“Are you Andromeda Spencer?” he asked sharply.
“Yes,” I said, taken aback by his tone.
“You going to let me in, or what?” he said with impatience.
I gave him a squinty-eyed look. Who did this guy think he was? “I don’t know. Are you going to leave that attitude outside?”
He grunted—I didn’t know if that meant yes or no—and pushed his way past me. I stood there with my hands on my hips, watching him go by. Yep, that ass was fine. What a waste. Johnson was going to get an earful from me for sending this jerk to my house. I closed the door and joined him in my living room.
He was holding an envelope, slapping it against his thigh as he looked around my home. I faced him, arched my brow, and waited for him to tell me what he wanted. When he continued to just stare at me, I got annoyed enough to speak. Pollini must have come to and wandered off, because he was no longer in the recliner.
“Detective, won’t you have a seat,” I said in my most annoying, syrupy voice, pointing to the recliner. He did sit, but I had the distinct feeling he would rather stand and tower over me. He gave me the impression that, for some reason, he wanted to intimidate me.
“Is that for me?” I asked, pointing to the envelope in his hand.
“You tell me.” His tone went from rude to downright hostile.
“What is your problem?” I asked him. I was getting angry. How dare he treat me like this in my own home? If it wasn’t for Captain Johnson, this guy wouldn’t even be here.
“This is a waste of time,” he said angrily. “I need solid leads in this case, not some woo-woo bullshit.”
“Woo-woo bullshit?” I repeated.
You gotta love skeptics. I’ve met quite a few of them in the last ten years. When I was younger, it used to upset me that people wouldn’t believe what I told them. Now, eh, if they don’t believe, screw them. The moment they find out I really can do what I claim to be able to is the moment I can cram it down their throats with “I told you so.” I live for those moments.
“Sweetheart, what you claim to do is impossible,” he grouched. “I’ve worked with so-called psychics before, and it’s all bullshit.” He put his fingers to his right temple. “I see the letter M,” he intoned. “I see water; you’ll find the body near water. Whatever vague information you give me is not going to help the victims, and it is a waste of my time when I could be running down legitimate leads.”
I held out my hand for the envelope. “Well then, if you’re in such a hurry, I’ll try not to waste too much of your time. But I suggest you stick around long enough for me to pick up something, unless you want to be removed as lead on this case. You see, Captain Johnson asked me to make this case a priority above my regular job. I’m positive if I tell him that you are being difficult and I can’t work with you, you will be replaced.”
He glared at me and slapped the envelope in my hand. I took out the contents and found three photos. They were glossy school pictures—you know, the kind that you took in elementary school, smiling big with your hair sticking up and dirt on your clothes because they did the pictures after recess. Three adorable faces stared back at me: two boys and one girl.
Detective Butthead, oops, I mean Cavanaugh, started to explain about the three pictures, but I stopped him.
“I don’t want to know yet,” I told him. “I don’t want you to say later that you gave me too many clues to base my woo-woo act on.”
I couldn’t help being snippy. I could see by the growing darkness outside that the rain would be here soon and, whether or not there was lightning, rain always made me edgy.
I spread the three photos out on the coffee table in front of me. I picked up the first one and tried to concentrate. I couldn’t see anything but blackness. I knew that didn’t really mean a thing. It could have been the incoming storm messing with me, but I could feel the little boy, like he was right next to me. I put the photo back down and picked up the next. Again, I tried to concentrate and again, all I saw was blackness. I was about to push my senses further when Detective Cavanaugh leaped to his feet and shouted.
“Shit! Your cat just fell off the banister! I think he’s dead,” he exclaimed.
I opened one eye and glared at him. He hurried over to where Pollini had landed on the pillows and prodded him with the toe of his boot. I jumped up, angry. Nobody toes my cat like he’s roadkill. I stomped over to Detective Cavanaugh and shoved him aside. Bending down, I scooped Pollini up and draped him over my shoulder like a fur stole. His gentle purr sounded loud next to my ear. I stomped back to the couch, sat, and placed Pollini on the cushion next to me. Detective Cavanaugh did some stomping of his own.
“Listen, lady,” he said curtly, “I don’t have time for your woo-woo shit or your dead cat…”
“My cat is not dead!” I yelled at him. “He’s narcoleptic.”
Detective Cavanaugh barked with laughter. “You’re kidding, right?”
I picked up the second picture again and prepared to get back to business. I was going to ignore him, but I couldn’t help myself.
“I suppose, being a new detective, your powers of observation are not up to snuff yet,” I said loftily, “and that is why a house full of throw pillows lining the floor three rows thick escaped your notice.”
“I’m not a new detective,” he said a bit testy. “I’ve been on the force for ten years and a detective for the last four. I noticed the damn pillows; I just thought it was some new decorating trend.”
I wanted to snicker, but I didn’t want him to think he was amusing. Instead, I tried to focus on the photo in my hand. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Detective Cavanaugh poke my cat with his finger.
I’d had enough of this jerk. “You poke my cat again,” I snarled, “and I’ll rip your finger off and feed it to him when he wakes up. Now shut up, sit down, and let me concentrate.”
I gave him a good-quality glare before returning to the picture. To my surprise, the detective sat back in the recliner. I looked at the picture of the little girl. I again saw nothing but blackness. I could feel her, and I could tell she was between two warm bodies. I found that curious, because when I pulled the photos out of the envelope, they weren’t in the order of boy, girl, boy, but boy, boy, girl. However, I laid them on the coffee table in front of me in the order of boy, girl, boy.
I picked up the third picture, placing the second back on the table. I stared hard at the picture, trying to form the little boy in my mind.
Blackness.
I strained as hard as I could, closing my eyes to bring the image in my mind into some kind of focus, Again, I felt as though this little boy was right next to me in the darkness. I picked up the other two pictures and held all of them in my hands.
Blackness, side by side.
Oh God, please don’t be buried alive, my mind screamed. That’s when I felt it—movement. It was a slight dip, just barely there. It took a moment for that dip to register to my senses.
I’ve felt this before, I told myself.
I racked my brain, thinking, and then it dawned on me what I was feeling. When I was a kid and we would visit family out of town, I often fell asleep in the car. The gentle dipping that the roads occasionally had would always make me sleepy.
“These kids are together,” I told Detective Cavanaugh. “They’re in a car, the trunk maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe?” he asked, shaking his head as though my answer was exactly what he suspected from a psychic: vague.
“Look,” I said in frustration. “If they were sitting in the backseat of the car, I could see and watch for something familiar. I can’t even pull back on this because the car is moving. All I see is blackness. I feel the kids lying side by side, and I feel that they are moving. That’s all I can get until they stop.”
Detective Cavanaugh ran his hand through his hair. “All right,” he said, “let’s go.”
“Go?” I asked. “Go where? I just told you that until the car stops, I can’t get anything el
se.”
“We’re going to cruise the abduction sites to see if you pick up anything more,” he said, standing.
“Oh, no,” I told him, “forget it. They’re not dead, so I don’t need to go to the scene and talk to their ghosts. Besides, it’s going to rain.”
“It’s not going to rain,” he said impatiently. “The sooner we do this, the sooner we can get on with our evenings without each other.” He walked to the front door, opened it, and just stood there, waiting.
I really didn’t want to go. I could see the darkness of the storm closing in. I’m not consciously afraid of storms. I usually do okay as long as I’m indoors when the rain begins, but for some reason being outside or even in a car causes me to have a panic attack. The doctors call it a type of post-traumatic stress disorder. I can’t stop the panic, and I am trying to work through the problem. Usually I can hold it at bay if I know I will be indoors very soon, but the one thing that still needs work is going out into the rain. My panic causes me to hyperventilate.
I walked to the door and looked out. With both hands I rubbed the chills spreading down my arms. Detective Cavanaugh grabbed my sweater and purse hanging on the coat tree and towed me out the door and onto the porch. I got two steps onto the walkway when a big fat raindrop hit my cheek. I ran back to the front door, feeling the panic beginning to creep into my chest. Detective Cavanaugh stood at his truck with his hands on his hips. He opened the passenger door and waited for me.
I quickly patted my pants and jacket pockets and dug through my purse, looking for my keys. Detective Cavanaugh stomped over to me and grabbed my hand, once again towing me out to the car. Out from under the cover of the porch, the fat raindrops pelted my face and the top of my head. I dug in my heels and tried to pull back to the porch. My breath was coming out in panicked pants. No matter how hard I pulled, he wouldn’t let go. The panic made my heart race and my mouth go dry. I had to get out of the rain, so I did the only possible thing I could think of.
I took two steps forward and kicked the detective in the shin as hard as I could.
He yelped and let go of my hand. I ran back to the porch, patting my pockets again for my keys. I couldn’t find them, and the panic caused my vision to narrow. I bent over and put my hands on my knees, gulping air, trying to bring my heart rate down to something that didn’t feel like it was going to burst from my chest. I glanced up and watched Detective Cavanaugh limp up the porch and stand in front of me. He took my arm and pulled me upright. I thought he was going to blast me for kicking him, but he got one look at my face, said “Shit,” and dragged me over to the porch swing. He sat me down and pushed my head between my knees.
“You need to breathe,” he told me.
I turned my head and viewed him upside down. I hoped the “Duh” I was trying to convey through my wide, crazed eyes made it clear to him that I had heard it before, and he was telling me nothing that I didn’t already know. He kept his hand on the back of my neck as he pulled his cell out and dialed.
“I need Johnson,” he said.
I heard Captain Johnson’s familiar bark even over the heavy pounding in my chest and head. “You did what!” I heard him yell. The rain began to beat on the roof and the sidewalk, and water splashed on the edge of the swing. The louder it got, the narrower my vision became. I heard Detective Cavanaugh mutter a final “Shit” as my vision went black and I slid onto the porch.
I woke up on the couch in my living room, still in my clothes from yesterday, wondering how I got there. Pollini was curled up on my chest, making it difficult to sit up. I could smell fresh-brewed coffee coming from the kitchen. I plucked Pollini off my chest, plopping him on the cushion next to me, then scooted into a sitting position and ran my hands over my face, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. When I lowered my hands, a cup of coffee was shoved into my face. I took the cup, preparing to get up to go into the kitchen for cream and sugar, when I noticed that it was already in the coffee. I took a careful sip.
Perfect.
After another sip, I focused on the now scruffy-looking Detective Cavanaugh. Despite the stubble and the rumpled clothes, he was still gorgeous.
“Well, look who’s psychic this morning.” I eyed him over my cup. “How did you know I like cream and sugar?”
He sat down on the coffee table in front of me and ran a hand through his hair. By the looks of it, he had been doing a lot of that this morning.
“I woke up to a woman’s voice, I’m assuming, coming from your answering machine saying that’s how you take your coffee.
I gave him an amused look. “My mother sometimes does that.” It was the only explanation I could think of. “Did she at least identify herself?”
“Nope,” he said, looking confused. “The phone rang, the machine picked up, the voice said ‘She likes cream and sugar in her coffee,’ and then they hung up. It was loud enough I’m surprised it didn’t wake you.”
I laughed and reached over to stroke Pollini. “I still have selective teenage hearing. I can tune Mom out like that,” I said, snapping my fingers. I took another sip of my coffee, while Detective Cavanaugh looked uncomfortable.
“I’m really sorry about last night,” he began. “I didn’t know that you would panic like that over the rain.”
I shrugged my shoulders and took another sip of coffee. “When you’re in a rainstorm and get struck by lightning, rain tends to have a funny effect on you after that. I know what happened to me is like a one-in-a-billion chance, and the statistics say it would never happen again, but I can’t seem to get over it and move on.”
“Yeah, I can see how that would be difficult,” he said with a wry grin. “Is it always that bad?”
I shook my head. Pollini decided to investigate Detective Cavanaugh; he jumped onto the coffee table and climbed into his lap. “Not always,” I told him. “I can usually make it inside before the panic starts.”
He stroked Pollini’s back. “Anyway, I just wanted to say I’m sorry for pushing last night. You ready to talk about the case and see if you can find the kids now, or do you need more coffee first?”
“Coffee, then talk,” I told him. I scooted forward and stood right at the same time he did. We were toe to toe. He gave me a funny look that I had no idea how to interpret and handed me Pollini. I set Pollini on the couch and followed him into the kitchen. Taking a stool at the center island, I watched while he picked up the coffee carafe and refilled both our cups. I reached for the creamer and sugar and doctored my coffee. He slid the envelope containing the pictures over to me. I pulled them out, one by one, and set them in a row on the counter in front of me. Again I lined them up boy, girl, boy.
“Why do you do that?” he asked, leaning over the counter. “You did that last night, too.”
I shook my head as I put the fingertips of both hands at the edges of the three photos.
“I don’t know,” I said. “This was how I felt it last night, and I wanted to put them in the same order today.” I looked at him expectantly.
He leaned over the pictures to study them. “These three kids—Billy Sommers, Katie Platt, and John Walters—were all abducted within the last week while walking home from school.”
“Do they go to the same school?”
“No,” he said, shaking his head. “They all attend different schools in the city. The only thing we have is they are all nine years old, and they were all apparently taken somewhere between the schools and their homes. They have nothing in common other than that; there are no connections between them. They don’t know each other, and their families aren’t acquainted. Their parents don’t shop at the same stores, and their family’s incomes and backgrounds are different. Billy’s family is low income, while Katie’s and John’s are working middle class. We have no witnesses. No one saw any of the kids after they left school.”
I mulled this information over and reached for the picture of Billy Sommers. Immediately, I saw Billy curled up in a blanket on a dirt-packed floor. I broke the connection and
smiled at Detective Cavanaugh.
“They’re not in the dark anymore,” I said excitedly. “I just saw Billy.”
“What do you see?” he asked, his gaze piercing me. I got lost in his eyes for a moment before I recalled his question. I looked back at the photo of Billy and slid my hand over the picture.
“He’s wrapped in a blanket on a dirt floor,” I said, focusing again. “There are two other bundles wrapped next to him. It’s the other two children. Let me pull back and get a wider view.”
I drew back and found more dirt flooring. There was a camp light shining in the dimness on a large rock a few feet away. The walls were hard rock, and as I pulled back further, I saw the kids were in some sort of cave.
“They seem to be asleep, but I can’t tell any more than that,” I said, stunned. “They don’t appear to be hurt. There’s a camp lantern on a rock, but nothing else. There’s an entrance here, kind of low to the ground. I’m going to go through and see where it leads.”
I pictured myself squatting down and moving though the entrance. An adult could get through there, but they would have to crawl. It was dark; I was leaving the light behind. It took a few minutes to clear the small tunnel, but once I did, the area opened up and led in two different directions. There was a faint glow to the left, so that’s the direction I took. The floor had a slight incline, and in a few minutes I was going through another entryway. This opened up into a larger cavern lined with institutional-type bunk beds. It reminded me of a big dorm room in a prison or in the military, both of which I had only ever seen on TV or in the movies. In these beds were other children, ranging in ages from roughly nine to about twelve years old. I must have made a sound—maybe a gasp of shock, because I was definitely shocked. Detective Cavanaugh heard me and asked what was wrong. I moved around the dorm beds, peering at all the young faces.
“You’re not going to like this,” I told him, “but you have a lot more than three missing kids here.” I started counting beds and when I was done, I counted again just to be sure.
Lightning Strikes Page 3
