The Adventures of Jillian Spectre

by Nic Tatano

  He offers a sheepish grin. “That, uh, used to be the case. But I’m ready to settle down. I need to be sure my fiancée is as well.”

  “Any particular reason you think she’s cheating?”

  “Well, lots of calls to our apartment lately that hang up when I answer. She’s working late a lot. And, she, uh, had a reputation as a party girl a few years ago.”

  “Fair enough. You brought a picture of her?”

  He nods and reaches into his back pocket, then pulls out his wallet. “Sure.” He removes a small photo and hands it to me.

  I can see why he’s worried. Blonde, stunning, holding a drink, obviously hammered past the legal limit, wearing a skirt up to her ass. “She’s really pretty,” I say, as I hand it back to him.

  “Sometimes they’re too pretty, if you know what I mean.”

  “I don’t, but let’s get started. I want you to take my hands for a moment, look at me, and ask a very specific question.”

  “Okay.” I reach out and he takes my hands, then looks at me with those incredible eyes that make me gulp. “Is Jennifer Logan cheating on me?”

  “Now close your eyes and focus on your question, and only your question.”

  He closes his eyes. I do the same as I let go of his hands and take the crystal ball in mine. I focus on this Greek god sitting five feet away, then on his bimbo fiancee. I’ve got a pretty good idea what the future will reveal. A minute later I look at him. “Okay, open your eyes.”

  He does, and I look at the ball.

  Which is already fogged up.

  Emotion. But it’s all his this time. I personally don’t feel anything one way or the other.

  “Well?” he asks.

  I put up one finger. “Patience. The image is clearing.”

  It does and reveals an image of his fiancée actually working late. But she’s doing so with another man, and it’s obvious they’re attracted to each other. The clothes come off, the image begins to get a bit X-rated, my eyes grow wide as I can’t help but blush at a scene that belongs on late night Cinemax.

  “You see something?” he asks.

  I nod. “You were right. She’s with another man. Someone at her office. The name on the door reads… Dan Jellison.”

  His hands ball into fists, the blue eyes narrow and fill with hate. “I’ll kill him,” he says.

  And then I see him do it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “So after you saw this man kill his fiancée and her lover, what happened?”

  This time it’s just one prosecutor at The Summit, and Sebastien is being a lot nicer this time. He’s politely asking questions instead of demanding answers. We’re in his office, along with my mom.

  “Right after he said ‘I’ll kill him,’ he got up and stormed out. I followed him out to the street and tried to get him to come back but he ignored me. Got in his car and peeled off.”

  “And then what did you do?”

  “I pulled out my cell phone and called Fuzzball. The police got there just in time or they would have been dead.”

  Sebastien makes some notes on the legal pad, which sits atop his massive oak desk, then turns to my mother. “Is she always emotional?”

  “I’m not an emotional person!” I say, realizing I sounded like one. “Who wouldn’t get emotional after seeing real-life murders?”

  He put up a hand toward me. “Please, Jillian. I’m asking your mother.”

  “No,” she says. “Jillian’s usually very calm. Doesn’t get angry. She’s very easygoing. We get along remarkably well, especially considering half the teenagers out there don’t even speak to their parents.” She shoots me a look and smiles. I nod back, silently thanking her for not telling Sebastien about our argument last week about my father.

  The ticking of an ancient grandfather clock is the only sound in the room for the moment. Sebastien leans back in his leather swivel rocker and looks up at the ceiling, as if searching for answers. I sit silently, looking around the dark paneled room at the very old oil paintings of people I don’t recognize, probably paranormal pioneers of some sort. Finally he breaks the silence. “Tell me what you were thinking during each reading when you felt emotion.”

  “Well, with the murders, I was more scared than upset. I mean, watching murders that are real instead of the stuff you see in movies scared the hell out of me. I could feel my heart pounding. In the last case, I was even more frightened because the man sitting across from me was the murderer.”

  “And yet you ran after him. Weren’t you afraid for your own safety?”

  He has a point. If I was so scared, why did I run after him? “I guess… maybe subconsciously I knew his anger wasn’t directed at me. I was hoping to calm him down and maybe stop him from killing people.”

  “And the situation with your friend Roxanne?”

  Great, let’s bring up that memory again. “I was upset. It might have been easier to see Ryan with another girl than her. I know that doesn’t make sense, because she’s like a sister to me and I want the best for her. But somehow seeing him ask her out on a date really hit me the wrong way.”

  He nods and makes more notes.

  My mother leans forward in her chair. “Sebastien, is there any precedent for this?”

  “For seers seeing the afterlife or having images race by as she described, no. As for emotion affecting one’s powers, you know the answer to that one.”

  I whip my head toward her. “Mom?”

  Mom looks away as Sebastien answers. “Emotion… in a few cases, has acted as somewhat of a magnifier… something that takes powers to the next level. We know of three cases in particular.” Sebastien’s eyes grow sad.

  “I’m most afraid to ask,” I say, with a lump in my throat.

  He nods. “Yes. Your father is one of the three.”

  “And who—”

  “The other two are dead.”

  ***

  I guess I should tell you about Fuzzball, who, due to my unusual powers, is likely to become my partner in crime.

  Or at least in stopping it.

  Spencer Ball is New York City’s top detective, solving just about every case to which he’s assigned. At thirty-five years of age he’s a household name when it comes to the city’s high profile crimes. It doesn’t hurt that he has the classic looks of a model, his shirtless buffed physique having once been captured by a tabloid photographer while at the Jersey shore. Tall, with short dark hair and deep-set pale green eyes; combine that with a rugged angles-and-planes face that could easily serve as a marine recruiting poster.

  It helps that he’s a master of astral projection. Basically he can send his spirit anywhere at any time, which gives him a huge advantage when it comes to spying on criminals. He’s a human fly on the wall, eavesdropping on the bad guys and often catching them in the act because he knows what’s coming and they have no idea he’s there. Fuzzball could obviously make a fortune as a corporate spy or a private detective checking up on cheating politicians, but feels that those with superpowers should act like superheroes. He once climbed the tree in our front yard to save my kitten.

  As for his nickname, it has nothing to do with his appearance, as his ever-present three-day stubble isn’t remotely fuzzy. I’m told that back when dinosaurs roamed the earth (the sixties) police officers were referred to as “the fuzz.” Combine that with his last name, and you get a moniker that stuck to him like superglue in his rookie year on the beat. He doesn’t mind, and seems to get a kick out of it when people my age use it. One time our school bus pulled up to a red light next to his car, and we all yelled, “Hey, Fuzzball!” at him. He shot a crooked smile at us and did that “I’m watching you” thing cops do on TV when they use two fingers to point at their eyes and then the person they’re watching.

  Anyway, back to my calling him the other night, and he was the only law enforcement person I could call. I mean, who else would believe me? Imagine this 911 recording:

  “Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
<
br />   “Hi, I’m a mystic seer and the guy I did a reading for is about to kill his slutty fiancée and the guy she’s sleeping with. I saw it clear as day in my crystal ball.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Since Fuzzball lives across the street and has known me since I was a little girl, he knew it was serious when I called. He zapped his spirit into the office where the two lovers had been, ahem, working late and saw them both being pummeled by my client. He rolled on it, called for backup, and managed to get there in time. The two had been beaten within an inch of their lives. My client was charged with two counts of attempted murder, as both of them survived. Fortunately I’m not going to be involved since the guy couldn’t possibly say he found out about the affair from a mystic seer and hope that a jury would take him seriously.

  Fuzzball stopped by our house the next day (the actual person, not the spirit) and I told him about my earlier experience as well, so he made me put his number on speed dial. (Can you imagine the buddy cop movie this would make? Crystal Blue might be a good title.)

  I don’t want to see murders on a regular basis. Really, I don’t. But so far I’ve saved three lives, which is pretty cool. And that, my mother says, trumps any uneasiness I might experience.

  ***

  Sebastien has set up what he considers to be a simple test. He first wants to study my afterlife experience, and hopes to recreate it.

  I’m thinking, okay, how are you going to set up a reading with someone which will result in my seeing the great beyond? I’m also wondering what happens if I do get another glimpse and it happens to be the person on the elevator going down. (Then again, Hell might look like Newark, New Jersey and I wouldn’t know the difference.) I’m going on the assumption that what I saw the first time was indeed Heaven.

  Anyway, here’s the deal. Sebastien will have me do a reading with a man who is terminally ill. He’s been dating a woman and wants to know if she will remain with him after he tells her he’s headed for a dirt nap. According to doctors, he cannot possibly live more than two years. So Sebastien’s test should, in theory, give me a look at whatever awaits this guy on the other side. If I see nothing, that might confirm our suspicion that my emotion is a necessary ingredient.

  He assures me there will not be a murder involved as he leads me into a small room set up much like the one we have at home. Except the curtains are all black, which makes a sharp contrast to my burgundy cape. But the man is not what I expect. He’s maybe forty, and when you think of someone about to die you’re thinking about someone ancient. The man honestly doesn’t look that bad. He’s short, maybe my height, and thin. Bald, from chemotherapy. Face is a little drawn and a bit pale, but that’s about the only indicator that might tell you he’s sick. His light brown eyes are filled with sadness as he extends his hand and offers a slight smile. “Hi, Frank Donovan.”

  “Jillian Spectre.”

  “I wasn’t expecting someone so young.”

  Neither was I, though I don’t say it.

  “She’s a prodigy,” says Sebastien. “I’ll leave you two to the reading.” He turns and leaves, closing the door behind him. I gesture toward one of the chairs, we both sit.

  “So, I understand you have a question about the woman you’re dating.”

  His eyes grow misty. “I, uh—”

  “Sebastien’s already filled me in on your… situation.”

  He nods.

  I reach across the table. “I want you to take my hands for a moment, look directly at me and tell me the question you have. It must be about romance, and you must think of nothing else.”

  He takes my hands, holding them softly, and his sad eyes lock onto mine. “I want to know if Patrice will leave me when I tell her… I’m… terminal.”

  “You brought a photo?”

  “Yes.” He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a wallet-sized shot showing the two of them on the beach. She’s a cute, petite brunette with long tangled hair and big eyes. It’s clear they are in love from the way they’re looking at each other.

  I take his hands again and try my best to comfort him with my gaze. “Now I’m going to let go. I want you to close your eyes for about a minute and focus on your question. Remember, focus only on your question.”

  I let go of his hands and hold the crystal ball. He nods, closes his eyes and I do the same. I focus on his face, the photo. Is there emotion? Sort of. I mean, I feel bad that this poor guy’s going to die, he seems like a decent person. But I don’t really know him. I’m hoping what I see tells me his girlfriend is going to stick around. It’s as happy an ending as he can hope for.

  A minute later I open my eyes.

  The ball is already fogged up. Has to be the touch.

  “Okay, open your eyes.”

  He does so and looks at me, then the ball. “How long will it take—”

  “Shhhhh.” The image clears. I see the two of them at dinner, him taking her hands. She begins to cry. But doesn’t leave. Now they’re in a jewelry store shopping for an engagement ring. The images are still at normal speed. I look up at him. “She’s definitely staying.”

  His exhale is audible as he smiles and his eyes brighten.

  I see her walking down the aisle, him waiting at the altar. “You’ll be getting married before…” I catch my words by the tail.

  His smile gets bigger.

  The image of their honeymoon on a cruise ship fills the ball. Then she’s pregnant. Then he’s holding a baby in a hospital.

  Then it goes to black. Till death do us part, indeed.

  “Well?”

  “You’re going to have a daughter.”

  He begins to cry, tears of joy. “Did you see…. you know….”

  “No, Mr Donovan. I can only read matters of the heart.” I look at the ball, waiting, hoping for the afterlife movie to start playing.

  But nothing happens.

  Until he reaches across the table and takes my hands again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Most high school kids have an out-of-body experience on Monday morning. No, I’m not talking about anything paranormal. Our minds are not in our bodies when the bell rings at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning. Some are fried from a weekend of partying. Others from too much homework.

  I’m tired from lack of sleep the last two nights. Trying to figure out your place in the universe after viewing the afterlife will do that to a girl.

  So right now I don’t need anything to do with what lies on the other side, guys trying to murder their trampy girlfriends or partnering with cops who solve crimes by projecting their souls. Right now I want to be an average American high school girl, thinking about hot guys and college and hairstyles and gossip.

  Roxanne’s plastic green tray slides onto the table and she sits down opposite me as I take a bite of what we refer to in this cafeteria as ‘Belmont steaks.’ (As in, the protein we’re eating might have come from a creature ridden by a jockey at Belmont Park that wasn’t seen in the photo finish.) “I have noooooze,” she says, eyes wide with a secret I know she cannot keep and doesn’t want to.

  “Whuh?” I ask, talking through the mystery protein.

  “Remember last week I told you that somebody likes you?”

  I take a sip of water to wash down the salty shoe leather and swallow. “Yeah, and you wouldn’t tell me who it was. You drop a hint like that and then drive me nuts all weekend.”

  “I wanted to be absolutely sure. Didn’t want to get your hopes up unless I had confirmation. Now I have confirmation. I overheard him say he’s going to ask you to the dance.”

  “And how would you suggest I turn down Melvin?”

  “Funny. So, you wanna be surprised or do you want something a mystic seer can never get.” One eyebrow goes up. “A look at her own future.”

  Now that is one intriguing carrot she’s dangling. What the hell, I need something to lighten up. “Will I like what you’re going to tell me?”

  “I think so. I would. Though I will preface
what I’m about to tell you by saying the young man in question is not Ryan or Jake.”

  Hmmm. I go through my mental roster of unattached guys in the school. About fifty percent would be classified as breathing and male, twenty percent as possibles, thirty percent as out of my league or attached to the equivalent of a prom queen or slutty cheerleader. Roxanne is practically jumping up and down on her seat and I know she can’t wait to tell me. “Fine. At least if I don’t like him I’ll be prepared with an excuse to turn him down.” I raise one eyebrow. “So who is it?” I’ve got a no friggin’ way ready on the edge of my tongue.

  She leans forward and lowers her voice into the sultry tone. “The Pocket Chippendale.”

  I’m taken aback. It’s someone I’d never even considered. But I’m intrigued. “Really. Do tell.”

  “He’s in my history class. Last week I heard him say he had his eye on a certain redhead. This morning I heard him tell a friend he was going to ask said redhead to the dance. I’m assuming he’s talking about you since the only other redhead in the entire school is Carla and she’s built like a Coke machine.”

  “Yeah, but recently I heard her say that she lost forty pounds.”

  “Pffft. That’s like throwin’ a deck chair off the Titanic. Anyway, since you’ve got the same look in your eyes as you do for my mother’s lasagna I’m guessing that you’re probably going to say yes.”

  She’s right. Given a nanosecond to think about it and the fact I’ve been a romantic camel this semester, the thought of an evening with a guy who’s beyond cute is pretty appealing.

  Oh, I guess I should tell you who Roxanne is talking about and his very appropriate nickname. Will Carlisle is a smart, polite senior who is the main reason the wrestling team outdraws the football games at this school. Hell, even the cheerleaders show up. The Chippendale half of the name comes from his chiseled physique which cries out for a bow tie and cuffs, but sadly those aren’t allowed at high school athletic meets. Every time he wins a match he rips off his shirt and throws it in the air like that gal in the Olympic soccer game years ago. The running line with the girls who go to the matches is that they’d like to perform a thorough search of his body for an ounce of fat. Throw in thick dark hair, piercing hazel eyes and dimples that run the length of his cheeks when he flashes his megawatt smile, and you could easily see him showing up at bachelorette parties dressed as a UPS man with the ultimate package.