and he knows you're both going to be okay."
“We’re fine,” Ross said stiffly.
“Clearly you’re not,” Tennyson said gently. “It’s obvious the toll losing Michael has taken on your lives and on your relationship with each other.”
Ross’s hands clenched in front of him. “This isn’t about us! This is about our son. Who killed him? Where is he?”
“I don’t know,” Tennyson said simply.
“What do you know?” The ice in Ross Frye’s voice over the puppy was back and aimed at Tennyson.
“Michael wants you to know that he’s okay now.” Tennyson’s voice was gentle.
“Okay now?” Jackie screeched. “Does that mean he wasn’t okay before? What happened to him? What happened to our son?”
Tennyson flinched at the rapid-fire questions being hurled at him by Michael’s mother. “Mrs. Frye, Michael is telling me that he is okay and that he wants you and Ross to be happy again.”
“God damn you,” Jackie whispered. “We invite you into our home and you, what? Toy with us?”
“Mrs. Frye, I assure you that’s not…”
“We should go.” Ronan stood up, grabbing Tennyson by his collar as he moved toward the front door.
“Stop manhandling me!” Tennyson swatted at Ronan’s grip. He shot him a dirty look when Ronan finally released him. Ten took a deep breath and turned back to the Fryes. “Your boy was always fiercely independent, yes? The kind of kid who always did things his way?”
Jackie and Ross looked at each other before nodding briefly.
“That hasn’t changed in the afterlife. Michael has a story to tell and he going to tell it his way.” Nodding at the Fryes, Tennyson pushed past Ronan and walked outside.
Ronan could feel his blood start to boil. Once he finished apologizing to the Fryes for the fruitcake’s attitude, he and said nut job were going to have a little chat about his bullshit powers and the way Tennyson had treated the grieving parents.
8
Tennyson
Once Tennyson was outside, he started to run. The frigid January air burned his lungs, but he didn’t care. It had started to snow while he’d been inside the Frye fortress, but he could see Boston Harbor through the thick flakes. His eyes focused on the ocean and he kept running toward it.
Thankfully, the light on Columbia Road had turned red, allowing him to keep running across the street and under the pass-through of the L Street Bathhouse. Seconds later, his loafers skidded onto the sands of Carson Beach. Folding his body over double, Tennyson gasped for air.
The reading with the Fryes didn’t go anything like he expected. He’d had an inkling that the boy was dead before he and Ronan had arrived at the house. That feeling was confirmed when he’d stepped through the front door and he’d felt the boy’s spirit. For some reason he couldn’t put a finger on, he hadn’t been able to see the boy until they’d all been sitting at the dining room table.
As close as he could figure it was because that was when Michael had wanted Tennyson to see him.
Usually, children were easier to read than adults. There was no guile to them. No secrets. No malice. But Michael was different. This boy had secrets and plenty of them.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Grimm!” Ronan bellowed from behind him.
Tennyson startled and lost his balance, pitching face-first toward the shell-littered sand. He managed to catch himself with his outstretched hands before his face hit the beach, but a broken shell cut the palm of his left hand. “Damn it, ouch!” He turned to see Ronan looming over him, a furious look on his face.
He knew this outburst from Ronan was coming. It was half of the reason he’d taken off for the beach in the first place. There were no cameras here to capture what he didn’t need to be a psychic to know what was going to happen next. Ronan was going to completely lose his shit on him.
Reaching down, Ronan grabbed the psychic’s uninjured hand and hauled him roughly back to his feet. “Just who in hell do you think you are treating those people like that? Telling them their son is dead and then fucking with them more by not telling them where he is or how he died?” Ronan studied Tennyson for a second. His blue eyes quickly darting back and forth between Tennyson’s dark orbs. “Fucking answer me!”
“I don’t have the answers, Ronan! Bullying and intimidating me isn’t going to make me give up information I don’t have.”
Ronan grabbed him by the jacket, bringing Tennyson face-to-face with the furious detective. “If you’re lying to me, I swear to fucking God, I’ll...”
“You’ll what, detective? Pound me? Go ahead. It’s not like I haven’t taken a beating before.” Tennyson knew it was a low blow. Something deep within him knew Ronan would never lay a hand on him in anger. What he was seeing now was frustration over not being able to give the Fryes any answers about Michael.
The anger bled out of Ronan’s eyes and he set Tennyson back on his feet. “Why did you run? Can’t you see it’s snowing?”
“What I could see was how angry you were and I didn’t want this,” Tennyson waved his index finger at Ronan, “caught on tape.”
