by Iris Kincaid
“Well, why don’t you take a guess?”
“Disdain for rules and authority. Haven’t shaved in three years. And lives on a boat. I’m going to have to go with . . . pirate.”
Morgan’s hearty laugh caused several nearby beachgoers to swivel around in their direction.
“My family is going to love that one. Maybe they’ll feel a little bit better about my actual career when I explain to them I could’ve done much worse. At least from the perspective of a fishing family. Yes, I brought shame and disappointment to the Beaumonts by not taking up the fishing net. I am the producer of a very small local cable news show.
“We cover all the mile-a-minute excitement that Oyster Cove has to offer, from potholes to parades. From lobster bakes to St. Patrick’s Day Parades. I know more about Oyster Cove than any human being would ever want to know.”
“You sound like you may be ready to cover something a little bit bigger. Boston. Philly. New York.”
“I think if I set foot outside state lines, my family would hire a handler to come and kidnap me, drag me back, and then chain me to my bedpost and weaken me with starvation until I promise never to do such a heinous thing again. Leaving was never really an option.”
“That sounds . . . very confining. I mean, you have your own interests, your own dreams. And they didn’t include fishing. Maybe they don’t include Oyster Cove. That should be your call, not anyone else’s. Of course, I don’t have a family. But it doesn’t seem right that they should hold you back. Your career is probably very important to you.”
“It is. Important career. Okay, important-to-me career. Versus important-to-me family. What’s a fellow to do? Although, I gotta say, if I’m in Oyster Cove right this moment only because of my family, then I’m in their debt.” Clearly, he was referring to the happy coincidence of having met Martine. “And might I ask, what is it that you spend your days doing?”
“I’m a computer consultant. I own my own business.”
“Hey, that’s great. What kind of consulting do you do?”
“Lots of things. Some of my clients hire me for security. I look at their systems, locate the security vulnerabilities, and design software security to help protect them.”
Morgan was both impressed and amazed. “You’re a hacker!”
“That’s about the size of it. But not of the thieving, ransoming variety. I’m an ethical hacker.”
“What else do you do besides plugging security leaks?”
“Some stuff I probably would need to plead the fifth on.”
“Oh, ho. Now who’s the pirate?”
Martine hadn’t been exactly sure how he would respond to her chosen profession. He wasn’t fazed by it at all. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a black Labrador that looked a lot like Ahab. Less and less of a coincidence, he was with a large family group that included baby Crew.
Morgan’s eyes followed in the same direction. “Yes, it’s a little bit creepy. Yes, that’s my family. That is my horribly intrusive older sister whom you glimpsed just two days ago, and she was the one who put an all-points bulletin out to the family that I was having a date here tonight. So, naturally, this is where they chose for their Fourth of July picnic. The nosy Beaumonts.”
Morgan’s older sister waved at them. And then, the rest of the family waved at them, about nine people in all. And then Crew wobbled to his feet and started running in their direction.
“Simultaneously one of the best dates I’ve ever been on and one of the most troubling,” Morgan said as his family continued to peer at them curiously. “Hopefully, you are one tough pirate.”
It seemed the Greek God wasn’t so all-powerful. Martine had to feel a little bit sorry for him. So much of his life was governed by the smothering burden of family obligations. That was one thing she was thankful she had never been encumbered by.
*****
The fireworks had been impressive. The evening had been lovely, weird family chaperones notwithstanding. Morgan was starting to get under Martine’s skin. He was a pretty interesting guy. Hmm. She wondered if she’d ever see the inside of his boat. Hopefully, it was too small to contain his entire family.
Most days now, Martine was out of the house early. Some people take a long walk for exercise. Martine took a long walk because she could, and that still felt like a miracle to her. Besides, she could take her computer with her, grab some coffee in a café, and get some work done. It was just nice to no longer be confined to her apartment. Of course, that had been her own choice. Nonetheless, it now felt like a prison sentence.
She stopped and glanced at the local paper. And the headline stopped her in her tracks.
LOCAL BUSINESSMAN, THEODORE KINGSTON, COMMITS SUICIDE.
CHAPTER FOUR
In light of the broadcast that had run on Martine’s computer screen, the details that she was reading about the suicide now were confounding. The article said that Mr. Kingston killed himself on the evening of July Fourth, during the fireworks, no doubt, to conceal the sound of his gun.
His body was found late that night by his nephew, Brady Kingston, who lived with him. The police and news authorities were alerted, and the story was just coming out on the morning of July fifth. How, then, had Martine seen a broadcast of the story two days earlier?
Was it possible that Mr. Kingston did kill himself on July second, and his body was only discovered on the night of the Fourth? That didn’t make any sense. The police have very good ways of pinpointing the time of death, and two days makes a huge difference. Besides which, the nephew who lived with them would surely have known about the death on the same night that it occurred, which should be the night of the second.
As implausible as that scenario was, the possibility that she had seen a broadcast of Theodore Kingston’s suicide two days before it actually occurred fell into the realm of impossibility. But she hadn’t imagined it. She had seen it. And if she’d seen it, it meant that the death had occurred and had been reported to the police and to the news authorities in order for that broadcast to happen. Which would all have taken place between the second and the third. Why, then, were they saying that he killed himself on July fourth?
A quick stop at Jeremy Todd’s office was unsuccessful—he was out. And no doubt, he was as puzzled by this mind-bending turn of events as she herself was. Hadn’t he spoken to Theodore Kingston on the phone himself on July third? Of course—no reason that he would have fabricated that. And then the following day, that same client had killed himself. So far, so good. Except for that crazy broadcast.
Martine decided to cut her morning walk short and return home. Perhaps the peace and solitude would provide some clarity. But there was anything but solitude waiting for her. Instead, she found a small group gathered at her entrance consisting of Jeremy, Dr. Svenson, Ruby, and an older woman she didn’t know.
Jeremy was the first to approach her. “Martine, I hope you don’t mind, but there’s an important discussion that we need to have with you.”
“I can’t imagine what on earth that would be,” Martine responded.
How solemn they all looked.
“Martine, please allow me to introduce Ms. Delphine Sykes,” Dr. Svenson said. “She has become a very helpful . . . consultant with all of my recent transplant patients.”
“Very pleased to meet you, my dear.” Delphine smiled encouragingly. “It will be my pleasure to assist you in any way that I can.”
“Assist me? What kind of assistance? I mean, the operation went so well. I’m doing great. I don’t really need any kind of assistance.”
“What if we go inside, and we can have a nice little chat?” the doctor said.
Apprehensively, Martine let them all into her first-floor apartment. For the first time, she felt rather awkward to have her bed in the middle of the living room. She hadn’t yet had an opportunity to have it moved into the bedroom. And of course, there were only two spare chairs since the wheelchair was all she had personally needed, and there were never more than two
clients in her house at the same time.
“Sorry there aren’t chairs for everyone. I really do have to get a few of those now. Although I’m not really expecting to ever have a lot of guests. Life is full of surprises, isn’t it? So, who’s going to explain to what I owe this particular surprise?”
The four people in the room looked at her with such solemn intensity. It had the feel of a serious intervention. What could she have possibly done wrong?
“Your bone marrow donor was a witch,” Dr. Svenson began. “I’m thinking that you probably do not know a whole lot about witches.”
“I haven’t heard about witches since I left Haiti. My uncle believed in them. In fact, he blamed his illness on the neighbor who he thought was a witch. It is absolutely ridiculous. Dr. Svenson, you’re not telling me that you believe in witches.”
“I’m a man of science. I believe what I see.”
“What have you seen?” Martine challenged.
Make yourself useful, Delphine. Give her a demonstration, Lilith instructed. There is no quicker way to get to the point.
I suppose you’re right. A lifetime of disbelief can be erased in a single moment.
Delphine touched the silver hood of Martine’s closed laptop. It was transformed into a neon green. Martine’s mouth dropped open.
“How . . . how did you do that trick?”
“Trick? Do not be impressed. It is the lowest of abilities. Now this . . .”
The computer floated into the air several inches above the desk it had been on. Martine’s breathing stopped entirely, and the computer floated gently into her hands.
“Uh . . . how?”
With a wave of the hand, the very substantial, very real computer that Martine was clutching simply disappeared, and she found herself holding air.
She is right. These are parlor tricks. Show her what it truly means to be a witch. Show her the vastness of what we are.
You are always in such a rush, Lilith. You never spent enough time around commoners to fully understand them. They are fragile. The development of the powers passed on to them cannot be hurried. It requires acceptance, not just ability.
I wish would get rid of all of these people and explain to this girl who Lilith Hazelwood was. How I was murdered. And how she owes me her legs, her health, and her future.
In good time, Lilith. In good time.
Maybe the vanishing computer didn’t impress Lilith, but it was enough to take the wind out of Martine’s sails. Jeremy gently led her to one of the room’s only chairs.
“As I was saying, your bone marrow donor was a very powerful witch, and I have transplanted several of her organs at this point. And the recipients are not only cured of their illnesses, but they also have some of the witch’s powers transferred to them,” the doctor said.
“It’s totally cool, if you ask me,” Ruby gushed. “All of the Lilith Hazelwood transplant patients are able to do seriously wild stuff. And Mr. Todd here tells us that . . . Wow. You really may have inherited something special.”
“Martine. You knew about Theodore Kingston’s suicide two days before it happened. You saw the future. You saw something that had not happened yet. And then it happened,” Jeremy said.
“It was a premonition. It is the gift of foresight. I do not have it myself, nor am I entirely sure that I would want it. It can be a very useful thing, but it can be a burdensome thing. It can also be a bit confusing and difficult to interpret. And that is where I am happy to offer any guidance I can,” Delphine explained.
Martine looked frantically about her, from one face to another. “Am I being punked?” she asked in confusion.
“You have another explanation, perhaps, for how quickly you healed? No chemo. No rehab. Just coincidentally, a perfect biological match with a ninety-year-old dead woman of unknown ethnic origin.” Dr. Svenson asked.
“Or how you knew about a suicide before it actually occurred?” added Jeremy.
“Do you have any idea where your computer is? Or perhaps you require further demonstration?” Delphine asked.
Further demonstration was the last thing that Martine wanted. She was already feeling way too queasy.
Ruby could see that Martine had seen about all she could handle. “It’s a lot to take in. We should give her some time alone to think about things. Then, when she has questions, and she’ll definitely have questions, she can talk to the doctor or Delphine.” She smiled reassuringly at Martine. “Everything will be fine. Better than fine. You’ll see.”
The doctor nodded. “You’re right. She does need to be alone. It is time for us to be on our way.”
On that matter, there was full consensus, and Martine soon found herself alone in the apartment, wishing with all her might that she was about to wake up from a freakishly vivid dream.
“Don’t look so gloomy, girl. You have just been given the world,” Lilith scolded.
Martine started to look about her in a panic. “Where is my computer?” she wailed out loud.
Delphine was gone but still within reach. The computer appeared on the desk before her, still lime green, and then, of its own accord, the lid slowly moved into an upright position, as if greeting her hello.
Delphine, then, was undeniably a witch, although a lot more pleasant and ordinary looking than the witches her Uncle Pierre had warned her about. And as for everything else they had been telling her . . . as much as she wanted to resist the information, deep down, she knew it was true. She had known about a suicide on July third that had not occurred until the evening of the following day.
This was the computer where the vision of the future had occurred. Hesitantly, she turned it on. Her desktop was still there. Her browser. Her email. All the client files. She breathed a sigh of relief. The last thing she wanted was a heads-up on the suicides the world. Or any other bad news. She was perfectly content to find out in real time along with the rest of the world.
But no such luck. The phantom broadcast soon reappeared. It showed two extremely damaged cars that had collided with one another at the residential corner of Nineteenth and Pine. The drivers and passengers were shaken up and hurt. In fact, the only casualty was an unfortunate street cat, who got in the way of the careening out of control vehicles and who had no collar or other sign of identification.
“That’s a shame. But there was no human loss of life, fortunately.”
“And a lot of work for their mechanics to handle. Look at those cars! But, all in all, things could have been so much worse,” the second broadcaster added.
“Not for the cat,” Martine grumbled.
“That’s it for your Thursday evening. Thanks for joining us, and see you tomorrow,” the first broadcaster cheerily said.
But it wasn’t Thursday. It was Wednesday, and this was another foreshadowing. What had Delphine called it? A premonition? A forecast?
Why was she being shown these things when they didn’t have anything to do with her? There was nothing she could do about them. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. If someone had simply scared that cat away from this street, it wouldn’t have been hit by these cars. But none of this had happened yet. Perhaps it didn’t have to.
Feeling a bit foolish and apprehensive, Martine hurried out of the house and made her way to Nineteenth and Pine. There was nothing happening there, of course. What was she thinking? Of course, the broadcast of the suicide had come two days early. How long was she going to have to wait for this vision to play out? She should have brought snacks.
She settled down on the street curb and watched the traffic and pedestrians keenly. Talk about an accident waiting to happen. This one was waiting to be witnessed. Unfortunately, when it did happen, she knew it would take place very quickly, and she should keep her distance. There had not been any reports of injuries or fatalities, but then again, she was changing history, wasn’t she? And she did not want the new alternative future to include her own demise.
Just then, strolling along without a care in the world, came the ill-fa
ted cat. He was gray with thin black stripes and very thick, bushy hair. The kind that gets all over the furniture. The sight of Martine caused him to stop right where he was, in the middle of the street, as he tried to assess whether she was friend or foe.
“You dumb cat. Make it easy for them, why don’t you? Get out of the road. Shoo. Shoo.”
Apparently, there is a multitude of ways to interpret “shoo.” To some ears, it means come over here, have a little cuddle with me, and maybe we’ll head over to my place and grab a can of tuna on the way. That was this cat’s interpretation. He bounded eagerly into Martine’s lap, like a long-lost friend, which, if nothing else, gave her the opportunity to carry him far, far away from his pitiable fate.
Martine was halfway between Seventeenth and Eighteenth streets when she heard the crash. She flinched. Too bad it couldn’t have been prevented. But all the people were going to be okay, and this lucky cat was down to eight lives—assuming he hadn’t already burned through a few of them earlier.
“Lucky. That’s what you are,” Martine told him. “Lucky, lucky, lucky, lucky.”
The cat purred happily. He’d had entirely enough of being alone. Being held close by a warm lady and scolded as if he mattered all added up to a good day, as far as he was concerned.
Of course, Martine had not really had time to think the situation through clearly. This cat was a stray. There was no home to return him to, and the shelter was obviously bad news. What was the point of saving his life if he was just going to be put down in a shelter after being caged for a few weeks? What had she gotten herself into?
*****
Among other things, she’d just received incontrovertible proof that she could, indeed, see the future. Everything they had told her was true. In a daze, she made her way to the local hospital where she knew she could find Dr. Svenson.
“And who is your little friend here? I don’t know if you can bring a kitty in here, though. Some people may have allergies,” the doctor said.
“I saved his life. I saved his life because he was about to be killed by a car crash. I knew that. I saw that. I saw the future. I can see the future. I can tell what’s going to happen before it happens. I know who’s going to be in an accident and who wants to put a bullet through his head, and you know what? I’d really rather not! I don’t want to know the future. Especially since I only get to see the bad future. Is there something I can do to make it stop?”
