by Irene Hannon
"It was a nice thought, though," the man offered.
"Thanks" Rachel shot him a half smile and rose, tossing the ice scraper into the backseat.
"Well ... enjoy your lunch" He hefted his bag in salute and continued toward his car.
Rachel started to close the door. Hesitated. Gave the Raggedy Ann one more look. It seemed so forlorn, lying there abandoned in a puddle of muddy water. Yet she doubted the restaurant would appreciate her hauling a dirty, dripping doll across the tile floor to the lost and found.
But she could display it in some prominent place in the parking lot. That way, if the mother frequented this restaurant, she might see it-and could reclaim it if she chose. Scanning the property, she spotted an air-conditioning unit. Perfect.
Armed with a plan, Rachel chipped the remaining snow away from the doll's hand with her boot and bent to pick it up. As her fingers closed around the arm, she was already swiveling toward the air conditioner. If she hurried, she might be able to sit for five minutes with Marta and eat part of her-
Two steps toward her destination, Rachel was blindsided by a sudden rush of adrenaline. Her pulse rocketed, and she leaned against the car, sucking in a sharp breath as the world tilted. Her whole body began to tremble, and the doll slipped from her grasp, falling to the ground.
As quickly as the violent reaction had gripped her, it disappeared. Her pulse slowed, her lungs kicked in again, the world righted itself.
What on earth had just happened?
Aftershocks rippled through her, robbing her legs of strength. She clung to the back of her car, scanning the parking lot for an explanation. Searching for anything out of the ordinary that could have triggered such an intense reaction.
But the scene appeared normal. People were walking in and out of the restaurant, talking on cell phones, laughing together, juggling bags of sandwiches. The sky was blue, the sun was shining. A convertible drove past, top down in honor of the unseasonable warmth, the middle-aged driver in sunglasses and shorts, the radio tuned to an old Beach Boys song.
There was nothing around her to account for what had happened moments ago.
Yet her reaction had been real. And there was only one word to describe the emotion that had rocked her.
Terror.
But what had brought it on?
And why had it gone away with such dizzying speed after she dropped the doll?
Her breath hitched in her throat, and she slowly lowered her gaze to the doll. The innocuous, patched face smiled back up at her, as innocent as childhood. Was it possible that ... ?
Irritated, she cut off that train of thought. She didn't believe in that kind of creepy stuff. No sane, logical person did. Whatever had prompted her reaction had nothing to do with the doll at her feet.
No way.
And she could prove it. All she had to do was pick up the doll again.
Except she didn't want to.
Annoyed, she wiped her palms on her black slacks. Now how ridiculous was that?
Clamping her lips together, she flexed her fingers and snatched up the doll.
Instantly the terror slammed into her again, gripping her lungs in a vise.
Fighting for air, Rachel held the doll at arm's length and stared at it. Sweat broke out on her brow and she began to tremble. Jarring, disjointed images and sounds crashed over her. She heard the distant cry of a baby. Sensed danger. Pain. Anguish.
This couldn't be happening.
She groped for the latch on her back door, fingers fumbling. Yanked it open. Flung the doll inside.
The panicked sensations abated at once, leaving a residue of anxiety-and urgency-in their wake.
It was almost like a message.
A call to action.
But what kind of action?
Stumped, Rachel regarded the doll beaming back at her from the seat. Odd. From a distance, she sensed no danger. Just the opposite. The doll gave her a warm, happy feeling. Only by touch did it convey a more ominous aura.
Aura.
She cringed. Now she was even beginning to think in psychic terms.
Torn, Rachel scrutinized the doll. That man who'd stopped a few minutes ago had touched the doll and hadn't had any adverse reaction. Only she seemed to pick up bad vibes.
Why me? she wanted to ask the smiling face. Why pick me to dump on?
She'd have spoken the question aloud, except people would think she'd gone off the deep end. Herself included.
Besides, the real question was what to do with the doll.
Leaving it in the parking lot was no longer an option. She might not understand why it affected her the way it did, but the feelings of danger it evoked were too real-and too strong-to ignore.
She supposed she could offer it to the police. They were the danger experts, weren't they? But she could imagine the reaction she'd get if she showed up at a precinct station and told them her story.
They'd think she was nuts.
And considering how odd she'd been feeling lately, maybe she was.
Unsure how to proceed, she slammed the door, circled the trunk, and slid behind the wheel. As she put the car in gear, she glanced at the forgotten lunch on the seat beside her-and inspiration struck. Marta's husband was a police officer. She could run the whole incident by her friend and see what she recommended. Marta knew she was a serious, stable, intelligent person who wasn't given to flights of fancy. They'd shared lots of lunches and laughs over the past two years as they chatted about the antics of their students.
Marta wouldn't think she was crazy.
At least Rachel hoped not.
Marta stopped eating mid-chew and gaped at her co-worker. "That's crazy."
The bite she'd taken from the sandwich she no longer wanted stuck in Rachel's throat. "Look, I know it sounds weird. But it's true. I feel danger whenever I touch that doll:"
Several beats of silence passed while Marta resumed chewing, her attention riveted on her friend. "You're serious about this, aren't you?"
"Yes"
"Okay. Let me get this straight. You found a doll, and when you picked it up it freaked you out:"
"Twice"
"And where is this doll now?"
"In the backseat of my car"
"Get rid of it"
Rising, Rachel began to pace in the cluttered lounge, grateful now that she'd been running late. All the other teachers had returned to their classrooms, and she and Marta had the place to themselves. "I considered that. But I can't. I feel this sense of urgency to get it to the right person"
"And who would that be?"
"I don't know"
"You know, this is creeping me out" Marta took a long swallow of soda and drummed her fingers on the table. "It's like one of those late-night sci-fi movies you watched as a kid that gave you nightmares for weeks. I think I'll be sleeping with the light on tonight"
Folding her arms across her chest, Rachel shook her head. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out too. To be honest, I hoped you might ask Joe's opinion. I thought the police might be interested"
Marta grimaced. "I'll ask if you want me to. But I've heard a few stories from him through the years about people who show up at the station claiming to be psychics and offering to help the police solve a crime"
"I'm not claiming to be a psychic. I don't even believe in psychics. In fact, I can't believe we're having this conversation:" Rachel shoved her shoulder-length hair behind her ear and resettled her glasses on her nose.
Marta tipped her head. "This really got to you, didn't it?"
"Yeah" Rachel massaged her forehead and returned to the table. As she rewrapped her almost untouched sandwich, she realized her fingers were trembling. Marta, she noted with a quick shift in focus, was watching them too. She stopped fiddling with her sandwich and shoved her hands in the pockets of her slacks.
"Okay, Rachel:" Marta wadded her sandwich wrapper into a tight ball. "Let me run it by Joe. I can vouch for your sanity-or I could until the past few weeks. I've never
seen you this stressed. Are you sure everything's okay?"
"Yes. Everything's fine. I have no idea why I've been on edge" Rachel heard the irritation nipping at her voice and softened her tone. "But I appreciate your concern"
"Hey." Marta laid a hand on her arm. "We'll get this sorted out, okay?"
Rachel felt the pressure of tears behind her eyes. That, too, was a new-and too frequent-phenomenon in recent weeks. "Yeah"
"Maybe it's some kind of hormone thing"
"I almost wish there was a medical explanation for it'
"There might be. Set up an appointment with your doctor. In the meantime, I'll get Joe's take. Tonight's our once-a-month dinner date without the kids, meaning I'll have his undivided attention. I'll let you know what he says tomorrow, okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks. And listen ... you guys won't tell anyone about this, will you?"
"Of course not. I know how to keep my mouth shut when I have to. And Joe's the soul of discretion. Just one thing ... until I get back to you with Joe's input, stay away from that doll, okay?"
Claudia Barnes liked the soup at Le Bistro. The chef had a way with mushrooms, no question about it. And the desserts were to die for, despite the dent they put in her reporter's salary. But tonight, the conversation between the couple in the booth behind her was even better than the food.
Pulling out her notebook, Claudia opened it to a blank page and tuned in, her pen poised.
"Tell her to forget it" A man's voice.
"But Joe, she's really spooked by this:" A woman speaking now. "And Rachel isn't the type to go for any of that supernatural stuff. We've worked together for two years, and she's very levelheaded. She thinks it's weird too:"
"That's understandable. I mean, come on, Marta. She finds a Raggedy Ann doll buried under a pile of snow in a Bread Company parking lot and says it's sending her a message?"
"I know. If it wasn't Rachel telling me this, I'd dismiss it. But I told her I'd check with you and see if the police would be interested"
"Nope" The sound of ice tinkling in a glass.
"You're sure?"
"Honey, if she shows up at the station, no one will take her seriously. They'll listen to her story with a straight face, but once she's gone, everyone will have a good laugh. Trust me on this. Save your friend the embarrassment"
A heavy sigh. "That's what I thought." The sound of cutlery against china. "What do you think she should do with the doll?"
"Pitch it"
"That's what I told her. But I might have to do it for her. I don't think she wants to touch it again"
More ice clinking. "Listen, don't get involved, okay? Stay away from the doll:"
"I thought you said her story was a bunch of nonsense?"
"It is. But weird things happen sometimes."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know. Nothing"
"Hey, I'm not letting you off the hook that easily." The woman's tone was half teasing, half serious. "'Fess up. I sense a story here."
"Not much of one"
"Come on, Joe. Out with it. We always said there'd be no secrets in our marriage, remember?"
"This isn't a secret"
"Then tell me"
"Okay. Fine. I had this friend in high school. Nice guy, on the quiet side, very straight-laced. Anyway, a couple of days after I got my first used car, I tossed him the keys and asked if he wanted to drive it. He stood there, jingling the keys, and out of the blue he said, `I'd lay off the booze and smoking if I were you. It could cause you a lot of trouble. That blew my mind."
"Why?"
"Because the night before, I'd met up with some friends who were a little more on the wild side, and we shared a twelve-pack and some cigarettes at a picnic table in one guy's backyard. No one was around-but I was scared to death we'd be caught. That was the first time I'd ever done anything like that. The thing is, my keys were on the table the entire evening."
"Are you saying the keys ... transmitted ... your secret to him?"
"I have no idea. I never asked. I wasn't about to admit my guilt, so I passed it off as a joke. But I knew he knew. I told myself he must have seen us, but I never did quite buy that. He lived on the other side of town. And he didn't socialize with the fast crowd:"
A few seconds of silence followed. The woman sounded more serious when she responded. "Maybe the police should check into Rachel's story."
"It's not going to happen, Marta. Trust me:"
"Can you offer her some other options?"
"Pitch the doll:"
"Besides that one"
"She could always try the FBI:"
"Would they be more receptive?"
"Probably not. But it's the only alternative I can think of. Hey, do you want to split this chocolate decadence thing for dessert? I won't feel as guilty if we share it"
As the conversation shifted to mundane matters, Claudia set her pen down and dipped her spoon into the cooling soup, considering her own options. The features editor at the St. Louis tabloid where she worked was always on the hunt for unusual stories. A local woman with some sort of telepathic power ought to qualify. Her tale would be a great lead for a story on ESP or clairvoyance. If she dug around, Claudia was pretty certain she could find some interesting material connecting ESP and crimefighting. Better yet, if she dug deep enough she might be able to put a local slant on the piece.
If nothing else, a story like that should help circulation. Readers might claim they didn't like sensational stuff, but it sold papers. Look at the National Enquirer. And anything that boosted circulation boosted advertising revenue. Her editor would love that.
Too bad she hadn't tuned into the conversation earlier. Claudia propped her chin in her hand and toyed with her spoon. All she had was the ESP woman's first name. Rachel.
There was a way to fix that, though. The woman in the next booth was the psychic's friend. Claudia figured she could trace Rachel through the cop's wife. All she had to do was check the last name on their credit card.
Unless they paid in cash.
Nursing her soup, Claudia listened to the exchange as the waiter presented the couple's bill. Smiled when it was clear the twosome was paying by credit card. Followed the waiter and positioned herself behind a pillar. Ran into him as he passed on his way back to the table from running the card. Beat him to the ground picking it up as he apologized. Scanned the information she needed.
You didn't get to be an ace reporter by being meek, she congratulated herself with a smirk as she slid back into her booth. And that was her goal. Working at the tabloid didn't thrill her, but she was only twenty-four and two years out of J-school. Everyone had to start somewhere. If she could write some unique stuff that got noticed, she could move on to bigger things sooner rather than later.
Claudia jotted down the cop's name in her notebook and smiled. Not bad for a night's work.
Signaling for the waiter, she ordered dessert. And considered charging her meal to the paper.
She figured it qualified as research.
I shouldn't have come.
The knot in Rachel's stomach tightened, and she squeezed her laced fingers, whitening the knuckles. She'd never been claustrophobic, but the walls of the small, sterile interview room off the lobby in the glass and concrete FBI office building in downtown St. Louis seemed to be closing in on her. With each minute that passed-ten and a half so far-she grew more uncomfortable. The temptation to flee before she made a total fool of herself was strong.
But the vibes from the doll were stronger.
Strong enough to counter the dubious glance the woman behind the bullet-proof glass in the reception area had given her. And strong enough to convince her that she needed to pass the Raggedy Ann on to someone who was in a position to investigate-whether they chose to or not.
Based on her conversation earlier today with Marta, she knew that "not" was the likely outcome. While her co-worker had been diplomatic in relaying her husband's comments from their dinner last night, Rach
el had read "fruitcake" between the lines. And if a local police officer thought her story lacked credibility, she had little hope the FBI would take it seriously.
But she felt a compelling need to try. And if she failed to convince anyone to pay attention to the odd vibes emanating from the doll stashed in a small paper shopping bag at her feet-well, at least she could walk away knowing she'd done her best.
"Nick? Sharon. I've got a hot one for you."
Special Agent Nick Bradley shifted the phone on his ear and checked his watch. Twenty minutes to quitting time. "What's up?"
"A woman showed up in the lobby a few minutes ago. She wants to talk to an agent."
"About what?"
"She wouldn't say"
Stifling a sigh, Nick raked this fingers through his hair. He had an important dinner date, and he didn't want to be late. "I'm working on a 302. Can someone else handle it?" He doubted his excuse of completing a routine evidentiary interview form would carry much weight with the seasoned receptionist in the St. Louis FBI field office, but he decided it was worth a shot.
"I tried. But it is Friday. The place cleared out early. I guess everyone has plans"
"Including me"
"Sorry. You're it. Her name's Rachel Sutton."
"Thanks a lot." Sarcasm gave way to resignation. "Okay. I'll be out in a few minutes."
Dropping the phone back in its cradle, Nick surveyed the 302 on his desk. He could let it sit until Monday, but he preferred to fill these forms out while the information was fresh in his mind. Besides, he was almost done. The woman in the lobby could cool her heels until he finished.
Eight minutes later, he slipped his arms into the sleeves of his dark gray suit jacket and picked up a notebook and pen. If he was lucky, this Rachel Sutton would have some innocuous tip he could dispense with quickly. Most off-the-street visitors offered little information of value. No reason this one would be any different.
As he approached the security door to the lobby, Sharon was shutting down her computer. He queried her without breaking stride. "Which room?"
"Two. Maybe it won't take long"
