The Telepath Chronicles (The Future Chronicles Book 2)

by Elle Casey

  “Run!”

  Yet she had nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide from the shame.

  What have you done to me?

  “Dr. Bent.”

  She staggered back. Drawn away from the girl’s chest, her hands felt cold.

  “Dr. Bent, shall we call the code off?”

  “The girl,” Celine cried. “Did we get a rhythm?”

  The code supervisor touched her shoulder. “Celine. It’s been forty-five minutes in house, sixty en route. She’s been dead for an hour now.”

  “No, let me keep trying, let me—”

  “It’s time to call the code off.”

  The charge nurse motioned to the doors. “You need to talk to the parents, Doctor.”

  Celine looked at her bloody gloves, then at the gaping incision in the girl’s chest.

  “No. I can’t. She’s—she’s pregnant.”

  And I know who did it, she wanted to add, but somehow her voice faltered.

  Strong arms held her from behind. Whatever happened next, she couldn’t recall, as her head lolled back, and her body gave way to a deep, murky sleep.

  Two

  In the sun, the walls of the church glistened as if made of ivory. The high pinnacles and steep roofline reminded county Sheriff Albert Contardo of a gothic cathedral. It looks hostile, he noted, gazing at the building’s towering height. He craned his head up, surveyed the intricate canopy of branches above him, and then stared back at the church across the street.

  She died facing the church.

  All around was a blanket of uneven snow, combed by golden tufts of weeds and broken by the occasional boulder, a fallen log, or the sinuous drips of a wild animal’s track. Only a few scattered houses were visible in the distance, most hidden in the folds of the landscape or tucked at the foot of the mountains, within strips of silvery aspens.

  This was the landscape sixteen-year-old Lily Andrews saw every day. Every day the same faces, the same routines.

  Three months after Lily’s suicide, the small town of Mariposa Springs was still in shock. When the news that she was eight weeks pregnant leaked out, people had started talking. In a small, rural community like theirs, an unwed pregnancy was the ultimate shame.

  Bigots, Contardo thought. It’s called statutory rape, and it’s a felony.

  Lily had been the model child. Homeschooled. No boyfriend. No red flags in her life. Whoever had done this to her had to pay. Yet the town had sealed itself in a shield of silence, all blame deflected to the girl and her family.

  “Such a tragedy, isn’t it?”

  Contardo startled, his eyes darting to the lanky figure dressed in black standing by the church door. “Oh. Sorry, Father. I didn’t see you out there.”

  Father Brown smiled. “I was expecting you.”

  Contardo crossed the street and walked up to him, huffing through patches of snow. “I’m glad you got my message.”

  As the pastor held the door open for him, Contardo took his hat off and pointed one more time to the tree. “Why—why do you think she chose precisely this tree, so close to the church? There are plenty of trees closer to her house.”

  Father Brown’s thick brows shot up. “She wanted to be rescued. We found her so quickly because she chose this tree.” He heaved a deep sigh. “So unfortunate that by the time she arrived at the hospital, nothing could be done.”

  They walked down the aisle through rows of empty pews, their steps echoing against the vaulted ceiling. Dim lights wavered through high windows, and thick pillars threw long shadows against white walls.

  “Mind if I finish cleaning up while we talk?” Father Brown said, stepping up to the altar table.

  Contardo squeezed the brim of his hat. The smell of cold marble and candle wax hit his nostrils like an aftertaste too strong to be forgotten. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

  Brown smiled and pointed to one of the front pews. “Have a seat. Please. The Lord’s house is your house, Sheriff.”

  “Right.” Contardo stared vacantly down the aisle, a deep sense of loss gripping his stomach all over again. As if it just happened. He heaved a deep breath, blinking away memories of carnations tossed on a white coffin, of hushed regrets and unspoken words, of Annalise’s tears dripping on a red baseball cap…

  Lily Andrews. You’re here to discuss Lily Andrews.

  Father Brown lined a row of silver chalices on the altar table. He unfolded a white cloth, picked up the first chalice, and started polishing it. “What is it you wanted to talk about, Sheriff?”

  Contardo watched the pastor’s long, almost feminine hands work their way along the rim of the chalice. “I’m sure you heard Lily Andrews was pregnant when she died.”

  Father Brown nodded gravely. “Two innocent lives lost.”

  “Well, I’ve got some good news and some bad news. The good news is that DNA evidence clears Mr. Andrews of having fathered his own grandchild.”

  The pastor froze, his mouth half-open in disbelief. “Goodness gracious, how could you even—Carl adored his daughter. He’s such a great father to his children.”

  Contardo bobbed his head. “Of course. I’m sorry. I should’ve mentioned it’s standard procedure. We have to look at family members first.”

  Father Brown set the chalice back on the table and moved on to the next one. “I understand. What are you going to do now?”

  Contardo rocked on his heels, carefully choosing his words. “That’s my bad news. The investigation is back to square one. We need to collect more DNA samples.” He studied the pastor’s face, so focused on his task. “Father, I was wondering if I could have your cooperation on this.”

  Father Brown raised his head. “Of course. How can I help?”

  Contardo stepped up on the altar and left a flier on the table. “I would like you and all the male members of your church council to come to the station for a DNA sample.”

  Father Brown considered the request. He skimmed the piece of paper Contardo had left on the table while his hands methodically worked the edge of the chalice. “Sheriff, you’re not insinuating that one my councilmen…”

  Contardo gave out a small chuckle. “No, Father, of course not. But there’s nowhere else to look. Other than home, Lily spent most of her time right here. In this church.” He looked up, blinking at the light from the arching windows. “I just need to exclude this second hypothesis, and then…” He sighed. “I’m afraid I’ll just have to close the case.”

  Father Brown set the chalice down with a clonk. “All right, then. I’ll share your thoughts with my council. But I trust my parishioners. And I can’t force them to come if they choose not to.”

  Contardo nodded. “I know, Father. I trust your good judgment.” He forced a little smile and quickly dismissed himself. Nightmares from the past were trying to catch up with him and the smell of candle wax was becoming too oppressive for his strained lungs.

  As he walked past the pews, Father Brown called him back.

  “You never come to our Sunday service, Sheriff.”

  Contardo turned around. “We had a disagreement, God and I, twelve years ago, Father,” he replied.

  Once again Father Brown indulged him with his broad smile. “God will find his way back to your heart.”

  Contardo bobbed his head, feigning some kind of assent, and shouldered his way out of the doors.

  His eyes took a moment to readjust to the bright light outside. He gazed one more time at the bough that had witnessed Lily’s death, then walked back to his Chevy Impala. Black crows were circling the sky, gliding gracefully in the wind. They could see everything from up there. They could see and be detached. He couldn’t afford the luxury.

  As a public officer, people were part of his job. He met them, talked to them, questioned them, looked into their lives and routines. Around election time, he shook their hands and strived to gain their trust. Yet there were times when he had to peek into their darkest secrets. He had to be a role model and an intruder, a counselor and a pain in the neck,
and always, always, a practical shrink. He sighed, started the engine, and made a U-turn back into the street.

  * * *

  A concerto of howls, growls, barks, and yelps welcomed him as he pulled into the Andrews’ property grounds. Contardo counted at least six mutts of different sizes and colors jumping behind a chain-link fence. He parked the Impala behind a rusty pickup truck.

  The house was old, with blotched wood siding and chipped window trims. A row of aspens bordered the back of the property, their skinny tops fraying the sky. A forgotten metal pail rolled on its side. A pair of clotheslines hummed in the breeze like the out-of-tune strings of a lonely guitar.

  Contardo stomped up the porch stairs, old planks whining under his boots, and rapped his knuckles on the door. He was fairly sure the mutts behind the metal fence had already announced his visit, but he also knew the homeowners weren’t eager to talk to him.

  Eight miles away from the outskirts of Mariposa Springs, tucked between the Rio Grande Valley and the Gunnison National Forest, lay acres of farmland scattered with isolated compounds, all very much like the Andrews’. Bungalows and trailers sprawled across grazing fields and grassland, blanketed in snow for nine months of the year and surrounded by the blue outline of the Rocky Mountains. Most lived on farming, while a few ran small businesses—the occasional gas station and convenience store along the one road that crossed the land. These were reserved people who rarely came to town, and whose diffidence translated into a reciprocal and untold mistrust.

  A few minutes went by before the door finally opened. “Have you come to apologize?” Mr. Andrews said, his right eye peeking from above the chain guard.

  Contardo removed his hat. “I have, sir. May I please come in?”

  The reply caught Mr. Andrews by surprise. The deep furrows etching his forehead relaxed a notch.

  “Let the sheriff in, Carl,” Mrs. Andrews said, from inside the house.

  Mr. Andrews’s jaw twitched. He nodded, pain still fresh in the grooves of his face. He closed the door, slid the chain, then opened it again. Contardo brushed his boots on the doormat and stepped inside.

  The house smelled stale and musty, of old paint chipping off at the baseboards. The furniture was spare, the home décor reduced to a minimum. Three children poked their heads through the stair railings and stared. Contardo smiled and said hi. The kids ran away.

  Mrs. Andrews stood by the kitchen door, holding a teakettle. She mumbled a shy “How do you do?” then turned away to set the kettle on the burner.

  “I told you Lily wasn’t pregnant,” Mr. Andrews said, standing in the foyer. He was tall and angular, and his shoulders drooped as if trying to adjust to a world too small for his size.

  Contardo inhaled, frustration already flushing his face. He gestured toward the kitchen and, without waiting for an invitation to do so, walked in and sat at the table.

  “Your daughter was pregnant, Mr. Andrews,” he said. “A medical test confirmed it.”

  He knew neither parent could grasp it. The day he first met the Andrews, Contardo had to explain to them what an autopsy was and why it was needed in order to understand what had happened to their daughter. No matter how many times Contardo repeated that sex with a minor was a serious offense, punishable by the law, he couldn’t convince the Andrews that Lily was the victim, not the one to blame. The only thing they were open to hear was that it was all a mistake. Their daughter couldn’t have been pregnant.

  Contardo ran a hand through his thinning hair, pondering what to say next. “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews,” Contardo began. “You said you never found a suicide note.”

  Mr. Andrews sat at the table across from him. “You searched her bedroom. You didn’t find anything either.”

  Contardo brushed a finger along the brim of his hat and nodded. He remembered pacing in the small room painted in antique pink with purple and yellow daisies clustered around the headboard. Above an old cherry wood desk, the name Lily had been painted in capital letters, next to two shelves cluttered with girly knickknacks: a ceramic doll, a teddy bear, a flowery piggy bank shaped like a house. Sheer curtains hung from an iron rod with curly ends, casting a suffused light into the bedroom. A bookcase displayed readings that struck Contardo as young for a sixteen-year-old: Winnie the Pooh, Pippi Longstockings, Anne of Green Gables, Little Women. A Bible, an outdated world encyclopedia, an atlas, a grammar book, and a dictionary were all the sheriff had noted that could have been school texts.

  “I told you,” Mr. Andrews insisted. “Lily had no reason to take her life. She—”

  “Lily was devoted to our Lord,” Mrs. Andrews chimed in, standing by the stove.

  Contardo inhaled. “Right.”

  The kettle whistled. Mrs. Andrews brought three mugs to the table, along with a jar of loose-leaf tea. As she pushed the jar across the table, Contardo touched the back of her hand.

  “Was Lily very close to Father Brown or any of the church council members?” he asked, locking eyes with her.

  She startled. Her hand retreated like snail’s antlers.

  “Our pastor?” Mr. Andrews interjected. He dropped a spoonful of tea into his mug. “Of course she was close to him. We all are. Father Brown is our spiritual guide.”

  “He’s been so wonderful,” Mrs. Andrews said softly, pouring hot water into Contardo’s mug. “Comforting us from the pain.”

  Contardo nodded. “Was Lily ever called to the church by herself? Was she ever alone there?”

  Mr. Andrews stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  It was insane to even put the question forward. The crazy doctor said it. The same crazy doctor whom the hospital had laid off for fainting during Lily’s resuscitation procedure. Dr. Bent had refused any explanation for her claims, and now, three months later, the chances of getting a judge’s warrant based on the testimony of a doctor whose reputation had been shattered to pieces were close to zero. The hospital had offered to hire her back only if she underwent a psychiatric evaluation. Dr. Bent had refused.

  Contardo spread his hands on the table. “Look. I know this is difficult for you. I lost a child, too, and—”

  “A boy, right?” Mr. Andrews leaned forward. “Boys don’t get accused of getting pregnant, do they?”

  The comment made blood pulse to his head. “This is no accusation of your daughter, Mr. Andrews. Don’t you understand? Somebody hurt her so bad she took her own life. Whoever did this to her must pay, and I’m determined to make sure he does.” He picked up his hat and briskly stood up. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Mr. and Mrs. Andrews,” he said.

  Steam rose from his untouched mug, yet the Andrews didn’t object to his sudden departure. Mr. Andrews walked him to the door. They shook hands, coldly. Contardo left the house, the mutts’ barking and yapping welcoming him back outside.

  It was an idea. Just a stupid idea.

  Yet he knew, deep inside, that he wasn’t going to let it go.

  Three

  Celine dragged another box from the bedroom into the living room and stacked it against the wall. She glimpsed a shadow on her couch, yet forced herself not to turn to look. She walked back to her bedroom and lifted another box.

  The house was starting to feel empty. She had removed and packed all of her books, knickknacks, and CDs. The walls were naked, yellow halos marking where her picture frames used to hang. Most of her closets were empty, and her linens, towels, and clothes were folded away in boxes. The closet in her bedroom was the last one to tackle, but she felt too tired to do it now.

  I still have tomorrow. The movers are coming on Thursday.

  The thought drained the last bit of energy out of her. Her eyes strayed to the couch, and sure enough, Ethan was there, in his usual red shirt and torn jeans, eyes glued to the Game Boy in his hands.

  Go away. She closed her eyes and squeezed her temples between the heels of her hands. Go away, go away, go away.

  When she opened her eyes, Ethan was still there.

  She slumped on the couch nex
t to him, tears welling her eyes. Oh my God, what am I going to do now? Where am I going to go?

  She’d lost her job, the one thing in life she cared the most for. To think she never even dreamed that emergency care was going to be her life. Ever since she entered medical school, she had pictured herself spending her days in a quiet clinic, counseling on family planning or cigarette cessation, bonding with her patients. It wasn’t until her internship days in the ER that she’d realized what a vocation emergency care was. The most ungrateful of medical jobs, an everyday fight against death. She didn’t pick and choose her patients. No matter who came through her door, rich or poor, polite or arrogant, she had to listen to their complaints and take care of them. Constantly challenged, humbled, defied, and yet very seldom rewarded, it was in these extreme circumstances that Celine realized how needed she was. It seemed like the ultimate realization of the Hippocratic oath, the most intimate meaning of the word “heal.”

  And yet she’d almost opted out after three years of residency in Houston, where her night calls were populated by drunks, homeless, drug addicts, and plain desperate souls in need of a listening ear. When her marriage started falling apart as well, Celine thought she had reached the dreaded burnout stage in her medical career. It wasn’t until she moved to Colorado that life seemed to lend her a second chance.

  She still remembered the thrill of excitement when she’d bought the house here in Mariposa Springs, and the sense of disorientation those first weeks after she moved, as she walked streets she didn’t know and gazed at faces she didn’t recognize. Months later, the faces had become familiar. The barista at the local coffee shop would flash her a smile and greet her with a heart-lifting, “Will it be your usual latte, Doctor?” The owner of the bakery where she ordered her multi-grain loaf would slip an extra bun in her bag and hand it to her with an old-fashioned, “Bless you, Doctor.”

  Little things that made her acclimatize, made her feel home again.