Storm Warning

by Dinah McCall

  Something hovered at the back of Ginny’s mind, but it was too indistinct to identify.

  “Thunder always makes me—”

  “Sleepy,” Sully finished. “That’s right. You’ve said that before.” He looked at Dan. “Thunderstorms almost put her in a—”

  “Trance,” Ginny said, for the first time wondering if that lifelong trait of lethargy might not be natural after all.

  “Do it again,” Ginny said.

  “Hell no,” Sully said.

  “You brought me out of it before. You can do it again. Besides, what if that was a fluke? Did you see what happened? Were you watching me?”

  Neither man could answer.

  “That’s what I thought. Neither one of you can be sure that it was the tape. Play it again. Right now. Right here in front of me so there’s no mistake.”

  “Then get the others in here, too,” Sully said. “I want all the witnesses we can get. Someone might notice something that we don’t.”

  “Good idea,” Dan said, and headed for the door.

  Sully wanted to argue, but this was a side of Ginny he hadn’t seen before. She was in charge, and she was focused on doing this her way.

  He frowned and then smoothed a wayward hair off her face.

  “Just so you know…”

  “I know. Opposition duly noted.”

  He frowned, but before he could comment further, Dan was back with the men. Obviously he had explained the situation to them before they’d come in, because none of the trio seemed surprised by the request.

  “All right,” Sully said. “I want you to pay close attention to Ginny’s behavior. Something in this tape put her out like a light. When this is over, I want some opinions. Short of flying her to one of our specialists, which I have yet to rule out—”

  Ginny put her hand on his arm. “Sully…play the tape.”

  He wanted to yank it out of the recorder and set the thing on fire, but that wouldn’t solve a thing. Somewhere the perpetrator was waiting for them to lower their guard, and when they did, Ginny would become another of his victims.

  He looked at her once—at the determination in her eyes—and then nodded. When she sat back in the chair, he pressed the play button and then turned up the volume.

  Thunder sounded, then rippled through her skin, like echoes off distant mountains. Her eyes widened; her mouth went slack.

  Sully held his breath as on the tape the sound of chimes superimposed itself above the storm—resonating deeply and then moving up the scale in clear and precise tones.

  Her eyes went flat. Her head rolled on her neck, and then her chin dropped toward her chest.

  Sully grunted as if he’d just been punched in the gut.

  Even though the chimes repeated twice more, Ginny had no other reaction. It was as if she was waiting. But for what?

  Sully turned off the tape and then looked at the men. They were as stunned as he. He laid the recorder aside and had started to reach for Ginny when Franklin Chee suddenly grabbed his arm, holding him back.

  Let me, he mouthed silently, and then squatted down in front of her, studying her face without touching her.

  “Ginny…can you hear me?”

  When she nodded, Sully felt as if he’d been sucker-punched.

  “It’s time for you to wake up now. I’m going to count backward from ten, and when I say ‘Now’ you’re going to open your eyes and you will feel fine. Are you ready?”

  She sighed, then nodded again.

  “Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. You’re feeling lighter, more alert. You can hear the sound of my voice even better than before. Six. Five. Four. It’s almost morning, and you’re ready to get up. You will be happy and refreshed when you open your eyes, and you will not be afraid. Three. Two. One. Now!”

  Ginny looked up, saw the Navajo agent on his knees and grinned.

  “Is this a proposal?”

  Franklin Chee smiled as he stood.

  “I think Agent Dean would have my head for even thinking it,” he said, and then turned and faced the other men.

  “How did you do that?” Sully asked.

  “Sometime during her life she has been given a post-hypnotic suggestion that was never removed.”

  “But I didn’t hear any words on the tape,” Dan said.

  “It doesn’t have to be words. It can be anything, even a series of sounds. Whatever she’s been conditioned to respond to is the thing that will put her quickly under. After that, it’s simply a matter of waiting for instructions. It’s a fairly common method, like a parlor trick professional hypnotists might use at a party.”

  “How did you know to do that?” Sully asked.

  Franklin shrugged. “I read a book.”

  “I’m thinking there’s more to you than meets the eye,” Dan said. “Maybe I need to read your file a little closer.”

  “Guys…”

  They stopped talking among themselves and looked at Ginny.

  “Forgive me if I’m interrupting this discussion, but did I do it again?”

  “Oh yeah,” Sully said.

  “What did I do…exactly?” she asked.

  Franklin answered in a way she would understand.

  “You just closed your eyes as you’d been taught and waited for the voice.”

  “What voice?”

  “The voice of the man who did this to you.”

  Ginny suddenly felt sick, wondering what else he might have done to seven little girls in a state of unconsciousness.

  “Okay,” Dan said. “Thanks for your help, men.” He clapped Chee on the shoulder as he walked them to the door. “Especially you, Franklin. You’re a man of many talents.”

  Franklin nodded, then cast a teasing eye at his brother and grinned.

  “Webster does a pretty good imitation of John Wayne, if anybody’s interested.”

  The solemn comment made everyone laugh, which was what Franklin Chee had intended. He looked back once at Ginny and then walked out the door with the others behind him.

  Dan shoved his hands through his hair in quick frustration and then reached in his pocket for his phone.

  “What are you going to do next?” Sully asked.

  “Find Edward Fontaine and hope to hell he can remember who taught that gifted class.”

  Orlando, Florida

  Edward Fontaine picked his way down the steps of his little cottage, pausing long enough to scoot a beetle out of his path with his cane before continuing on. A young boy on a tricycle came wheeling around the corner with his mother not far behind, moving at a jog.

  “Hello, Martin, how are you this fine morning?” Edward called.

  The little boy beamed and yelled back, “I can ride this really fast. Watch me go.”

  Edward watched, trying to remember if he’d ever been that young or that mobile.

  “Good morning, Mr. Fontaine,” the young mother said, giving him a brief wave as she continued her daily run.

  “Good morning to you, too, Patricia. Martin seems in fine form this morning.”

  She nodded and disappeared beyond the clump of palm trees on the corner.

  Edward lifted his head and exhaled deeply. Yes, it was a fine morning indeed. And for a man of his years, he was blessed to be here at all.

  The smile was still on his face as he crossed the street, continuing on his daily walk to the beach. He loved the ocean and the solace of the warm, daily sun. The sun was good for his arthritis, as were these walks.

  The pier that he favored was almost empty this morning. Just the way he liked it. He would walk all the way to the end, just as he did every day when it wasn’t raining, and then on his way back he would stop at the little coffee shop on the corner and have a coffee and a doughnut. His doctor told him not to indulge in too many sweets, but he chose not to listen. He was already eighty-three. He would rather have a doughnut for breakfast and be happy than live to be a miserable one hundred with all his teeth.

  A seagull swooped across the pier a few feet in front o
f him, and he frowned and waved his cane in the air.

  “Get back, you winged beggar. I’m coming through.” Then he laughed aloud at his own foolishness.

  He gave only the most casual of glances to a couple having their breakfast while tossing bits and pieces of it on the pier to watch the gulls come swooping in.

  Tourists, he thought to himself. The rest of us know better.

  The ocean breeze lifted the tufts of white hair still clinging to his scalp, ruffling the ends until they stood up from behind his ears like sheer, snowy feathers. Only a few more steps and he would be at the end of the pier. He could taste that doughnut now. Maybe he would have a plain cake one today. He always chose a raspberry filled, but maybe today he would be different.

  He reached the end of the pier and punctuated the goal with a thump of his cane, then stood for a moment, staring out into the blue of the Atlantic. There was a sail on the horizon, and a clutch of seabirds overhead shrieked their disapproval of his presence.

  “Excuse me. Are you Edward Fontaine?”

  He turned. “Yes. I’m sorry…I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

  “Actually, you have. I’m sorry, but it’s all for the best.”

  “Sorry? What have you to be—”

  It didn’t take much more than a push. He went backward easily, so surprised he forgot to yell. And when the water closed over his face, his last thought was that after all his years on this earth, he should have learned how to swim.

  Emile Karnoff paid the cabdriver and had picked up his suitcase and started toward the front door when it suddenly opened.

  “Emile! You’re home! What a wonderful surprise!”

  Emile put down his suitcase and enfolded his little wife in a warm embrace.

  “It’s good to be back,” he said, and closed his eyes as he kissed the top of her head. Her dress was the color of lilacs, his favorite flower, and she smelled like lemon and thyme. He smiled. She’d been in her garden. It was times like this that made him wonder why he ever left home.

  “Come inside,” Lucy said. “Have you eaten? Phillip will be so excited. Only last night we were lamenting how long you’d been gone.”

  She chose to omit the fact that Phillip had been in one of his moods and angry about his father’s absence, rather than sad. But she wasn’t as worried as she might once have been. She’d been playing the tapes for him every night and was convinced that she had the situation well under control.

  Emile opted not to comment on the fact that Phillip was here, rather than at a job. It wasn’t the time to confront Lucy, or his son. This was a time for homecoming, not retribution.

  “I had some peanuts and a soft drink on the plane,” Emile said. “But I would love nothing better than a cup of your tea and some of your homemade nut bread. Please tell me you have some.”

  The breeze ruffled Lucy’s silvery curls as she clapped her hands in delight.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “And it’s your favorite. Cranberry nut.”

  Emile picked up his suitcase and then slipped his other arm over her shoulder.

  “You are my Wonder Woman. You know that, don’t you?”

  Lucy beamed. She knew. And the fact that he acknowledged it was her special prize.

  Phillip stood at the head of the staircase, listening to his parents chatter as they came inside the door. It was always the same with him, somewhere on the periphery of their universe, waiting to be noticed.

  Hey, wimpy boy…aren’t you going to go down and hug your daddy’s neck?

  “Shut up,” Phillip whispered.

  His expression darkened as laughter echoed in his head. As his parents moved from the hallway into the den, he doubled up his fists and spun away. Nothing ever changed. Why had he thought this time would be different?

  If you want things different, you know what you can do.

  “I don’t hear you,” Phillip said in a whiney, singsong voice, just like a little child would do.

  Yes, you do, Baby boy. You hear, and one of these days you’re going to obey.

  He slammed the door shut behind him as he strode over to his dresser. Leaning forward, he braced both hands on the dresser top and stared at himself in the large square mirror.

  “Obey? Where the hell do you get obey?” Phillip sneered. “You think I don’t have enough people telling me what to do already? You think I’m so stupid that I’d give myself over to even one more will? If you do, then you’ve got another think coming. I’m getting tired of this. Do you hear me? I won’t put up with this crap anymore. You leave me the hell alone or I’ll end it all, right now.”

  Shaking with anger, he stood before the mirror, waiting for another taunt—for that one more dig that would make the rest of the day another hell. Strangely, the voice was silent.

  A slow smile split the scowl he was wearing. His eyes began to glitter, and a muscle in his jaw began to jerk. He straightened, his shoulders thrust back in a gesture of defiance, and for the first time in more years than he could remember, he felt like he was the one in charge.

  As he went to greet his father, there was so much going on inside his brain, it never occurred to him that he’d stopped the voice by threatening to end his own existence.

  Downstairs, Emile basked in the glory of Lucy’s love and care. Except for small, unimportant details that would certainly work themselves out, his life was just about perfect.

  “Darling,” Emile said. “Sit with me. Tell me what you’ve been doing while I was away.”

  Lucy slipped gracefully into a chair, crossing her legs at the ankles and folding her hands in her lap as she’d been taught as a child.

  “My days are so unimportant compared to yours. Please, tell me about your trip. Was the consultation a success?”

  Emile beamed. Another chance to speak of his work with the person who loved him most.

  “Yes, that it was,” he said. “The woman was improving daily as I left. I gave one of the young doctors training in my techniques so that her healing would continue.” Then he changed the subject, but only a bit. “Oh, Lucy, sweetheart, you should see Ireland! It is the most wonderful place. Quaint villages, the green, rolling hills with hidden valleys down below. Sheep dotting the pastures in the distance like tiny white balls of fluff. And the air! Ah…it’s as the world must have been a hundred…no, two hundred years ago. Clean…pure. Oh! I must not forget the people. They are amazing—so kind—so friendly. Quite a lot of people walk about the countryside, many bicycle, not bothered by the danger of being mugged. You would absolutely love it there.”

  Lucy nodded dutifully, although privately she would have disagreed. She didn’t want to walk or ride a bicycle anywhere. As for country living, she’d had her fill of that growing up on her father’s Kansas dairy farm. She’d dreamed of a more genteel life for so many years, and now that she had it, she wasn’t going to give it up for anyone or anything—not even Emile, bless his heart.

  She sighed, then smiled and nodded as he continued to wax eloquent regarding Dublin itself. She wasn’t stupid, although she suspected from time to time that he wasn’t so sure. He was laying groundwork, dropping hints. But she wasn’t living in a foreign country, not even a charming one, and that was that. And when she saw Phillip coming into the room, she was glad that he’d come. A change of subject was certainly in order.

  “Father! Welcome home!”

  A momentary frown furrowed across Emile’s forehead. He did not like to be interrupted. Surely Phillip could see that he’d been talking.

  “Phillip. You’re looking well.”

  “That’s because I haven’t been sick,” he snapped, and gave his father a dutiful peck on the cheek.

  The snappish tone in his son’s voice surprised him. The boy was usually quite meek.

  Lucy twisted the fabric of her skirt and started to giggle nervously. Lord, please don’t let this be one of Phillip’s bad days.

  “Phillip has a few surprises of his own to share,” she said, then lifted
her face to the other man in her life, blessing him with a smile. “Tell him, dear. Tell your father what you’ve been doing.”

  Phillip frowned. He would rather have kept this part of his life to himself…at least for a while. But, as always, Mother had interfered. He almost wished he hadn’t confided in her, but then dismissed the thought. If he didn’t have her as backup, he would have no one.

  “Yes, Phillip. Do tell me what you’re doing with yourself now.”

  It was the condescension in his father’s voice that tipped the scales.

  “I decided to put my English degree to use. I’m writing a book.”

  To say Emile was surprised would have been putting it mildly. But it was a pleasant surprise. And as he looked at his son, it occurred to him that that was a job for which Phillip might actually be suited.

  “Why…that’s wonderful,” he said, and actually stood and shook his son’s hand. “And since I think I understand the creative genius enough to empathize, I won’t intrude upon your work by asking you what it’s about. I’m sure you’ll tell us in your own time.”

  Phillip wanted to cry. All these years he’d struggled to please his father—to do something that would earn just this type of response—to see approval light his father’s eyes.

  “Yes. You’re right. I’m in the very first stages of a rough draft, but it’s coming along.”

  Emile smiled and then did something he hadn’t done in more than twenty-five years. He put his arms around his son and patted him on the back.

  You’ve done it now. Now you’re going to have to actually write the book or you’ll be right back in the crapper with the old man.

  But the smile on Phillip’s face had turned to laughter, and the sound was almost loud enough to smother the taunt inside his head.

  15

  Ginny moaned in her sleep, then rolled over. Sully was awake within seconds, his heart pounding as he watched her turn away from him. He lay without moving until he was certain she was all right, and then quietly slipped out of bed, pulling on a pair of gym shorts as he left the room.

  The rust-colored tiles were cool beneath his feet as he moved into the hall. The faint but constant sound of Dan’s snores drifted up the hallway as he headed toward the front of the house. Truth was, he was antsy. Sleep had been almost impossible to come by. Even after making love to Ginny until she’d brought him to a climax that rocked the teeth in the back of his head, he still hadn’t been able to relax. He knew why.