Danger Signals

by Kathleen Creighton

  I can't read him. He's shielding himself from me-which is proof he does believe, even if he doesn't know it yet.

  Okay, except for that one moment, that blast of pure lust. He hadn't quite been able to shield that-few men could. She was used to that sort of response from men, but she didn't think she'd ever get over being embarrassed by it.

  Probably she was just tired. Crime scenes always did that to her. The intensity of emotions-the pain, the fear, the rage and regret-sapped her energy the way a bout of the flu would, leaving her wobbly and light-headed. Utterly drained. She wanted-needed-to renew her soul. Maybe go up to the Rose Garden, to feed on the pure joy and simple beauty there. Or to the empty quiet, the complete absence of emotion that was her home so often these days…

  The step was there unexpectedly, the step down from the curbing that separated the sidewalk from the parking lot. She didn't see it, wasn't ready for it, and it jarred the left side of her body all the way to her jaw. She stumbled and lurched forward, bracing for a humiliating fall. And instead felt a hand close hard around her upper arm.

  At the same instant her mind felt the sting of profound emotional turmoil, like a slap in the face. It was a sense of loneliness and frustration and loss, and also of empty spaces, as if pieces of the man were missing, simply not there. It unnerved her, in that one brief moment before it was gone, and its going left her feeling oddly bereft and at the same time awed, as if she'd happened to catch a glimpse, just one silvery flash, of some extraordinarily rare and elusive creature.

  "Are you all right?"

  The detective was looking at her with that compassionate frown again, and she realized she had caught hold of his forearm and was clinging to it like a sapling in a hurricane. Lord only knew what he must have thought-that she'd injured something, sprained an ankle, probably.

  She hastily let go of his arm and said. "Yes-yes, I'm fine-thank you-" her voice made jerky by the brushes and tugs she was making to her hair and clothing, setting herself to rights. "I didn't see that step. I'm sorry."

  "No problem." His voice was the cop's, flat, devoid of all expression. So were his eyes, as he went on looking at her in that narrowed-down way cops have that can make even the most innocent of citizens feel guilty as sin. "Sure you're okay?"

  "Yes. Really. I just… I think I'd like to go home now, if there's nothing else you…" He shook his head, and she drew a sharp quick breath of profound relief. "I'm going to need a ride, though-I came in a squad car. I'm sorry to bother you, but is there someone you could ask…?"

  "I'll take you. Where do you live?"

  "Oh, but you-I'm sure you must be very busy. I don't want-"

  "It's no problem. I'm heading back to the shop anyway. Nothing more I can do here." He took a firmer grip on her arm and steered her to the left, away from the media trucks and waiting cameras.

  He couldn't have said why he was doing this, not with any truthfulness. He told himself he wanted to ask her some questions, find out more about her and her so-called impressions. Never entertained the thought there could be any other reason for spending another minute in the woman's company.

  She seems so vulnerable. Is it an act? I'm a cop, I should be able to tell. But I can't. What is it she feels when she looks at me? Does she know about-

  But those thoughts he pushed firmly out of his mind and slammed and locked the door to make sure they stayed out.

  Okay, so she's one hell of an attractive woman. And I'm a guy. Guys like attractive women, so why should I be any different?

  Yeah, but she's not my type, he told himself, kicking that thought out the door, as well. He wasn't exactly sure what his type was, except for one thing: he liked his women sexy and fun and without complications. And while this one could probably pass muster on the first requirement, he had real doubts about the second. And as for number three, well…he was pretty sure complicated didn't even begin to describe her.

  Neither of them spoke again until they were settled in the front seats of his unmarked gray sedan. She-what was her name? Started with a T. Terry? Tracy? No-something unusual. Damn.

  "Where to, Miss…" He let it hang just long enough.

  "It's Doyle. But please call me Tierney." She glanced at him as she clicked her seat belt into place, and he wondered once more if she'd read his mind and taken pity on him. But she didn't read minds…or claimed she didn't. "Or even Tee," she added, "if you wish. Some people do." Her half smile told him she knew the chances of him doing likewise were slim.

  Which was maybe why he said, out of pure contrariness, "Okay, Miss Tee it is, then. I'm Wade, by the way. Wade Callahan." He turned in his seat to offer his hand. Did it out of long habit, then kicked himself for hesitating, for having second thoughts. For wondering whether it was "safe" to touch her, or if physical contact might open up some kind of psychic channel between them. Kicked himself all the more for even thinking those thoughts, knowing it meant he had to believe at least some of what she claimed to be able to do might be real.

  Her hand was warm in his, small but vibrant, reminding him of a gentle but wary animal that had allowed him to hold it for one short moment in his grasp.

  "Wade," she murmured, and there was a shimmer of amusement in her eyes. Eyes so clear and blue and…yes, normal, he wondered how anyone in their right mind could believe she had creepy gifts. The Sight-or whatever she wanted to call it.

  He released her hand and was smiling crookedly as he wrapped his around the gearshift lever, wondering whether it was himself or her he was smiling at.

  She lived with her grandmother, he discovered, in an apartment above an art gallery called Jeannette's, in a formerly hippieish part of the city that was gradually becoming yuppified. No surprises there; Wade figured if he ever wanted to hang out his psychic shingle it was the place he'd choose. Just enough hippie left to provide plenty of local ambience, with a New Age slant to appeal to the yuppies who went in for that sort of thing.

  What did surprise him, though, when Tierney led him through the gallery to the stairs at the back, was how much of the artwork on display actually appealed to him. The watercolors particularly. Not the roses, so much, although he could see the real artistry in them. They were a bit too pretty and feminine-for want of a better word-for his taste. But the waterfalls, now those he wouldn't mind hanging on his own walls. There was something about them… He paused to look closer at one, and a coolness, like fresh moist air, seemed to pour into him, filling all the churning dark places. He felt a strange easing inside, a sense of quietude and peace.

  'That's Multnomah Falls," Tierney said. "It's one of my favorite places." He hadn't been aware of her coming to stand beside him.

  "Yeah," he said, "mine, too." He saw it now, the neat and vaguely archaic signature in the lower righthand corner: T. Doyle. He glanced at her and stated the obvious. "These are yours."

  She nodded without looking away from the painting, her smile crooked. "When I'm working on a case-like this one-I like to go there, or to places like it. Places where people feel a sense of awe. Or just…happy. Thankful." She nodded at a panel hung with a grouping of the rose paintings. 'The Portland Rose Gardens-that's another, and it's closer, easier to get to when I'm…when I need it. Those emotions-good emotions-nourish me. The other kind, the bad emotions…" She shook her head and glanced up at him before moving away. "I don't know why I'm telling you this. I'm sure you're not interested, since you don't believe in what I do."

  "Haven't made up my mind on that score, actually." He was surprised to discover that was true, and judging from the smile he glimpsed as he held the door she'd opened, so was she.

  He followed her through the door into a small passageway that led to what appeared to be an office, or maybe a storeroom, and the back entrance to the right, and to the left, a flight of stairs. The space smelled of some sort of cleaning product-maybe several mixed up together. Whatever it was, he couldn't quite place it. "But I'd be interested, whether I believe in what you do or not. I'm always interested in
what makes people tick."

  "Tick?" A ripple of light laughter drifted down to him as she mounted the stairs ahead of him. "You mean, you'd like to know what my 'racket' is, don't you?"

  "Well, sure." he said, carefully screening his enjoyment at the view. "That, too."

  On the landing at the top of the stairs, Tierney paused to take a key from the pocket of her slacks and insert it in the door's dead bolt lock.

  "If you don't mind waiting here for a moment, I'll see if my grandmother's…" The rest she left hanging as she opened the door and stepped inside, leaving him standing on the landing.

  After a moment he pushed on the door she'd left almost closed but unlatched, widening the crack so he could hear what was going on inside the apartment. Didn't hesitate or feel guilty about it, either. That was the thing about being a cop-nosiness pretty much went with the territory.

  He heard Tierney call softly, her voice light, sweet, gentle, as if she were talking to a very small child. "Jennie, darling, it's Tee…"

  There was a ripple of laughter, low and musical, and a voice to match it said, "Hello, dear."

  The next words were muffled, as if by an embrace. "Gran, do you feel like having company? I've brought a friend. His name is Wade Callahan. Would you like to meet him?"

  More of that laughter, and the voice took on a certain unmistakable lilt. "Wade Callahan-a fine Irish name! Have him come in, by all means. I'd dearly love to meet him."

  "Are you sure? You're not too tired?"

  "Not at all, darlin'-what gave you such an idea? I'm never too tired to meet a friend of yours, particularly an Irish lad."

  Tierney's face appeared in the partly open doorway, looking flustered. "Sorry about that." she murmured breathlessly as she opened the door wide and beckoned him in. "Detective-ah. Wade, I'd like you to meet my grandmother, Jeannette Doyle."

  He didn't know what he'd expected-an invalid, someone frail and ancient, but sprightly, perhaps?-but it sure as hell wasn't the person who rose from a chair near the window as he entered, holding out her hand in greeting.

  She was, quite possibly, the most exquisitely beautiful woman he'd ever seen. She wasn't tall, but her slender build and the way she carried herself made her seem so. Her head sat atop her long neck at an angle that made him think of ballerinas in flowing white dresses, or a queen bestowing her grace upon her subjects. Her hands seemed to have a life of their own. like white doves or lilies, and her hair, parted in the middle and falling in gentle waves to her shoulders, was an incredible shade of red-gold that seemed to capture light where there was none and give it back a thousand times brighter. She wore slim black slacks and a long tunic top in a soft sea-green, with iridescent blue-and-gold braided trim around the edges of the draped sleeves and neckline, and open-toed, wedge-heeled gold slippers.

  "Wade Callahan, 'tis a pleasure to meet you." Her smile was flirtatious as a girl's, her blue-green eyes bright and wicked.

  And it was only then, when she drew near enough to reach out and place those graceful white hands in his, that he saw the lines around her mouth, the softness of her jawline, the fragile crepelike skin around her eyes that gave away her age. Though just what that might be, he wouldn't even venture to guess.

  She pulled her hands from his and tilted her head, regarding him in a measuring sort of way. "But you're no more Irish than the pope, now, are you, lad?"

  He caught a breath and let it go in a gust of surprised laughter, almost covering Tierney's dismayed gasp.

  "Gran!"

  "Well, he isn't," the lady hissed back, like an obstinate child.

  Tierney shot him a look of mute apology. She seemed tense, watchful. Wade thought, like an anxious parent with a precocious and unpredictable child. His cop sense prickled along the back of his neck, telling him something was "off" here-not dangerous or anything like that-just odd.

  "No, it's okay. She's right," he said, surprising himself; his personal history wasn't something he normally shared with strangers. "I was adopted. It's my adoptive parents who are Irish." He smiled winningly at the old lady. "Ma'am. I don't have any idea what I am, to tell you the truth. Mongrel, I expect."

  Jeannette hesitated, looked wary, suddenly, and frightened. Wade felt a creeping sensation along the back of his neck as she leaned forward and peered into his face. One frail-looking hand clutched his with surprising strength. "Do I know you?"

  "No, Gran." Tierney began, but the old lady had already jerked around to transfer her anxious hands and worried frown to her granddaughter.

  "I don't know him. do I? Who is he? What is he doing here? Is he lost?" On that last word, her musical voice dropped to a cracking whisper. "I believe he's lost, Isabella. Go and get him some tea. And some biscuits. He's probably hungry, young boys are always hungry, you know…"

  Chapter 2

  "Yes, Jennie, darling," Tierney said soothingly as she put her arm around her grandmother's shoulders and gently turned her toward the kitchen. "I'm sure he is hungry. Why don't you go and find some biscuits to go with the tea. And some sandwiches would be nice."

  She didn't look at the detective. She was too busy bracing against the fractured emotions-confusion, fear, grief and anger-that radiated from Jeannette in waves at times like these. She couldn't worry right now about what he might be thinking. She'd felt his sharp flash of recognition before the barriers slammed shut like storm shutters, but no doubt the clamor of Jeannette's emotions would have overwhelmed his anyway.

  She left her grandmother opening cupboards and muttering to herself and went back to the living room, bracing for the inevitable questions. The suffocating blanket of sympathy.

  She found Detective Callahan where she had left him, hands in his pockets, jacket askew, watching her with thoughtful, compassionate eyes.

  You're right, Jennie, darling, lost is a better word than missing. He's lost those pieces of himself.

  "That will occupy her for a while. She won't remember such a complicated task," she explained with a small smile of apology. "She'll sit down at the table and try to pick up the threads, which will be upsetting for her. To avoid it she'll go somewhere inside her mind, somewhere in her past where she was happy. That's where she spends most of her time now."

  "Alzheimer's?" the detective asked. She nodded, and he murmured, "I'm sorry." The sympathy was there, but muted, as all his emotions seemed to be.

  Except for those bright flashes, like strobe lights in the dark. "So am I. I wish you could have known her the way she was. She was…something."

  "She still is."

  She threw him a quick, grateful glance and thought. He has the nicest eyes. Kind eyes. An instant later she saw those same eyes narrow and become slightly less kind.

  "Who is Isabella?"

  "You don't miss much, do you?" she said lightly, stepping past him to open the door. "That's my mother's name. Gran calls me that when she's…confused. Which is why I call her Jennie, then-she doesn't understand why I would call her Gran when as far as she's concerned she's my mother."

  He followed her onto the landing. "Jennie? Not Mom or Mother?"

  "Evidently," she said, without looking up as she closed and locked the door, "that's what my mother called her."

  "Evidently?"

  "I haven't seen my mother since I was three."

  "Ah." His tone was flat, but she felt a wave of something warm, almost like kinship wafting after her as he followed her down the stairs. At the bottom he glanced at her before reaching past her to open the door-a gesture of gallantry she suspected must be automatic for him. Someone had taught him manners, and taught them well. "Something we have in common. I guess." She threw him a curious look and he gave her back his wry smile. "I don't remember my mother, either."

  She couldn't know what a rare thing it was for him to talk about that stuff-at least he didn't think she could. He sure as hell didn't know what made him do it.

  "I never said I don't remember her," she said as she passed him. "My memories of my mother are quite
vivid, actually."

  "From when you were three? Is that part of the…" He waved a hand, trying to think of a term that wouldn't be insulting. "Your psychic thing?"

  "In a way, I guess." She smiled at him in a gently forgiving way. "I've gotten all the memories I have of my mother from Jeannette."

  It took him maybe three heartbeats to get it. Then he said. "Ah" again-a bit more sardonic, this time. "Your grandmother has it, too, then? This…"

  "Gift?" They were passing through the gallery, and he saw Tierney pause to touch the watercolor painting of Multnomah Falls. He saw tension in the lines between her eyebrows and wondered if she had a headache. "Days like this, it's hard to think of it that way."

  Then she seemed to shake it off. whatever the darkness was. and moved on. "My grandmother's…abilities, or whatever you want to call them, are different from mine. I am what is known, in the psychic world-" she cut her eyes at him in a droll way that made him chuckle "-as an empath. There's probably a word for what Jeannette is, as well, but I don't know what it is. She just…knows things. About people. Like she knew you aren't really Irish. Plus, she and I have this special connection. I guess, because we can share memories. Normally, I don't really see actual images, but with her I can. Used to, anyway." Her face seemed to cloud over. "I used to see them-her memories of my mother-like photos in an album. Color photos, clear and bright. Now…well, now they're sort of fragmented, like a jumbled jigsaw puzzle."

  I have memories like that.

  The thought came to him with a flash of surprise, like what his mother used to call a lightbulb moment-from the comics, she'd explain. He heard himself say, "I know what you mean." And frowned, because he hadn't meant to voice the thought out loud.

  Tierney glanced up at him. smiling her gentle smile.

  Yes…I think you do. That's what these flashes I keep getting from you are all about. We've a kinship, you and I, whether you like it or not. The truth is, neither of us had a chance to know our parents.