Bad Karma

by Theresa Weir

  She pushed that thought out of her mind, replacing it with another. If Mr. Daniel Sinclair wants a show, I’ll give him one.

  Daniel hadn’t yet returned to pick her up. She took the opportunity to go to the gas station two blocks away in hopes of finding something she could eat. She ended up buying a loaf of white bread and a bottle of clear soda with the change she was able to scrounge from the bottom of her bag. In the motel, she opened the soda. Sitting on the bed, she took out a slice of bread, carefully removed the crust, and slowly force-fed herself.

  Before she could finish, a knock sounded on the door. She put the half-eaten piece of bread back in the bag, sealed it with a twist tie, then hid the bread in her suitcase. Then she grabbed her supplies and headed out the door into the blazing sun where Daniel waited, arms crossed at his chest, feet crossed at his booted ankles, one hip against the hood of his car.

  He pushed away from the vehicle and took his place behind the wheel while Cleo slid into the passenger seat. She could feel his muddled anger. His bad vibes were filling the car, invading her space. Silently, he pulled out of the weedy parking lot onto the two-lane highway.

  “Was everything okay with Beau?” she asked.

  “Fine,” came his terse reply.

  “And Premonition?” she ventured, wanting her inquiry to sound casual, hoping to hide her anxiety.

  “Fine too,” he said with distraction. “They’re both fine.” So don’t ask any more questions were his unspoken words. His preoccupation and moodiness didn’t improve when they reached the police station.

  “Shit,” he muttered under his breath. “It looks like Jo’s invited half the town to witness the sideshow.”

  “Are you calling me a sideshow?” she asked, her anger toward him building by the second. “I resent that.”

  “Let’s not start this crap again.”

  “You started it. I’m just speaking up for myself.”

  His answer was a groan of misery, a sound that seemed to ask, What did I ever do to deserve this?

  Because of the additional cars, Daniel was forced to park halfway down the block. He cut the engine then rubbed his forehead with his thumb and forefinger.

  No wonder he had a headache, Cleo thought. He had enough tension in him to power an energy plant.

  Inside the building’s cool darkness, Jo immediately greeted her. “I want you to meet my good friends.” She introduced Cleo to two women who could have been twins with their gray hair, pink tops, and tan orthopedic shoes. And Cleo couldn’t help but notice that they had the same tightly permed hairdo as Jo.

  Burton Campbell was there, along with Harvey Jamison. The former was all pleasant smiles, the latter scowling as much as Daniel. Parker hovered nervously behind his desk.

  “Daniel told us you went to St. Louis to pick up some supplies,” Jo said. “We’ve been holding our breath, waiting for you to get here. What is it you have in mind, dear?”

  Daniel had lied about her bungled escape attempt? Why? Certainly not to protect her. He must have done it for Jo.

  “Mr. Sinclair probably explained that I wasn’t getting any kind of feelings or readings,” she said, playing along with Daniel’s explanation of her disappearance. “So I felt I needed some items to help move this along.” She pulled out a small white candle. That was followed by incense, which she handed to Daniel. “Would you light one of these for me?” she asked, smiling sweetly. She’d gotten the incense at a shop in Portland. It was some of the strongest she’d ever smelled.

  He shot her a dark look, grabbed the sticks, and wandered away, presumably to find matches.

  “What did you get in St. Louis?” Jo asked.

  “Candles,” Cleo said, thinking quickly.

  “We could have found candles here in town,” Jo said. “You didn’t need to go all the way to St. Louis.”

  “These are special candles. They’ve, uh, been anointed with powerful herbs so they’ll hold energy. And they were blessed by the light of the full moon.”

  From somewhere behind her, Daniel let out a snort. At the very same time, the sweet smell of frankincense drifted toward her.

  “Imagine that,” Jo said, her voice full of awe.

  “I’m glad you’ve assembled a group of people.” Cleo glanced around. “Four women and four men. It’ll give us balance.” One thing she could really do if the need arose was bullshit.

  “Count me out,” Daniel said. “I’m just the wheels. I’m just here to haul Miss Clara Voiyant around.”

  “You have to stay,” Jo said. “Cleo said we need four men.”

  “You know how I feel about this stuff.”

  “So what if you don’t believe in it?” Jo said. “I don’t think that’s a requirement.” She looked at Cleo for help. “Is it?”

  Cleo smiled, while inside she was seething about the Clara Voiyant business. “No. We just need his presence.” There was no way she was letting him leave, not after hauling her back here.

  “That’s all you’re getting,” he said. “A body.”

  Cleo drifted close to him and whispered, “I never wanted your mind anyway.”

  Before he could answer, before she could even see his reaction, she swung back to the group as they waited patiently and solemnly for instructions.

  “Pull the shades,” she told them. “We want it as dark as possible.” While they scrambled to darken the room, Cleo lit the candle and put it on the floor.

  Jo’s friends clapped their hands and giggled in excitement while the men shuffled their feet and looked nervous, all except Dr. Campbell, who kept smiling.

  “Now we’ll sit cross-legged around the candle and hold hands.”

  “Ooh, a séance,” Jo said.

  “For chrissake,” Daniel muttered.

  “A séance?” Dr. Campbell asked, his smile wavering.

  “Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Harvey said, echoing Daniel’s sentiments.

  There wasn’t a peep out of Parker.

  “Not really a séance, but kind of like one,” Cleo explained, ad-libbing as she went. “It’s the same principle. I will be the lightning rod, and we’ll use our combined concentration to set up an energy field that I hope will bring me a vision.

  “Okay: man, woman, man, woman. We want to alternate.” They joined hands and made a circle around the candle, with Daniel somehow ending up on her left, Harvey on her right. They spread out, dropped hands, then tried to sit down on the floor.

  “I don’t believe I’ve sat cross-legged since I was a child,” one of the twins said.

  “Sitting cross-legged channels the energy better, but if you can’t do it, that’s okay,” Cleo said, taking pity on the women. “In fact, it might be a good idea to not have such a strongly knit circle.”

  That let the twins off the hook, and they both decided it might be a little more ladylike to sit with their knees together, legs bent to one side. “My mother always said ladies don’t sit with their legs crossed. It’s vulgar. Oh.” She put a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t mean to imply people here were vulgar.”

  “Everybody join hands and concentrate on the key,” Cleo instructed. “Stare at the candle flame and visualize the key in your mind.” She looked around the circle. Everyone was staring at the candle flame-everyone except Daniel. He was staring at her. She gave his hand an impatient squeeze and nodded toward the center of the circle. “Everyone stare at the candle.”

  His eyebrows drew together and he pursed his lips, adequately conveying his contempt for the entire project. But he turned his face toward the flickering flame.

  Cleo let her voice become low and hypnotic. “Just watch the flame and think about the key. Visualize the key in your mind. When you’re ready, let your eyes fall closed. With your eyes closed, you should still be able to see the flame. And within that flame…the key.”

  Cleo hadn’t tried to hypnotize herself in years, not since she’d lived in Madison. Today, actual hypnosis was the furthest thing from her mind. She only intended to use the basic
technique to give everyone a thrill. A ceremony that involved candles and sitting cross-legged on the floor seemed the very thing Daniel would despise, so it was the very thing she was using to get him back.

  But instead of being the one in control of the situation, the candle flame took over. It pulled her in, sucked her in, swallowed her. It wasn’t like the time in Madison. She didn’t feel transported. Instead she felt incredibly heavy.

  Her eyelids drifted shut, her breathing became even and rhythmic. And suddenly she was asleep. Asleep while awake.

  Walking down a road.

  Barefoot.

  There were her red toenails. And the bump on her middle toe, a souvenir of the time she’d broken it playing softball with no shoes.

  A barn.

  A big red barn.

  With a rusty weathervane at the top.

  Weathervanes were cool, but for some reason she didn’t like this one.

  The weathervane was shaped like a pig. It creaked and turned, even though she could feel no breeze against her skin, or hear any rustling of dead weeds along the side of the road.

  The dream changed.

  Suddenly she was inside the barn.

  Part of the roof had been ripped away, leaving a gaping, jagged hole. Through the hole, she saw dark, churning clouds.

  Wake up, she told herself. Open your eyes. All you have to do is open your eyes and it will stop. All you have to do is open your eyes and you’ll be safe.

  She couldn’t open her eyes.

  Someone pressed against the back of her head, making her look at something on the ground. A shovel materialized in her hand. She was supposed to dig in the spot in front of her bare feet.

  She didn’t want to, but she had no choice.

  The shovel hit something solid.

  She peered into the dark pit. At the bottom of the hole was a pumpkin. A broken, smashed pumpkin.

  She gasped and flung herself away, smacking the back of her head on something hard. And then everything turned black.

  Chapter Twelve

  Cleo regained consciousness in slow stages. First came a gradual awareness of her surroundings, followed by the far-off drone of voices, a drone that slowly became more distinct until she could finally distinguish one person from another.

  There was Jo’s voice, breathless and worried, coming from nearby, as if she stood directly over Cleo. “Are you all right, dear?”

  “Give her some air. She just fainted.” Dr. Campbell.

  And the twins, shocked and puzzled. “Is she supposed to do that?”

  Another voice she couldn’t quite place. Parker? “I don’t know if we should have stopped holding hands. It might not be a good idea to break the circle.”

  “For chrissake.” It was Daniel. “Can’t you see she’s putting on a damn show? What the hell’s the matter with you people?” His voice shook with frustration and anger. “The woman’s an accomplished actress. A con.”

  “How can you say that?” Jo again. “Look how pale she’s gone.”

  “She’s always pale. And it’s so damn dark in here. Somebody blow out that candle while I open the shades.”

  He moved away, his heavy footfall shaking the wooden floor under Cleo’s cheek. The hard surface gave her a sense of location.

  Egypt, Missouri. The police station.

  With Daniel Sinclair raving like a lunatic, making her head hurt even more.

  She smelled smoke, the kind of smoke a candle makes when it’s blown out. That sensory stimulation was followed by one of sound-of window blinds being angrily pulled open. Through closed eyelids, Cleo perceived the room changing, becoming bigger, brighter. She felt a breeze on her face. She moaned and slowly opened her eyes.

  Jo was leaning over her, fanning Cleo with a magazine. “How are you feeling?” Jo asked. “Better?”

  Cleo nodded. With Jo’s help, she managed to sit up. Wrong move. Her stomach churned. An acid taste gathered in the back of her throat.

  “Bathroom,” she managed to whisper.

  Immediately grasping the urgency of the situation, Jo shoved a wastebasket in Cleo’s face. Cleo wasn’t going to throw up in front of an audience. That wasn’t going to be part of the show.

  She shoved herself to her feet and grabbed the metal wastebasket. Then, with the wastebasket clutched to her chest, she bolted down a hallway, Jo keeping one arm around her waist, a hand to her elbow, steering her in the direction of the bathroom.

  Spotting the toilet, Cleo slipped from Jo’s grasp, slammed the door in the woman’s face, and dropped to her knees. When she was done relieving herself of a partially digested slice of white bread and bottle of soda, she flushed the toilet. Then she pushed herself away to sit with her back against the wall, forehead against her knees, arms wrapped around her legs.

  There was something wrong with her. Really, really wrong.

  From outside the closed door came the sound of voices-an argument. It seemed Daniel Sinclair wanted to open the door; Jo was trying to stop him.

  Cleo heard the door open, then close. She heard the slide of a metal lock.

  “Well,” Daniel said from somewhere above her. “It seems like we’re always ending up in bathrooms together.”

  What’s wrong with me?

  “What was all that about out there? Was it to get back at me?”

  The doorknob rattled. “Open this door right now, Daniel Sinclair,” came Jo’s muffled voice.

  “You can quit the act,” Daniel said. “There’s nobody here but you and me. Did you hear what I said?” Strong hands wrapped around her arms, pulling them away from her face.

  Dazed, unable to make sense of what he was saying, Cleo lifted her head. Through a watery blur she saw him, saw his furrowed brow, saw his startling blue eyes.

  He’s mad at me.

  It was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it?

  He hates me.

  Why should she care?

  She saw his anger dissolve, replaced by puzzlement, doubt.

  She lifted a shaking hand to her face. Her cheek was wet. Tears ran down her face, into her mouth. She’d told him a lot of lies. She felt bad about that. Now, for some reason, she wanted to tell him the truth. She wanted him to be her friend.

  She pressed fingers to her lips. Shock waves came from deep inside, shuddering to her extremities. She told him the truth in a hushed whisper, in a rush of words. “I don’t know what’s happening to me.”

  He had only one thing to say to that. “Shit.” But once apparently wasn’t enough. He said it again. “Oh, shit.”

  Daniel felt as if someone had slammed a fist into his gut. While he struggled to pull himself back together and figure out what was going on, he continued to stare at Cleo.

  Her face was wet, her lips swollen and trembling. Was it a part of her act? No, nobody could look that lost, that miserable. But, just in case, he reached out, wiped a finger across her cheek, then stuck his wet finger in his mouth.

  Salt. The tears-they were real.

  “What are you doing?”

  He tried to think of something brilliant, but a good excuse eluded him.

  Meanwhile a transformation took place before his eyes. The misery vanished from her face. “You ass.” She placed both hands on his shoulders and shoved, her strength taking him by surprise. He tumbled backward and hit his head on the porcelain sink. “Ow!”

  His cry of pain didn’t bring her any remorse-that was apparent from the look on her face. She slapped his leg. “You were checking to see if my tears were real.”

  “Is everything okay in there?” The door rattled. “I thought I heard someone fall. Are you all right, Cleo? Daniel isn’t trying to bully you, is he?”

  At the moment, Daniel was wedged half under the sink, the drainpipe poking his spine, one arm raised in case Cleo decided to smack him again.

  “Everything’s fine,” Cleo said loudly, keeping her eyes on Daniel. Her hair was slipping from its moorings, a wooden stick-a chopstick kind of thing, only shorter with a point at
one end-was creeping down her neck.

  “Your hair,” he said, waving a couple of fingers in the direction of the slide, hoping to distract her so he could get to his feet and get the hell out of there.

  “What about my hair?” She leaned close. Jabbing a finger into his leg with every syllable, she said, “Other than the fact that I cut it for no reason.”

  He pointed again. “It’s doing weird shit.”

  Gravity won. The stick clattered to the tiled floor. At the same time, her hair uncoiled to hang on either side of her face in all its ragged, uneven glory.

  “There’s a lady in town,” he said, remembering how beautiful her long hair had been, thinking it was none of his business, “who used to cut my mother’s hair-”

  “Shut up!” She shoved at his knee, but she didn’t slap him. Instead she reached up and twisted her hair back into place, picked up the stick, and poked it through the bundle she’d made on the back of her head. And it stayed. The whole business stayed. Amazing.

  Without moving from under the sink, he reached up, feeling along the cold porcelain until his fingers came in contact with the paper towels he knew were there. He grabbed a couple and handed them to her. He had the feeling she would have thrown them down if she hadn’t needed them so much. She wiped her face and blew her nose. Then she bundled up the used towels and tossed them in his face. So that’s how you do that.

  She got to her feet, reached to unlock the door, swung it open, stepped over him, and left the room.

  He scrambled to his feet and followed.

  Cleo’s appearance was greeted by excitement and questions. Everybody wanted to know what had happened. They especially wanted to know if she’d learned anything about the missing key. While she and Daniel had been ensconced in the bathroom, someone had blown out the incense and picked up the candle.

  “What happened?” Jo asked. “Did you see anything?”

  Cleo wanted to forget about what had happened, but nobody was going to let her. And why not use the nightmare-because she was convinced that’s what it was-to send them scurrying in quest of the key? A barn-there had to be a lot of barns in the area. She rather liked the thought of Daniel driving around the county, digging in dark, cobwebby barns in this smothering heat.