by Wanda Dyson
It was a mild day, full of sunshine and warm breezes. The kind of day that would normally depress her, but today she barely noticed. Her thoughts were consumed by the sullen, silent man beside her.
She turned to look at him, trying not to admire the way he filled his shirt or the way his scent permeated the car. Instead, she concentrated on darker emotions that seemed to be draped over him like a well-worn coat. “You don’t like me, do you?”
JJ looked over at her, his gaze cool, detached. “I don’t even know you.”
“But. . . ,” she prompted.
“But I don’t believe in all this stuff with spirits and tarot cards and crystal balls.”
She knew the battle was far from over, but she sighed with dramatic relief. “Oh, good. I don’t either.”
“You’re the one who claims to be a psychic,” he replied pointedly, one eyebrow cocked with skepticism.
“I don’t have a sign in my front yard either.”
JJ shrugged as his eyes looked everywhere but at her. “Lady, as far as I’m concerned, you’re here because the boss insists, not because I believe in all this spirit-world hype. You claim to be a psychic, fine. Do whatever it is you do. And I’ll do what I do.”
“Which is, precisely?”
He did look at her this time, and that cool gaze had the edge of frost that should have had her retreating. Instead, she smiled at him. “Oh, did I touch something tender?”
“No, lady, you did not. I’m a cop. That’s what I do. Use your psychic powers to figure out what that means.”
“Ouch.” She laughed lightly and watched JJ frown as she did. “I did touch something tender.”
“Look, you may be able to use all that mumbo jumbo to make someone as gullible as my partner think you’re able to read minds or whatever it is you’re supposed to do, but don’t try it with me. I don’t buy it.”
“I see.” She lifted a hand. “May I?”
“May you what?” He spotted the red light and braked.
“Touch you?”
One eyebrow lifted in amusement. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Not at all.” She reached over and laid one of those delicate hands on his shoulder. Closing her eyes, she shut her mind to the woodsy scent he wore, that cool expression he favored, and the muscles that tensed beneath her fingers.
Suddenly she yanked her hand back.
“What’s the matter? Didn’t like what you saw?” JJ laughed sarcastically. “Now, this is where you tell me that you saw something so terrible, so horrid, that you can’t tell me, right? But maybe for another fifty bucks you can be persuaded.”
Zoe clasped her hands in her lap and turned her head to look out the window. “Boy, you sure have me pegged, don’t you?”
Her voice was calm, her expression detached, but inside she was a raging turmoil of conflicting emotions. He was cool and detached for good reason. The sarcasm and skepticism were justified. And he had grounds for keeping his distance. Worse, it broke her heart to know, and she wished she didn’t.
As they turned off the highway and into a moderate but well-maintained housing development, she heard his thoughts loud and clear. She didn’t look at him. “I don’t do it for the publicity. In fact, I always ask that the media not be brought in at all. Sadly, my wishes are not always honored.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You were thinking it.” She turned her head and looked at him.
His mouth twisted in a smile that was both mocking and insulting. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were. I heard you.”
JJ laughed harshly. “Like I said, save it for someone who actually buys your act. I really don’t care why you do what you do.”
“No, you don’t care why, but you were wondering why. There is a difference.”
He turned onto a side street, his eyes never leaving the road. “And I wasn’t even thinking of you at all. I was concentrating on my driving.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I always do.”
“I know.” Now she had his attention.
“Care to explain that comment?”
“I thought you didn’t buy my act.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I shouldn’t care to explain anything I say, should I?”
She saw the temper flare in his eyes, and for some reason it pleased her that she’d managed to break through that cool act of his.
“You’re deliberately trying to provoke me.”
“Am I? Hmmmm. Let’s just say that I understand you far better than you think I do. Perhaps even more than you want me to.” She deliberated for less than a second. “I know about her.”
“Her, who?”
Zoe toyed with one of the rings on her finger. “Macy.”
She watched the muscle in his cheek jump as he clenched down on his teeth and spoke. “Who told you about Macy?”
“You did.”
“No, I did not.”
“Yes, you did. That’s what I saw when I touched you. I make you think of her; that’s why you dislike me so much. Or resent me. Call it what you will. I make you think of things you don’t want to think of.”
His knuckles went white as he gripped the wheel, refusing to look at her. “I don’t know where you dug up the information on Macy, but that’s my private life and I don’t appreciate anyone digging into my privacy.”
“I didn’t dig up anything on you.”
“And pigs fly with pink wings.”
#
“Looks like all hell is breaking loose over at the Matthews’ house.”
Rene Taylor withdrew her hands from the dishwater and grabbed a towel. Wiping her hands, she joined her husband at the front window. “Reporters. I hope nothing else has happened. That poor woman has been through enough in her life.”
“I can’t even begin to imagine having a child vanish like that.” Rene’s husband, Jeff, draped his arm over her shoulders, gathering her close, as if that simple gesture might ward off the possibility that tragedy could strike their own lives.
Rene pressed her lips together, staring out at the hoard of reporters gathering like wolves around a fresh kill. “I should go over and see if there’s anything I can do to help. It’s driving me crazy to watch her go through this alone.”
“I thought her husband told you to stay away from her.”
“He did, but ask me if I care.” She whipped the dishtowel off her shoulder and wiped her hands again. “I stay away only to protect her, not because I’m the least bit intimidated by that coward.”
Jeff smiled, his arm tightening, squeezing her with affection. “I’ve yet to meet a man who intimidates you, my love.”
Rene couldn’t help herself. She smiled. “You make me sound ferocious.”
“Far from it. You’re just a kitten with claws. But even kittens know how to defend themselves when threatened by a dog with a bad bite.”
“He’s not a biter. He’s a barker. And his bark doesn’t bother me. I just don’t want him taking out his anger on her. She isn’t a strong person at all.”
“Then all we can do is pray.” Jeff turned from the window and dropped down in his recliner. He picked up his Bible and began paging through it. “In the meantime, I have a sermon to prepare.”
Rene tossed her towel over the back of a chair. “Those reporters are going to eat her alive. I’m going over there for a few minutes. I can’t stand by and do nothing.”
Jeff closed his Bible, hooked a finger over the top of his glasses, and slid them down to the edge of his nose. He peered over the top of them. “Be careful.”
Rene blew him a kiss. “I’ll leave long before he’s home. He’ll never know I was there.”
Pulling the front door closed behind her, Rene squared her shoulders, ready to storm through the wall of reporters. No, they didn’t intimidate her. Few things did. But it hadn’t always been that way. Once upon a time she had cowered in fear merely from the way her first husband looked at her, knowing tha
t at any moment his fists would take over.
Afraid, intimidated, hurt, and wounded, it had taken years to build up the courage to go to her pastor for help. The Reverend Bennett Reed, then in his early sixties, had meant well, but he’d clearly been raised in a different era and was unprepared for the rise in domestic violence. With a pat on her hand and a warm smile, the old man had sent her home, gently admonishing her to submit to her husband’s authority.
That advice may have been well intentioned, but it nearly cost her life. Her husband had found out. Enraged that she had dared tell anyone, he had beaten her so badly that a neighbor—frightened by the screams—called the police. Rick was arrested and Rene spent a week in the hospital. It was in the hospital that she’d met Margaret Elizabeth Brennan—a woman who not only had survived an abusive marriage but had gone on to open a shelter for abused women.
Margaret promised her a new life. Rene had been skeptical. Margaret promised that Rick would never find her. Rene had listened. When Rene was released from the hospital, Margaret took her to a private shelter, and slowly, as days passed into weeks and weeks into months, she began to feel safe. When Margaret helped her find a job, Rene began to feel independent. And slowly, very slowly, she began to heal.
She recognized the cowering fear in Karen Matthews’ eyes, and it drove her crazy. True, she hadn’t seen any evidence that Ted Matthews beat his wife, but there were more ways to abuse a woman than with fists.
Circling the house, Rene climbed the wooden stairs to Karen’s kitchen door and rapped softly on the window. A few seconds later, Karen pushed back the curtain and then frowned, slipping the door open a crack. “You shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry, Rene. It’s just. . .”
“I know. Ted doesn’t want me here. But do you?”
Rene watched as Karen chewed on her bottom lip, indecision in her eyes.
“Karen, I won’t stay long, okay? I’ll leave well before he comes home. I just thought you might need some help with those reporters. And maybe you could use a friend?”
#
JJ pulled up in the Matthews’ driveway. Satellite vans lined the streets. Reporters congregated in little groups, swigging coffee or cold sodas while camera crews lingered nearby waiting to be called into action.
“Ready to run the gauntlet?”
“I’ve been running them for years,” Zoe replied as JJ eased the car through the crowd and turned into the driveway. Reporters jumped, scrambling across the yard, yelling to the camera operators, smoothing back hair, and straightening jackets.
JJ got out first. The minute the reporters recognized him, they shoved microphones in his face and started asking questions.
“Do you have any leads?”
“Have the parents been given polygraphs yet?”
“Are the parents suspects?”
“Is this case connected to the other little girl?”
“Do you think it’s the same kidnapper?”
“What can you tell us about the Matthews baby?”
JJ turned to look at the reporter, a young woman with short blond hair and big blue eyes. “Seven-month-old Jessica Matthews is missing, taken from her crib in the middle of the night. That’s about it.”
“What about the parents?”
“I can’t comment on that at this time.”
Zoe eased through the crowd as JJ diverted the reporters’ attention. She was almost to the front door when one reporter stepped in front of her. “Aren’t you that famous psychic?”
“No comment,” Zoe replied as she tried to step around him.
“Have the police brought you in for the Matthews baby?”
“No comment,” Zoe repeated firmly.
“Will you be trying to find Gina Sarentino, too?”
Suddenly JJ was at her elbow, easing the reporter out of their way. “We have no comment at this time.”
When they made it up the steps to the front door, it swung open. Karen Matthews stood there, looking from JJ to Zoe. She stepped back, swinging the door open wide.
As soon as the reporters caught sight of Karen, they started screaming out questions again, but she closed the door firmly behind JJ and Zoe without reply.
Karen was older than Zoe had anticipated. Standing barely five-foot-two, she looked to be in her late thirties or early forties. She was a pretty woman with a square face and large, light brown eyes that looked more gold than brown. The wavering smile and slumped shoulders made Zoe want to reach out and comfort her.
Zoe followed Karen into the living room, declining the offer of something to drink. While JJ spoke quietly to Karen, Zoe walked around the room, looking at the baby pictures on the wall, on the end table, and on the mantle. She picked up the receiving blanket tossed across the side of the playpen and fingered it.
She had just began to feel the pull when she heard a woman ask loudly, “Who is she?”
Zoe turned in the direction of the voice and found a middle-aged woman staring at her. She was tall, maybe five-ten or five-eleven, with short, spiky brown hair and big brown eyes that seemed unusually sharp and observant. They darted everywhere, but Zoe doubted she missed a thing. And it was those eyes that held Zoe’s attention.
Zoe had the distinct impression that this woman had her in the crosshairs. A shiver ran down Zoe’s back.
The woman smiled, but there was a cool edge to it. “Are you with the police department?”
Karen started to make the introductions. “Rene Taylor, this is Detective Johnson and. . .”
JJ spoke up. “Miss Shefford. She’s here with the department to help.”
The woman took another step forward, eyeing Zoe cautiously. “You’re here to help in what way?”
Zoe turned to Karen and offered a comforting smile. “I have some success finding lost children.”
“I thought you looked familiar.” Rene stepped around the coffee table. She reached out and slipped the blanket from Zoe’s hands. “You’re that psychic.”
“Yes.”
Rene lifted her chin. “I’m sorry. This won’t do at all. Karen is a Christian.”
Zoe looked over at JJ for help, but he seemed as much at a loss as she was. She was going to have to deal with this herself. “I don’t understand. If I can help. . .”
The woman shook her head again as she stepped over to Karen and took her hand. “No. You can’t. It’s nothing personal, but Karen cannot use a psychic to find this child. As a Christian, she must depend on God, not the devil.”
Zoe smiled again, speaking slowly, patiently, as if to a child. “I’m not the devil, Mrs.—”
“I know that, Miss Shefford. But I’m sorry. It’s not right.”
“I admit that I’m not exactly a religious person,” Zoe replied softly. “But I believe in God, and I believe my gift is from Him.”
“No,” Rene argued firmly. “Your gift is not from God. And you will not use it on Jessica.”
Rene turned to Karen. “I’m sorry, Karen. Perhaps I’m overstepping here. I know that you don’t attend our church, but as a Christian, you can’t use a psychic. You know that, right?”
Karen swallowed hard, looking uncomfortable and confused.
Zoe squared her shoulders for battle. “If Mrs. Matthews is a Christian, how come she didn’t have a problem until you told her it was a problem? You’re interfering with police work here. I’ve been called in to help find Jessica. Has it dawned on you that if you prevent me from doing my job, something terrible could happen? Could you live with that?”
Zoe turned to Karen. “Are you going to let this woman dictate what happens to your baby?”
Karen wrung her hands, looking from Zoe to Rene and back to Zoe. Confusion racked her pretty features, twisting her face into a portrait of misery. “I want my Jessica back, but. . .”
“Then let me do my job, Mrs. Matthews.” Zoe’s voice was soft, cajoling, gently pleading. Come on, Karen. Don’t listen to these wackos!
“I can’t,” Karen whimpered.
Rene nodded
with satisfaction as she turned to JJ. “I’m sorry, Detective. I believe the matter is settled.”
Zoe was all but pushed out the door. Reporters immediately surrounded her and JJ, pressing in with endless questions, camera flashes, microphones, and tape recorders. JJ shielded her as they ran the gauntlet back to the car.
“Do you have any leads on baby Jessica?”
“Have the parents been polygraphed?”
“Do you think this case is tied to the other missing girl?”
“Do we have a serial killer on the loose?”
#
Janice Alberry watched with a cat-like smile as JJ spun around and climbed into his car. She clicked her tape recorder off and stuck it in her pocket, thinking about the anger that had flashed in JJ’s eyes when she’d asked him about a serial killer. He’d whirled on her, nearly knocking her tape recorder out of her hand, growling an emphatic “No!”
So the unflappable JJ Johnson was upset. Interesting. And the woman with him—a famous psychic. Detective Johnson was using a psychic? Even more interesting.
Pulling a small notebook out of her pocket, she jotted: Find out about the woman.
“Hey, Jan. Get anything good?”
Janice glanced up at Freddie King, a reporter for one of the local television stations, and closed her notebook. He was an arrogant boob, but his connections made him worth a smile. She gave him a thousand-watt grin. “Who knows. They’re playing this tighter than the Green Bay Packers.”
“That’s because they got squat. You know it’s bad when they bring in that psychic, Zoe Shefford. Not that she isn’t good; she is. Probably one of the best in the business. But bringing in a psychic is never good press, no matter how you spin it.”
“Yeah, I noticed she was here. They’re really reaching on this one. Good ol’ JJ didn’t look too happy. You think Harris brought her in?” Zoe Shefford. Remember that name.
“I heard it was the governor himself who wanted her called in. He’ll be campaigning for reelection in a couple of months—can’t have a serial killer stealing headlines.”
