by Angel Smits
This time it was Faith’s turn to be quiet, and Clarissa tasted her rising panic, panic that grew in proportion to the shock she saw dawning in Faith’s eyes. To distract herself and Faith, she reached out and pulled the plate back.
“Shot? Someone was shot? Are you sure?” Faith whispered. “It wasn’t a dream?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Although Faith knew about Clarissa’s abilities, she had no way of knowing how impossible it was to confuse a dream with a vision.
“You’re positive it was in the future?”
“I think so. In the past all my visions have been precognitive.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do? Nothing.”
“You can’t be serious. Clarissa, if someone’s going to die, you have to do something to stop it. I know from experience how accurate your visions are, remember?” Her voice rose and Clarissa looked around, hoping the few scattered customers weren’t listening to them, especially since many of her regulars were from the police station around the corner. Luckily, no familiar uniforms occupied any of the seats.
How could she explain her fears, her reservations, to Faith? They’d been friends for three years and had never discussed her past. She’d never told anyone of the ridicule and suspicion she’d suffered the last time she’d tried to warn a stranger they were in danger. She shivered at the memories that had driven her to leave Boston and move out west to start a whole new life.
“It’s not that simple,” she explained.
“What do you mean by that? You have to do something.”
“I don’t have to do anything.” Clarissa stood and picked up her empty cup. Anything to take away the edge of fear and pain she knew was coming. “Things don’t necessarily change just because you know they are going to happen.” She blinked, fighting the hurt that put a lump in her chest.
Faith stared back at her, questions in her eyes. Yet the way she tilted her head told Clarissa she was trying to understand. “Maybe you had one of those out of body experiences and it . . . it already happened.”
Clarissa had thought about that, too. “Maybe.” She knew better, but she humored Faith and sat back down. “I looked through the papers this morning. There weren’t any reports of a shooting.” All she’d managed to do was stain her fingers with black ink as she read through each of the papers numerous times.
“How do you know it was here in Boulder?”
“I recognized the buildings. I distinctly remember flying over an old church I’ve seen before.” Clarissa dropped the piece of cookie and vaguely heard it thud against the plate. “That’s it. The church.”
Faith smiled and snitched the last of the treat. “That’s what?”
“That’s where it is. Near the church. I’m sure I could find the place if I could find that church.” The silence grew heavy as Clarissa let the realization and usual fear sink in. “I don’t want to get involved in this,” she reluctantly admitted.
“I know.” Faith swallowed. “But you will. That’s the kind of person you are.”
“I really hate it when you’re right.” Clarissa finished gathering their dishes and turned quickly. The heavy, wooden chair fell back onto the floor with a clatter. The few customers seemed barely disturbed by the noise. Relief washed over her. Maybe they hadn’t heard any of their conversation.
Faith reached out and touched her arm. “I didn’t mean to pressure you. Are you sure you’ll be okay?”
“I don’t know.” That was true enough. Once again, memories threatened to swamp her and send her back into her chair, back into hiding. But the image of the man—his handsome face frozen in newly found death—sent a shiver through her soul.
She slammed the mental doors closed. She would not think about that.
Just then the door of the shop opened and Clarissa smiled in relief. “Time to get back to work.” After Faith left, Clarissa purposefully closed her mind to any thoughts of her visions or the man destined to die.
Hours later, she headed for the door, exhausted. Outside the sunset bathed the parking lot in gloom. Her sports car sat in its customary spot, the bright red paint glowing in the late afternoon sun. A cool breeze fingered through her hair and she shivered. It sounded almost as if the breeze whispered her name. Her stomach clenched in anticipation. She spun around to see who was there.
No one.
Still, she felt as if she wasn’t alone. She hurried to her car and unlocked it. Slamming the door closed, she smacked the lock down and felt only slightly safer.
Suddenly, a black bird swooped down, brushing its wide wings on the windshield. It settled on the wiper blade and looked through the glass. Amber eyes glared directly at her. She stared in fascination at the softness of its feathers across its spine. Oddly, she wanted to reach out and stroke the sleek, smooth back. Several long minutes passed as the bird perched there, waiting, watching, unperturbed by her presence.
“Caw,” it let out a throaty call, and just as quickly, lifted its wings and flew away.
This is ridiculous. She started the car and headed home. Still, the bird intrigued her. She’d never had a pet as a child. Too often animals sensed her psychic abilities and feared her. The zoo animals would pace their cages in agitation if she got too near. Dogs and cats in the neighborhood gladly stayed out of her yard.
A reluctant smiled pulled at her lips as she recalled her grandmother’s attempts to compensate. The park near the old woman’s house had a carousel. There the animals weren’t alive and couldn’t fear her. She’d loved to visit the carousel with her grandmother.
The fact that this bird had sat calmly, so near to her, surprised her. Like those old wooden horses, he hadn’t seemed to be scared. Shaking her head, she chased away the disturbing thoughts.
She shifted into gear. After several turns down side streets, the city gave way to neighborhoods of tree-lined streets with small older houses. When she passed the Methodist Church, she drove a block and then stopped.
The Methodist Church. The church. She’d “flown” this way last night, she was sure of it. She parked the car in the shade of an elderly spreading elm. For several long minutes she sat in the warmth of the car, her hands trembling against the plastic steering wheel.
Slowly, she opened the car door. Getting out, she moved closer to the tree, closer to the elements of nature, trying to break away from the interference of the cold, modernized world. The heat of the pavement and the steel of the car often interrupted her messages. She’d learned early in life that when the images became too much, a drive in the car would banish them. Though she often thought of the visions as more plague than blessing, today she tentatively sought them out.
She knew she’d come by here, but the images were fading, and it was difficult to remember which direction she’d gone. The cool breeze tugged at her hair and she closed her eyes, seeking any clues the wind might deem to send her. It had been there with her last night.
West. The diner was only a short distance west of here, in a part of town she seldom visited. Gulping back her apprehension, she climbed into her car and turned at the next stoplight.
For several moments, she drove straight west. Then she stopped and turned right once more, then once again as if something drew her down a path. A narrow, broken driveway shot off to the right and she turned into it. There in front of her was the old diner. She swallowed the fear that pushed in on her.
Through the cracks in the old paint, she could see the building had once been white. Looking closer, she saw shades of red, green and blue, and she was almost certain the present color was supposed to be gray. Either that or another coat of badly faded white.
A broken neon sign sat on top of a faded blue awning, its malfunctioning sizzle filling the warm air around her. Dove’s Place. It sounded more like a brothel than a diner. Hesitantly, she reached for t
he car door handle and climbed out.
Would she find him here? If so, what would she do? Before her uncertainty caught up with her, she opened the door and stepped inside.
The odor of something dank and musty filled the little diner. A slow-moving ceiling fan wafted the scent of thick, strong coffee into the mix.
The décor was as authentic as any she’d seen. Aluminum walls, common in the 1950s and every period movie since, reflected her as if through a time warp. The red vinyl stools were just as they had been in her vision. She looked over to the stool where the man had sat last night. He wasn’t there. A mixture of disappointment and relief swirled inside her, leaving a knot in her stomach.
Though the stool was empty, she could almost see him there, his strong hands curled around the dingy coffee cup. His shoulders had hunched, as if he were trying to draw within himself, as if wanting to ward off all who approached him. Closing her eyes, she saw the beautiful glimmer of his eyes, and how that glimmer had been abruptly snuffed out.
“What can I get ya?” A rough female voice interrupted Clarissa’s thoughts.
“Oh. Uh. Coffee, please.” Clarissa looked around for an empty seat and decided to scoot up on the same stool she had occupied last night. As the waitress poured the thick, dark brew into the stained cup, Clarissa grimaced. She didn’t want to drink it, but she knew if she wanted answers to her questions, insulting the cook was not a good start. “Uhm, Barbara, is it?” She looked at the small gold badge pinned to the woman’s chest. “I’m looking for someone. Do you ever work late at night?”
“Nah, my husband couldn’t stand takin’ care of the kids that long. No, Madge or Linda works that shift. Why?”
“A . . . an old friend used to come in here, and I’d like to locate him. Good looking guy, about my age? Dark brown eyes? Long brown hair?”
“Doesn’t sound familiar.” The waitress wiped the counter with a damp rag, lifting the condiments and cleaning underneath. “If I’m gonna talk to you, I’ve got to look busy. Ms. Marion isn’t exactly an easygoin’ woman.”
“Ms. Marion?”
“The boss’s wife. Ever since he married her a couple years ago, she acts as if she’s our lord and master.”
“Does she ever work the night shift?”
The waitress laughed. “Nah, that woman don’t work—ever—just likes to tell us peons how. Like she ever did an honest day’s work in her life.”
The conversation lagged while questions bounced around Clarissa’s mind. She couldn’t ask all the things she wanted. The woman would think she was nuts—and at the moment, Clarissa wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t be right. She sipped the thick coffee and grimaced, then remembered how the man in the vision had liberally poured sugar into his. It helped a little. “How late are you open?” she asked.
“Just as the sign says. Twenty-four hours a day. Seven days a week.”
“Oh, yes.” Clarissa glanced back at the faded sign in the window. It had been there for some time, the letters having dulled in the sun. She noticed several other customers sat scattered about at tables and old-fashioned booths. The jumble of their conversations formed a soft buzz in the warm air.
None of the events matched her vision. She knew he wouldn’t be here now. “What time does the next shift come in?”
“Linda’s in at three until midnight. Maybe she can help you find your friend.” The waitress left the bill next to Clarissa’s nearly full cup of coffee.
“I might be back.”
“No problem, if you wanna be up that time of night. Not me, I’m up at the crack of dawn. My head’s nodding before the late news even begins.”
“Well, I’m a night owl. Thank you for the coffee.” Clarissa stood and dug around in her purse. “This is my card. Could you have her call me if he comes in?” The woman smiled and slid the card into her uniform pocket. Clarissa wondered if it would vanish in the next wash or if the card would really make it to the next shift. She paid for her coffee, left the full cup on the counter and stepped outside.
The warm fresh afternoon felt good after the stuffy diner. She drank it in, relishing the light mountain air that still amazed her. The heaviness in the diner reminded her too much of Boston and its ancient scents and feel. She shook her head to dispel the thoughts and walked to her car.
The sound of an air pump shattered the peaceful air and startled her. Muffled cuss words followed, and she realized they came from the garage next door. So normal. So ordinary. So, why did the hairs on the back of her neck tingle? She turned, seeking the cause. Nothing looked abnormal.
An old-fashioned general store, with its windows boarded up, stood on one side. Looking down the sidewalk, she saw the remnants of a small town main street. A small town that the city had gobbled up in its growth. Nothing more.
Usually, a place like this, filled with history, gave off vibrations, but this one left her empty, with no impressions at all.
Suppressing a shiver, she hurriedly climbed into her car, anxious to escape this strange place. As she backed out, two men walked behind the car. They passed and when they reached the door of the diner, one of them turned toward her.
Her heart pounded in her chest and sweat drenched her body as her eyes met his.
Frighteningly familiar icy-blue eyes stared back.
The man turned and went inside. Clarissa stared after him. He was the shooter, she was sure of it. But he hadn’t done anything yet.
What could she do? She concentrated on the man, committing every detail about him to memory.
Just in case she didn’t find his victim in time.
Two
FEAR SHOT OUT of the sky in the form of lightning. Clarissa expected the sound of thunder on its tail, but its fierce roar still startled her. The mug she held slipped from her fingers and shattered on the tile floor.
Cocoa laced coffee splashed across her toes. She could only stare as the puddle spread around her, the liquid growing, reaching up and poking at the hem of her skirt, fingering the pale fabric like a lover’s caress.
She cried out and tried to step away, but the coffee had thickened and held her in place.
“No!” she screamed, the sound of the single word breaking the spell, breaking the darkness. And waking her.
She sat up, hugging the pillow close to her chest, burying her face in its softness. The tears that dampened the case surprised her, but she didn’t try to stop them.
The dreams were getting worse and more frequent. She hadn’t had any more true visions, but instead, when she slept, the night tormented her, stealing her rest and planting fear in her soul.
She needed to talk to someone, but Faith was away on assignment. There wasn’t anyone else she trusted that she could talk to. She couldn’t keep on like this, but what could she do? No one else knew about her special sight. No one knew her secrets.
Climbing out of bed, she flipped on the light. The mirror over the dresser reflected her bedraggled image back at her. She stared at the stranger there. How lost and forlorn she looked. “No, damn it.” She stamped her foot in frustration. “Whoever you are, get out of my head,” she yelled into the night.
Determinedly, she straightened the bedcovers, then struck a match from the tin and lit the lavender candle. Its aroma reached out and caressed her. So easy. So sweet. She breathed in and let it soothe her.
Calmed, she climbed back beneath the covers. Instead of turning off the light, she reached for a book and settled down to read. She needed to refocus her thoughts.
Suddenly, a movement caught her eye. Startled, she looked up and gasped. There in the mirror was the image of a man. She looked around the room but saw no one. He was the same man as in her first vision. An unfelt wind lifted his hair and fingered through the dark stands. He stared at her with eyes as dark as night and as empty—as if someone had erased his soul.
&nbs
p; He tilted his head back and while she didn’t hear it, she knew the howl of despair that tore from his throat and shattered the air.
And then she heard a whisper that wasn’t a man’s voice. A whisper so soft she’d have missed it if there were any other noises in the room. Then the soft, feminine whisper said, “Mine,” the sound reaching out and pulling at Clarissa.
She watched in fascinated horror as the man in the mirror threw back his head again. The glass darkened and the image vanished. She shivered and burrowed beneath the thick blankets.
The silence around her told her only one thing.
She was well beyond escape.
THE LINE STRETCHED halfway across the bank lobby. As Clarissa waited patiently for her turn at the teller window, she couldn’t help wondering if the air conditioner was broken. Even the brass fans hanging from the high marble ceiling did little to help the sweltering heat. Summer should have lost its grip, but it hung on tenaciously, melting the autumn.
Clarissa held the heavy deposit bag in one hand and fanned her heated face with today’s paper. After a week, she still hadn’t found any reports of any shootings. She was thankful, but she hadn’t found the stranger, either.
As a result, her work had fallen behind. She’d neglected things like making bank deposits. That’s why the money bag was so heavy this morning. She had to focus seriously on not losing her livelihood. Luckily, despite her lack of attention, business at The Angry Bean had been very good. She smiled in relief as she thought about her shop. Nearly two years in business and she was actually making a living.
“May I help you?” The teller turned her heat-wilted smile to Clarissa as she stepped forward. She pulled the cash from her bag the same instant a door in the back flew open and a young man burst out.
“This is the last straw,” he yelled. “I quit.” He stalked across the lobby, leaving the big, heavy door behind the counter open wide. Clarissa couldn’t resist peeking into the inner sanctum of the bank, an area few customers ever saw. The lush conference room was as opulent as the lobby. Papers and notebooks littered the surface of a long polished table.
