Death Omen

by Amber Foxx

  Between her personal training session and the boot camp class she was teaching at five, Mae went to her locker and checked phone messages. Even as she did it, she knew she was being obsessive to expect Hubert to have called back with the week’s schedule already. He hadn’t. Kate had left a voicemail, though.

  “Is Rex the client you think might get sucked into Sierra’s group? Posey, the woman he’s about to start dating, is pathetic. She might be trolling for a rich husband. And Sierra might be scouting for rich donors. If he’s got money, tell him to watch his wallet.”

  Mae sat on the bench in the locker room, holding her phone, unsure what to do next. She had guessed Rex was well off, since he had retired a good ten years before most people could. He hadn’t made a second appointment yet and she didn’t have his number. If he had a landline she could look him up, or she might see him at the pool, but she hadn’t been going as often since classes had started. Anyway, was warning him about Sierra or Posey really her business? Rex was a mature adult.

  But he was also a spiritual seeker, and he struck Mae as unusually open, emotionally exposed, and eager to fall in love. Sierra had competent medical intuition and an instinct for detecting vulnerability. No doubt that was one reason why she went after Jamie. Rex might not be safe from her.

  Mae called Kate. “I’m surprised you went back to the support group. But you found out something important. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “I didn’t go back. Posey came to me. I sometimes think I should go back, but someone who’s supposedly in the soul group could look into it better than I could. Like Jamie.”

  “I want to protect him from her, not push him at her. He can’t stand her.”

  “I can’t stand her, either.”

  “But ... I think she scares Jamie.”

  “Everything scares Jamie. Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, even if it’s true. The best person to check her out would be someone who can stay calm, and that’s not me or Jamie. It has to be someone who won’t believe her, and who has a chronic illness, and has prior insight about their past lives.”

  “You’d need a whole bunch of people. It would be like designing a study to test her. I can’t imagine one person having all those traits.”

  “Why not? All you need is a prosperous person with a health problem who believes in reincarnation but not bullshit.”

  Mae stood up and paced, excited. She knew someone like that. “This doctor me and Jamie met at the workshop believed in it, and he was skeptical about Sierra. He looked super-healthy, but he’s an older guy, so he could have something minor that would qualify him.” One of Mae’s boot camp regulars came into the locker room. “I need to go. I’ll talk to him later, find out if he’ll do it.”

  She ended the call, greeted the woman who had come for her class, and got her drill sergeant whistle from her locker. A surge of energy on top of the usual pumped-up feeling before boot camp ran through her. Because of investigating Sierra?

  Yes. Don had to help her do it. Like Kate, Mae wanted to protect potential victims such as Rex, and also to protect Jamie—not that he would want her to. But, she had to admit, there was another reason. Mae liked to win, and she’d never really finished her fight with Sierra.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Jamie’s audience was perfectly in sync with him. The whole bar was an extension of his show, as people on the dance floor followed patterns he’d given them, clapping and stomping a steady beat, and those sitting at tables sang the melody he’d taught them. No one was an outsider to the music. He drummed more complex rhythms and improvised around the melody, playing with his vocal range, then danced a rippling, pumping solo, mindful to avoid the double spins that would make his hair fly and reveal his neck glands. Sometimes he felt that his high-energy music was healing him, the ecstasy doing more for him than the soothing music he’d been composing before he grew too worn out at night to work on it.

  Dancing left him shaky, though, and he had to sit to play his didgeridoo, keeping it propped in its stand, his only onstage concession to fatigue. When he pushed the air in and out in the circular breathing that kept the drone pulsing, a buzz in his head echoed the vibration of the instrument, a kind of high.

  And then he couldn’t keep going. His chest was tired and crowded. He switched to drumming and wrapped up the song. Not healed. Not yet. He filled out the set with a few love ballads. No one could complain if he slowed things down. People came to hear his vocals as well as to dance. The songs made him long for Mae. His soul swelled with love for her and his voice soared, but it didn’t feel as big it ought to be, and that scared him.

  On the break, he drank ginger ale and nibbled on fries with hot sauce, knowing that some of his shakiness came from not eating. The taste of everything let him down. Reviewers had been commenting on his weight loss. Favorably, of course. Wendy, who wrote his Facebook posts for him, answered questions with what he’d told her he was doing. No, he wasn’t following a fad diet, just cutting back on beer and snacks and “dancing my arse off, literally.” Friends and family watching him on YouTube kept telling him how good he looked. Except for Dr. Don, who nagged him.

  Jamie acknowledged a friendly word of praise from a fan, made himself eat a few more fries and finished his drink, then went outside for a quieter place to make a call. Reluctant to leave a voicemail about his aversion to Sierra, he’d been phone-tagging with Yeshi Ngarongsha for days.

  This time, Yeshi answered.

  “Mate. Jangarrai.” For some reason Yeshi kept calling Jamie by this name, so he used it to identify himself. “Had a question about your retreat.”

  “Yes?”

  “Sierra Mu. She’s ... dunno how to put this ... Am I going to have to be around her?”

  “Have to be around her?” Yeshi’s accented English was crisp and precise. “What does that mean?”

  “See her. Interact with her.”

  “Sierra is my right hand.” The doctor’s voice grew hearty and cheerful. “We are a team.”

  “How can she be your right hand? She’s not a Tibetan doctor.”

  “But she can see with the eyes of the Medicine Buddha. What could be your problem with Sierra?” He sounded as if such a problem was impossible, but did he really think so? He’d gotten too assertively upbeat when Jamie implied he didn’t like her.

  “She gloms onto me. She’s like a goathead.”

  “She is like the head of a goat?”

  Yeshi had obviously never stepped on the prickly plant. Jamie explained, “It’s a burr. Thing that pokes you. Sticks in your skin. She won’t leave me alone.” Aware he’d come across like a kid complaining that his sister was teasing him, Jamie tried for something stronger. “I don’t want her interfering with my music, all right? Like she did at Bandstand.”

  “Ah. That. Yes. She had her reasons. Not bad reasons. But I will make sure your music is exactly as you and I have planned it.”

  “Thanks.” Jamie wanted to question Yeshi further, to double- and triple-check exactly what Sierra’s role at the retreat would be and to make sure he could avoid her, but she was Yeshi’s girlfriend. Jamie shouldn’t say any more negative things about her than he already had, not that Yeshi had seemed offended. “Hooroo, then. Catcha.”

  Yeshi repeated “Catcha,” with a measure of amusement and hung up.

  Jamie rested against the cold brick wall of the building. Along with the chilly air, it soothed his body, but his mind was rattled. Yeshi knew why Sierra was being a goathead, and he hadn’t said it was for good reasons. It was for not-bad ones. What in bloody hell did that mean? Was that his clumsy English or was that his opinion, carefully expressed?

  Jamie’s phone beeped, announcing a text message. It was from Niall’s cousin. Niall had put them in touch and let them work out the arrangements. The cousin, recently divorced and the father of a daughter who had left for college, had been more than glad to host a friend of Niall’s in his empty nest. In Damariscotta, not Round Pond. Jamie had looked it up and it w
as a somewhat larger town that had a hospital. It would have doctors. He had tried to be casual about his follow-up question, treating it as a minor afterthought so it wouldn’t make the cousin tell Niall, who would tell Mae. Might need to see a doctor while I’m there. Been a little under the weather. Can you recommend someone? This text message was the doctor’s name and phone number.

  Jamie knew no one would answer at this time of night, but he didn’t care. He called and spilled out everything, his symptoms, his fears, his avoidance of medical care, and his hopes that his illness would clear up on its own. Then he begged. The appointment had to be while Jamie was in Damariscotta. It had to be the first day in case there were tests to follow. Everything had to be crammed into three days. He’d waited too long and now he couldn’t wait anymore. The sensation of having his voice shrink terrified him. He talked so much, the doctor’s voicemail cut him off and it took two messages to get everything recorded. But he’d done it. He’d faced his fear and called a doctor.

  As Jamie put his phone in his pocket, William’s ghost, sleek and firm and purring, halfway between kitten and cat, rubbed around his ankles. Was he glad Jamie had taken action at last? Jamie wanted to be grateful to the spirit for its affection and its attempts at guidance, but the fact that it was growing alarmed him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  After circling Portland’s Old Port section in confusion for half an hour while the GPS lady chanted “recalculating, recalculating,” Jamie was finally on the right street. Or was he? He’d gotten through his whole tour and then found Damariscotta and Niall’s cousin’s house, all without getting lost once, but now he’d done it. The robo-voice was telling him to turn left, and he couldn’t. Halfway down the narrow, cobblestoned, one-way street, construction blocked what should be his route to Nick and Olympia’s rehearsal party, where he was due in a matter of minutes.

  Jamie started backing up. Behind him, a horn blasted. “Fuck,” he muttered, “Sorry. Shoot me,” and pulled to the curb. The other car passed and turned into a private drive behind a narrow brick house that looked a couple of hundred years old. Stressed and discouraged, he cut off the engine. Gasser, drowsing on the passenger seat, stirred with a questioning “mer?” and raised his head.

  “Yeah. I could use some cat time. Thanks.” Jamie took Gasser in his lap and closed his eyes. For the moment there was nothing but purring and the warmth of flesh and fur. His anxiety abated. The cat was so patient with him. No matter what Jamie needed from him or when, Gasser was there.

  What would happen if Gasser got sick like William? Jeezus. Jamie had gone to that workshop for the sole purpose of being able to tell, and he’d been no good at medical intuition. Mae had found Gasser to be healthy, if fat, but that had been in the middle of August. Jamie probed his pet for lumps and stopped when Gasser hissed. “Sorry.” Jamie lifted him, kissed his forehead, and set him back down. “Just worry about you, y’know? Don’t think I could live without you.”

  If I’m going to live, period. Jamie was checking his cat for lumps when he now had lymph nodes in his groin as well as his neck swelling up like little aliens under his skin. Fear seized him, a blinding, suffocating panic, and he shoved the door open, desperate for air. Sniffing, Gasser sat up, poised to jump from the van. Jamie clutched him. “No, no, mate. No.”

  His cell phone rang its Mozart ring tone. He shut the door, took slow deep breaths, and answered.

  “Where are you?” Jen asked. “Are you lost?”

  “Sort of.” He tried to steady his voice. “I’m almost there, but I’m on a one-way street and there’s construction.”

  “Oh, yes, you needed to go a different route. You didn’t update your maps?”

  “Didn’t know you had to.” Mae had given him the GPS at the nadir of his last tour, a moment that still distressed him to remember. Unable to cope with the bad luck and harassment that had plagued him, he’d been a wreck, and she’d seen him that way—and then given him this utterly practical gift. A pity gift for the broken man. If she could see him now, would she pity him again? Jamie came back to his conversation, wondering how long he’d zoned out. “Mae gave it to me. I never read the manual.”

  “Are you in a legal parking spot?”

  Jamie looked. There was a meter. “Yeah, if I pay for it.”

  “We’ll walk over and meet you. What’s the name of the street?”

  He surprised himself by remembering, told her, and then leaned back, placing the phone between Gasser’s paws. “Wake me up in five, mate.”

  With an ease that eluded him at night, he dropped into slumber as if a hole had swallowed him.

  A tapping on his window startled him and he woke, not knowing where he was for a moment. Jen was looking at him with a tense, tight little smile. A very done-up Jen. Her fluffy hair was styled into a layered bob and her kitten-like eyes were made up with something coppery that sparkled.

  Jamie moved Gasser to the passenger seat and got out. Hubert and the twins were just catching up with Jen. Though she wore heels that looked too high to walk in, let alone run, she had rushed ahead of them.

  Jamie gave her a hug and she held on. Through her light dress and the soft shawl she’d thrown over it, she felt thinner than she had in December. Harder. As if all she did was work out. Was that her go-to stress reaction?

  “How are you?” he asked.

  “Worried. You’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

  “Relax,” Hubert said. “It’s a party. People are having a good time.” He rested a hand on each child’s head. At the words “good time,” one of the twins curled her lip at the corner in a sneer that made Jamie snort-laugh. What a great expression. Except it meant they weren’t having a good time. Hubert smoothed his daughters’ lank hair back from their faces and frowned. “Most of ’em, anyway. If you're five minutes behind some schedule, I don’t think it matters. You need a hand with your instruments?”

  “Nah, just bringing the flutes.”

  The girls came up for hugs, and Jamie bent down to wrap them in a group squeeze.

  “Nice van,” Hubert said. He wore a suit that looked as if he might have had it since high school and a dress shirt with a frayed collar. “Glad you got a new one. How’s it running?”

  “Great. Miss the old Aerostar, but this one’s reliable.” Jamie opened the back of the van. The twins clambered in after him and explored his things while he probed under the blankets, finding his flute cases. Despite the smoked rear windows, he still kept coverings draped over his suitcases, didg, drums, and solo sound system, everything but Gasser’s litterbox. The cat now lumbered into the cargo area to do his business. He began to scratch around and then glared at the twins, who were playing with one of the drums.

  “He poops in your van?” asked one of the girls. Jamie wasn’t sure how to tell them apart. They wore identical prissy pastel pink dresses and lace-trimmed ankle socks. One wore a hot pink sweater, the other a turquoise sweater with purple cuffs, but he didn’t know who wore which color. The one in the pink sweater had spoken. She continued, “Doesn’t it stink?”

  “Yeah, but he stinks anyway. He farts, remember?” Jamie got out. “Give him some privacy. He doesn’t like anyone around when he takes a crap.”

  The girls jumped out after him, and he closed the van. The twin in the turquoise sweater sidled up and took his hand, looking up into his eyes. “You’re very kind to like him even though he’s stinky.”

  Stream. Jamie knew which twin this was now. “He’s easy to love. He puts up with a lot of crap from me, too.”

  Jen did an impatient little dance, comical but anxious, as she urged, “Come on, come on, come on,” hopping slightly and making sweeping gestures as if to brush them all ahead of her like a janitor with a broom.

  Jamie patted his pockets for his keys and wallet, but found only a few coins. The flowing, unstructured drawstring pants had no rear pockets, which made carrying his wallet awkward, so he’d taken to putting it in the glove box. He checked the front door, though h
e knew he’d pressed the automatic key to lock it before opening the back. The keys had to have fallen out while he was crawling around getting his flutes. “Bloody hell.”

  Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Locked your keys in it?”

  “Yeah.” Then Jamie remembered something. “No worries. Wendy made me put one of those key-hiding doovalackies on it. Never had to use it before. Glad she did, though.” Over Jen’s protest that she should pay, Jamie dropped coins into the meter. “Let’s go.”

  “Don’t you want to get your spare key?” Jen asked.

  “And have that one fall out of my pocket? Better where it is.”

  “In the doovalacky,” Stream said.

  As they walked, Hubert and Jen in front, Jamie and twins behind, Brook and Stream took his hands and sang new words to his nonsense song, playing with it back and forth.

  “Doovalacky, who’s a wacky, quacky-dacky-doo.”

  “Cracker jacky hacky sacky doovalacky woo.”

  “I like that.” Jamie swung their arms and added some variation to the melody plus some quacks. “I should sing that at this party.”

  The twins hooted with laughter, and Brook quacked. Jamie called to Jen, “No worries. All love songs, I promise, including the French one.”

  “Your hand is hot,” Stream said.

  Jamie’s fever was coming back. But he also gave off the heat Fiona had told him could occur after the energy centers in his palms came alive. “From being trained as a healer. The hand chakras are open.”

  “The what?” Brook asked.

  “Chakras. They’re like ...” He wasn’t sure how to explain the concept to children. “Places where your soul shows in your body. Where it has, like, circulation.”

  Brook repeated the word circulation and squinted at him. Jamie shrugged. “Ask your mum. She can explain it better.”