Sand Witches in the Hamptons (9781101597385)

by Jerome, Celia

  “Please. I’ve never spoken to another psychic except, um, Sam Tate. I didn’t really believe in such things until he explained my own ESP to me.”

  Ken told us that he only saw danger, like my father, but his was immediate, not miles or days away, and not necessarily focused on himself or people he loved. He called it a soldier’s sixth sense, a survival instinct, only more so. His sensations of imminent peril weren’t ambiguous like Dad’s doom-saying, just not pinpoint specific. He didn’t get mental signals of which weapon or what assailant, but when he got the feeling, he knew what direction it came from. That’s why he and Colin made such good partners. He pointed, Colin aimed.

  Ken explained how he’d learned not to yell “Danger, everyone down.” Like shouting “fire” in a movie theater, it just caused panic, with no one listening. The innocent bystanders were more liable to trample each other getting away. Besides, he needed a moment to figure out if the menace were coming from the air, the street, the very ground. His para-intuition encompassed earthquakes, fires, venomous snakes, drunk drivers, runaway autos, and bad guys with evil intentions. So far.

  Right now he was relaxed, or as relaxed as anyone could be driving on the Long Island Expressway with four eastbound lanes of cars going eighty and trucks as long as a house. “The trick is to stay calm,” he told Carinne. “And not give people more information than they need.”

  She nodded, and I could see her trying to figure out how to apply his advice to her situation. “So I don’t have to tell some teenager pumping gas that he’ll be dead before he reaches thirty-seven? Just that he should take better care of himself and stay away from drugs?”

  “He won’t listen. But maybe that’ll shut up the clamor in your head.”

  I asked about that. Were the voices in English? Sometimes, she said. Were they gibberish? Sometimes, too. With pictures? She saw the people at her age, but nothing afterward. And the sight, how close did she have to be?

  “Close enough to see their eyes. I don’t need to look into them, just be that near. Like that little boy in the car seat in the SUV beside us. He’ll be a Japanese scholar. Maybe Chinese. I can’t tell what language he is translating, but a lot of books are on the shelf behind him, all with the same author, him.”

  I looked over. The kid kept banging a plastic truck on the back of his father’s seat. He’d be lucky to reach seven, much less thirty-seven.

  “So you look at someone younger than you and see them at your age, with enough detail for you to guess what they’re doing?”

  “It’s no guess. I’m a hundred percent certain, and don’t ask, because I have no idea how.”

  “Okay, but where do the voices come in?”

  “When there’s no future, or a terrible one. I don’t want to see the picture. I don’t want to tell some young soldier he’ll be grievously injured in Afghanistan and spend the rest of his life in a wheelchair. So I try to ignore it. That’s when the shouting in my head starts, as if the bad news wants to get out, wants to yell at him to be careful, wants me to use what I’ve been given. I have to try to change his future, try with all my might to get him to watch out for bombs, to shoot himself in the foot before he is blown up. If I don’t try, the noise gets worse. If I do try, people want to lock me away. I don’t know if I can ever alter a person’s future, only see it, then hear the noise in my skull.”

  We were all quiet. What do you say to someone carrying such a heavy burden? Little Red moved over to lick her hand. Kenneth offered her another tissue.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  I had an idea. And a new itch.

  Carinne’s cat had fleas. Everything in Florida does, she said. She couldn’t go to the local pet store for a new batch of flea and tick killer drops, because the store only hired kids to work, for cheap. And the security guards at all the malls had her name and photo on their lists of undesirables. One more incident and she’d be sent to the psych ward.

  Maybe we could pass the cat around to the non-talents, I suggested, half in jest, and confuse Ms. Garcia of the CDC. That got vetoed when Lou started itching and cursing that his entire car would have to be fumigated. I worried he’d toss the cat out of it, but I didn’t mention that to Carinne, who had enough worries.

  Thinking about her difficulties, I wondered why Lou hadn’t offered to fix Carinne’s problem. I know he could wipe out an esper’s talent because he’d threatened the evil hypnotist, the last villain to jeopardize the safety of Paumanok Harbor. I did not know how it worked, or the cost in collateral damage, but I thought Carrine might consider a cure at any price; she was that desperate to reclaim her life. Lou did not suggest any such drastic solution. He got busy finding the nearest pet store on his GPS.

  I figured he wanted Carinne to be studied, surveyed, and scrutinized to see if her talent could be used for the good of Royce and Paumanok Harbor before he wiped out part of her mind. I’d warn her later, when we were alone. Lou wouldn’t like it, but my sympathies lay with my half sister, not my wholly scary bodyguard. Any messing with her head had to be her choice, not Lou’s.

  We got the drops on the cat with only a few scratches. Of the car’s leather seats. The cat should have shriveled up from the glare Lou sent its way.

  We also got more anti-itch creams and slices of pizza and soda. I walked Little Red, Lou vacuumed out the car at the nearby gas station, and Carinne sat on a bench outside the strip mall, cat carrier at her feet. Colin and Kenneth and Harris formed a circle around her, so she didn’t have to see any of the other shoppers. She smiled at the guys and I could see them melting, the big, muscled DUE agents. They were on her side. I relaxed a little and told her about my idea.

  First, I scrounged through my pocketbook for the small sketch pad and pencil I always carried. I handed them to Carinne. “My idea mightn’t work, and someone at Rosehill will have a better plan, but maybe if you draw what you see, instead of having to say it, the clamor in your head would die down.”

  Colin agreed. “She’s the Visualizer. It’s worth a try.”

  “But I don’t have a drop of your talent, Willow. I couldn’t make an accurate picture of what I see, especially not the horrible scenes.”

  “That doesn’t matter. You only have to make it real and recognizable to you. Use stick figures if you want, just so you get the bad stuff out of your mind without distressing the poor person in trouble, or causing yourself more harm.”

  Lou came back and nodded. “It’ll be a good way to research, too. We can get names from the license plates, and see what comes of your prognostications. Not that I’m doubting you, just that we should have records.” He looked around, spotted a gym.

  “Let’s sit on the bench over there. There’s bound to be some thirty-something coming out and getting into a car. Any older and it won’t work, if I understand your gift right. Any younger and it’ll take too long to verify.”

  I protested: “For Pete’s sake, Lou. Carinne’s not a gypsy fortune-teller in a circus tent! Don’t ask her to perform, especially if it can upset her. We can experiment with the sketches at Rosehill, where Dr. Harmon can help, or maybe we can get Doc Lassiter to come with his mental soothing skills. Or even Grandma Eve’s rescue remedy teas. Just not in public, where people will freak out if she shouts their futures.”

  “No, Willow. It’s fine. I want to try the drawing thing. I never thought of that. And yes, you should have proof of what happens. Otherwise I’m just a delusional psychotic. Why should you believe me?”

  I took another sip of my Diet Coke and fed Little Red the last scrap of pizza crust I’d saved for him. “Because Sam Tate said you had talent. And he wouldn’t have sent you to Paumanok Harbor where a lie could be detected before you could learn to spell the village name. And because we’ve seen weirder magic than yours could ever be. Magic, not insanity.”

  No one came out of the gym. Carinne doodled on the pad. “P
eople always think I’m crazy. When I was ten and saw a younger kid who was going to break his arm in two years, I tried to warn him. I went from Carinne O’Dell to crackpot in the dell, to Ding-dong Dell to plain Dingaling. It got worse all through school, until I went away to college. The first year was great. Almost everyone was older than me. The second year, not so much. I tried to keep away from all the incoming freshmen, but most were healthy, so I did okay. I saw a few overdoses, a couple of drunk driving accidents. Not enough to cause me major issues. And I kept my head down, buried in my books, so I didn’t have to see their eyes. The headaches started as I got older and so many more people were younger. Then the voices got louder.”

  “So why in the world did you decide to become a school guidance counselor?”

  She set the pad aside on the bench and knelt to check on the cat, reaching in to stroke it and whisper that Puss’d be out of the carrier soon. “All I’d ever wanted to do was help children. I thought I could do it with my wacky intuitions. I didn’t know how bad the headaches and voices could get.”

  “You had great intentions. And Dad said you did help a lot of students. That’s a good thing.”

  Three people walked out of the gym, two women and a man in spandex and jogging suits. They all looked about my age, and they looked right at us before heading for three different cars. Carinne closed her eyes and started reciting, as if she were giving the make and models of the vehicles. “A wife, a bank teller and uh-oh. Him.”

  “What about him? What’s going to happen to him?”

  She scrunched her face up, obviously in pain.

  “No!” I yelled, shoving the pad into her hands. “Draw it!”

  She started sketching, pressing so hard she broke off the point on the pencil. I tossed her another one. Lou dictated notes into his Blackberry while she concentrated on the scribbled picture taking shape.

  We all looked at what she’d drawn. All three people, recognizable by their hair and the man’s mustache. But the guy was in bed with the bank teller, and the housewife had a gun in her hand.

  “He’s dead.”

  Colin whistled. Harris handed all three license plate numbers to Kenneth, who called them in somewhere. As the information came through, Lou wrote names and addresses and birthdays on the sketch, then added today’s date and his own initials.

  Carinne asked why.

  “Maybe we can change the future after all. If we find them, and figure out the date you saw, maybe we can head the wife off, or the girlfriend. Or take the gun away. Anything that changes the components.”

  Carinne looked at him as if he’d handed her the moon. “You really think we can save his life?”

  “Not by warning him to keep his zipper closed. But hell, we can try to get him transferred to another state.”

  “He’ll still be a sleazy philanderer,” I said. “He’ll still cheat on his wife.” I tried not to look at Carinne when I said it, thinking of my father. Her father.

  Lou didn’t notice. “Yeah, but he might live to tomcat past his thirty-seventh birthday. I’m not condoning cheating, but don’t forget the bank teller isn’t pure as snow either. She had to know he’s married. And the wife could have gone to a lawyer instead of a gun dealer. No one’s without fault here, but maybe we can keep it from turning tragic. Carinne, did you see the wife in jail when she’s thirty-seven?”

  “No, just at home, making beds.”

  “So maybe we do stop it. Or maybe she’s out on bail. But now we have a yardstick for what we can try to do, what you can do. Just think what good we can put your gift to if this works.”

  “Wait a second,” I said. “You can’t drag Carinne around like a counting pig or something, telling futures for you to change. Maybe she doesn’t want to be a celebrity seer. And think how much publicity you’ll stir up for Paumanok Harbor or DUE.”

  Colin laughed. “You think we’d give Carinne’s name to anyone? Or let the police or Feebies work these cases? On what? Suspicion of a crime taking place two years in the future or something? Give us a little credit, Willow. We’ve kept DUE and Paumanok Harbor secret for over two hundred years.”

  True. “But you’ll give her migraines, or worse.”

  Lou stooped down to look at Carinne, on the bench. “Are any voices shouting at you now?”

  Carinne took the sketch back from Lou and stared at it. As bad as it was, the drawing still made her wince. “No, I have a slight headache, that’s all. Maybe Willow’s idea of drawing what I see will be enough. And, Willow, I’d be looking at the futures anyway. What’s the difference if I send the information where it can do some good? Besides, we don’t even know if the future can be changed. I mean, if it’s not like this”—she tapped the drawing—“why did I see it?”

  Now I was getting a headache. But my idea worked. She wasn’t screaming or carrying on. I clapped my hands. Little Red bit my ankle. “Let’s not worry about the ‘whys’ now. Or what we can do about drug ODs and wars when you see them, or those kids you want to help. But it’s a start that you’re not raving or in agony after what you just predicted. The drawing worked.”

  She studied the pencil in her hand as if it were some magical device. Then she studied the three men and me. “Maybe I’m better because you’ve all been so supportive, surrounding me with good feelings, instead of the usual fear and horror at my rantings. You won’t be around me all the time.”

  “But the pencil can be. That’s the joy of something so simple. Heck, we can hang one on a ribbon around your neck and sew pockets on all your clothes for a pad. Give it a chance, Carinne. Maybe it’ll help.”

  Lou shrugged. “It can’t hurt. And we can try to change the pictures. What’s your birthday, kiddo? Maybe you’re looking at people when they’re exactly your age, like thirty-seven and three months and two days. Maybe even down to the minute you were born. That will make our job a lot easier.”

  He wrote down her birthday and the hospital where she was born, so he could check the time of day.

  Harris brought him a plastic bag to keep the drawing safe.

  We got back on the road with an hour to go and a lot to think about.

  Little Red belched.

  “If that dog pukes in my car, you’re walking home.”

  Sure, Lou had Carinne now. He didn’t need me.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  I had introductions to make. And injustices to make right.

  We decided to stop at my house first to leave Little Red there, so I warned Carinne about my cousin Susan, who was about ten years younger than our new relative. I explained how she’d been sick, but was declared cancer-free by her doctors and Connor Redstone. Which did not mean something dire couldn’t happen to her before her thirty-seventh birthday.

  “She’s the baby of the family and everyone dotes on her, so please, please, do not tell us her future if it’s sad or ugly. Draw it and throw it away, swallow it, burn it, anything.”

  Carinne took a death grip on the pencil, her eyebrows tight together as we drove up the dirt road toward Garland Farms.

  Susan had already left for work at the restaurant, thank goodness. She’d taken my mother’s old white Outback, which meant I’d need a ride home later, adding to the complications.

  I did not invite Carinne into my mother’s house. That felt disloyal to me. The invitation had to come from Mom. Besides, that poor cat had been kept caged for so long, it had stopped meowing and just moaned occasionally. I tried not to look at Carinne’s face at the lack of hospitality. I’m sure she needed a bathroom as much as I did, so I didn’t use one either. Fair is fair.

  I greeted Mom’s senior rescue dogs that had been left in Susan’s care, gave them and Red dog biscuits, and got back in Lou’s car to drive to Rosehill. I still had trouble thinking of it as Royce now, but that’s what it was, an enclave of the extrasensory, and
where Carinne belonged.

  Lou called ahead to alert Lily, my mother’s cousin and housekeeper there. We bypassed the downtown streets of Paumanok Harbor village and drove around to the long private driveway up to the old estate. Carinne was speechless at the sight of the huge mansion on acres of grounds, now turning into a study center and research facility. We could see the construction vans and piles of lumber. The workers must have gone home for the day.

  “Are you sure I should be here? I mean, it’s so luxurious. I thought the facility would be like a private school or something small and rustic, in a quiet little village. Maybe rooms in someone’s house.”

  “The village is quiet, all right. It’s almost dead in winter. And this was someone’s house. Then it got rented out to movie moguls and such. If Royce hadn’t purchased it, the whole huge plot of land might have been divided up for mini-mansions and no one could have appreciated its views and grandeur.”

  “It’s grand, all right,” Kenneth said. “Wait till you see the gardens and the pools and tennis courts.”

  Wait till you see Cousin Lily, I thought, dreading the moment.

  Lou directed Kenneth to drive around back to the service entrance and the rear doors that led to the kitchens and Lily’s own apartment. Maybe he wanted to shelter Carinne from the intimidating formal entry, which could hold my entire Manhattan apartment. Maybe he wanted to avoid Monteith, the newly appointed director, a grim despot, according to everyone who’d met the new Brit overseer.

  I held the back door open for Carinne, who clutched the cat carrier in front of her like a shield.

  “What are you dragging home now, Willy?” Lily started. Then she saw me, behind Carinne. Her head swiveled from one of us to the other.

  “Oh. My. God. Your mother was right after all. Tate cheated on her.”

  “No, he did not,” I snapped. “Carinne was conceived before they were married. And we will not discuss this, not in front of Carinne or the people from DUE, and definitely not with my mother. Do you hear me? There is no reason to upset her before she arrives. And no reason to make Carinne feel unwelcome.”