That’s where tourists go if they’re looking for a taste of small-town Texas. They admire the old Adams County Courthouse, which looks like a wedding cake carved out of pink granite. They enjoy a plate of nachos and a salt-rimmed margarita at Bean’s Bar and Grill. They visit the Sophie Briggs Historical Museum, which features (among other irresistible enticements) a dollhouse that belonged to Miss Pecan Springs of 1936, Sophie Briggs’ famous collection of ceramic frogs, and a pair of scuffed cowboy boots worn by Burt Reynolds during the filming of The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. They also visit the old brick building that houses the Tourist and Information Center on the main floor and used to house the Pecan Springs Police Department in the basement and an impressive colony of Mexican free-tailed bats in the attic. The tourist center is still there. But the bats migrated to the I-35 bridge over the Pecan River, and the police department now shares a modern office building on West San Marcos Street with City Hall and the municipal court, where you go to pay your traffic tickets.
The police department. That’s where Ruby is going this morning. She parks her yellow Chevy Cobalt in a lot filled with pickups with gun racks, rifles, and various Second Amendment stickers in the back windows. Keep honking, I’m reloading. Fight crime: shoot back. My other auto is a 9mm. This is open-carry Texas, after all, and guns are as ubiquitous as armadillos and rattlesnakes.
Ruby is getting out of her car when her cellphone rings—the Exorcist theme, which she likes because it’s mildly creepy. When it rings at the shop, people smile. She doesn’t need to look at the screen to know that it’s her sister.
“Hey, Ramona,” she says. “What’s up?”
There is a brief burst of static. Ruby winces and holds the phone away from her ear. Ramona makes a special point of displaying the family gift on all possible occasions. When she gets excited, she discharges startling jolts of electrical energy. Now she is speaking in all caps, italics, and exclamation points.
“WHAT’S UP is this UTTERLY FABULOUS idea I have for us, Ruby! Let’s do lunch today. I am DYING to tell you!!!”
Ruby isn’t dying to hear Ramona’s latest “utterly fabulous” idea, but she doesn’t let on. “I don’t think lunch will work,” she says mildly. “I’m doing something this morning that may take a while. This afternoon, maybe? My house?”
Another burst of static. Ramona isn’t pleased. But she only says, “Sure. How about one o’clock? That’ll give me time to do a little more research. See you then.” She clicks off without waiting for Ruby’s reply.
“Grrr,” Ruby mutters. The last time Ramona had an idea that involved the two of them, she was dying to buy a half interest in the Crystal Cave and the tea room. Being Ramona’s sister is a challenge all by itself. Being her partner is out of the question.
Ruby uses the back entrance to City Hall, where the fluorescent lights ping and hum, washing all colors out to a neutral gray. The uniformed young lady at the police department’s information desk signs her in, then directs her down a long corridor to the chief’s office. There, she finds Sheila Dawson’s assistant peering into the computer monitor on her desk.
“Good morning, Connie,” Ruby says.
“Oh, hi, Ruby.” Connie Page is a civilian employee, a recently divorced forty-something, neat and attractive in a no-nonsense white blouse and dark skirt. “Hang on a sec and I’ll see if the boss is ready for you.”
She reaches for the phone, buzzes the chief, and says, rather formally, “Ms. Wilcox is here.” Putting the receiver down, she eyes Ruby’s outfit with a sigh. “You are always so colorful, Ruby. I wish I could wear clothes the way you do. I’m more meat-and-potatoes. Besides, I’d feel conspicuous, especially around here.”
With a little laugh, Ruby looks down at herself. “If you were six feet in your sandals, with frizzy carrot-colored hair, you’d feel conspicuous no matter what you wore, anywhere.”
Maybe she shouldn’t be laughing. Her off-one-shoulder orange tunic and lime leggings fit right in with the crystal balls and tarot cards at the Cave. But this is the police department and she is here on serious business. Maybe looking like a carnival fortuneteller will make her seem less credible. Maybe she’d better go home and change.
Or better yet, just go home. Her mouth feels dry and there are butterflies in her stomach. Maybe—
Sheila opens her door. “Hey, Ruby!” she says warmly. “Good to see you. Come on in.” To Connie, she adds, “When Ruby and I are done, I need to see Detective Connors about the report on the Montgomery incident. I have a couple of questions.”
“I’ll tell him to stand by,” Connie says, and reaches for the phone.
Sheila Dawson is that rare thing, a female police chief in a small Texas town. She has bucked the good old boys to make a place for herself and she is holding onto it, in spite of the odds. She is also blonde and highly attractive, even in her uniform—although as China says, you have to wonder about somebody who thinks like the regional director of the FBI and looks like a beauty pageant winner. What’s more, Chief Dawson (who is married to the former sheriff of Adams County) is displaying a conspicuous baby bump under her maternity uniform.
The windowless, all-business office is just big enough for the chief’s desk and chair, some shelves, a neon-green plastic philodendron, and a pair of visitor’s chairs. There are no feminine fripperies because in Texas, as elsewhere, policing is still a man’s world. To minimize her femaleness, the chief doesn’t put pretty things on her shelves. She also wears very little makeup and skins her hair into a tight golden wad at the back of her head, efforts that are belied by the baby bump.
Ruby sits in one of the visitor’s chairs, shifting uncomfortably. “You’re looking terrific,” she says. “Feeling better, I hope.” Sheila has been plagued by morning sickness well into her second trimester.
“Oh, lots better,” Sheila declares, but Ruby can hear her thoughts, which are a very loud whine. Sheila isn’t feeling better. She is sick of being sick. She is especially sick of the guys she has to work with, who view a pregnant cop as suffering from a gender-based preventable disability. She is tired of feeling like an elephant. She is worried about an incident that was reported that morning. And now here is Ruby, who—
Abruptly, Sheila puts up her walls, closing off Ruby’s access to her thoughts. “I was talking to China a few minutes ago. She says you’re taking some vacation time?”
Around the planet, the rule might be six degrees of separation, but in Pecan Springs, it’s closer to one or two, three at the most. Sheila and China have been good friends for years. China’s husband Mike McQuaid and Sheila’s husband Blackie Blackwell—both former law enforcement officers—are partners in a private investigation firm. Sheila and Blackie live down the block from Ruby, and Sheila and her Rottweiler Rambo run past Ruby’s front porch every morning just at dawn—or they did, until Sheila decided to take running out of her exercise regimen until after the baby’s arrival. It’s no surprise that China and Sheila talked a few minutes ago.
But if China happened to mention why Ruby has come to see her, Sheila doesn’t give any sign. She gestures to the stacks of paper on her desk. “I envy you, Ruby, taking a few days off. If I don’t keep after this paperwork every day, it piles up to the ceiling.”
“Are you taking a leave when the baby comes?” Ruby asks.
“Sort of.” Sheila sighs. “I’ll work at home for a couple of weeks, anyway. Maybe I can figure out a way to sign requisition forms while I’m breastfeeding.” She puts her elbows on her desk and gives Ruby a straight look. “So what’s on your mind?”
Ruby is suddenly conscious of her bangles and floaty gauze top and shiny orange toenails. She starts to speak, clears her throat, and wishes she’d had the sense to prepare a script, at least an opening sentence or two.
She clears her throat again and tries to make her voice firm. “A woman is going to be kidnapped,” she says. “And worse.”
And there it is.
Chapter Three
A long
moment’s silence. Sheila is looking at Ruby intently, pulling her brows together.
“Oh,” she says. “Kidnapped, huh? So, like how do you know? Did somebody tell you?”
Know. Ruby twists her fingers together, understanding that her “know” and Sheila’s “know” are two quite different things.
“Nobody told me,” she says uncomfortably. “I’ve been seeing it in a dream, the same dream, over and over again. I talked to China this morning, and she suggested . . . that is, we both thought . . . well, you seemed like the logical person for me to talk to.” She is aware that this sounds pretty lame. Totally wacko, actually.
Sheila frowns. “I would have thought a psychologist might be a more logical choice.” With a reflective look, she puts a hand on her bump and Ruby knows she can feel the baby moving.
“I can see why you say that,” Ruby says. “Dreams may not seem . . . reliable.” She wants to appear reasonable. But she also feels an obligation to the woman—the victim—in her dream. She straightens her shoulders. “What I’m seeing is a crime, Sheila. Or it will be, if he does what he intends to do. And you’re the chief of police.”
Sheila is about to say And right now I wish I weren’t. But she settles for “So you’re giving me a tip?”
Is that what she’s doing? “Yes, I guess,” Ruby says. “Yes. A tip, yes.” She wishes Sheila would smile, even a little bit. But she doesn’t.
“A tip about something that hasn’t happened yet?”
“I . . . guess.” Ruby frowns. “Yes.” What she sees doesn’t have a time-date stamp, although she judges from the urgency of the dream that it’s a current event.
“And your tip is based on . . .”
Ruby hears her disbelief, muted by politeness but clear enough. “Based on what happens in my dream.” She takes a breath. “Here’s the thing, Sheila. I’m in this guy’s head. I’m seeing through his eyes and feeling with his feelings. He is watching a woman jogging on the hike-and-bike trail, and he wants her. He’s thinking about what he’s going to do when he . . . when he has her.” She knots her fingers, trying to keep her voice from trembling.
But now the urgency is bleeding through, and Ruby wants the chief to hear it. She blurts it out. “He’s planning to kidnap and kill her, Sheila.”
Sheila leans back in her chair, making a tent of her fingers. “I suppose you’d better tell me about it, then.” With a ghost of a smile, she adds, “You’re probably aware that it’s difficult for a police officer to deal with . . . intuition—as opposed to facts, that is. But don’t let that bother you. Just tell me.”
Yes. Ruby is aware that Sheila believes in things she can weigh and measure and evidence that will stand up in court. But what Ruby is about to tell her is nothing like that. She closes her eyes and sees it again, the same scene she has been seeing for the last several nights, in her dreams. She opens her eyes.
“I don’t know who she is,” she says. “She’s in her late twenties, pretty, dark-haired, athletic. She’s wearing a white ponytail cap and her ponytail—sort of long, not very neat—is sticking out of it. She’s got one of those armband holders for her cellphone, and she’s wearing earbuds. She’s jogging. He’s hiding in some bushes, watching her. He’s been watching her for a while.” Ruby pauses, correcting herself, trying to be precise. “I mean, this isn’t the first time he’s done this. Watched her when she’s running. He’s stalking her. Figuring out the best place to grab her.”
Sheila frowns, shifting in her chair. “Who is he?”
“I don’t have a clue.” Ruby feels apologetic. “I can’t actually see him, you know. I’m seeing her through him, through his eyes. He’s not thinking about himself—he knows who he is, so the subject of identity doesn’t come up for him. And he doesn’t look at himself, or at his shoes or his watch or anything. That’s why I can’t actually see him. Just her.”
She wraps her arms around herself, suddenly struck by the futility of this. Even if Sheila believes her story, she doesn’t know enough to be of any real help. But she’s started down this path, so she has to go on, stumbling a little over the words.
“And all I know is that he wants her—physically, I mean. He’s half out of his mind with anticipation. He intends to snatch her and take her to this place where he’s going to keep her captive for a while. A long while. He has . . . he has plans for her. Intentions.”
Ruby’s head is starting to hurt, seriously. She doesn’t want to crawl into this man’s dark places. She shudders. “After he’s done . . . all that, he means to kill her. He’s looking forward to it.”
Sheila blows out her breath. “Jogging.” She is leaning forward now, elbows on the desk, eyes narrowed, all attention. “Where? Where does this happen?”
“The hike-and-bike trail, north of the park. I run there sometimes, so I recognize it.”
Ruby loves that trail. Nearly seven miles long, it parallels the Pecan River from Artesian Lake to the interstate bridge. There’s always more traffic—joggers and bicyclists—on the longer southern section, from Pecan Park to the bridge. The northern section, from the park to the lake, is only about two miles. It is less frequented and (in Ruby’s opinion, anyway) much prettier. Big pecan trees and live oaks overhang the gravel path so that the sunlight is dappled. It’s cool there on a hot summer day, and the air is scented with fresh leaves and the damp earth along the river’s edge.
“Okay,” Sheila says in an odd tone. “When does this happen? Daytime? Night? When?”
“I’m not sure,” Ruby says. The man through whose eyes she is seeing this scene isn’t paying attention to the time. “It’s almost dark, either just after sunset or just before sunrise. It feels like evening, but I suppose it could be very early morning. Some people like to run before they go to work.”
“How about the season? Month? Day of the week?”
Ruby closes her eyes, seeing it again. “Summer. The trees are covered with green leaves, and I can hear cicadas. The dream feels so urgent, I think it’s got to be happening now, right now. But as far as the day of the week—” She shakes her head. “Sorry.”
But she is pleased and a little surprised that Sheila actually seems to be listening. The chief is watching her, too. Intently.
“The victim,” she says. “What’s she wearing?”
This is a question Ruby can answer without hesitation. “White shorts with a pink band around the legs. Pink running shoes. Pink T-shirt. On the front, it says ‘Be Bold, Be Fearless, Be More.’ On the back, it says ‘Race for the Cure.’”
Ruby recognizes the shirt because she has one just like it. It’s the special signature pink T-shirt that breast cancer survivors received when they registered for last year’s Race for the Cure. She will be wearing hers when Amy and Grace join her for the race in Austin next month. Grace will ride along in her stroller, wearing her own pink T-shirt and with pink balloons and her sweet pink teddy bear. She’ll think they’re having a party, just for her.
“Stay put,” Sheila says, and reaches for the phone. “Connie, tell Detective Connors I need to see him. Now, not later. Pronto.”
She puts the phone down. Her eyes are narrowed, intent. “Okay, Ruby. Let’s say I’m willing to consider this. Tell me again how you got this information.” She gives Ruby a tight smile and adds, “I remember being at China’s house once when you used a Ouija board. But that’s not how you did this?”
She’s right, Ruby thinks. Sheila was there several years ago when China’s son Brian went missing. The Ouija board had told them to look for the boy at the Star Trek convention, and that’s where he was found.*
“I remember that, too,” Ruby says, with her own small smile. “But this didn’t come through the Ouija board or the cards. I must have brushed against this man somewhere, or held something he touched.” She pauses. “Sometimes, like when I take money from a customer at the shop, I get plugged into the person’s mind. I back out as quick as I can,” she adds earnestly. “I don’t like to hang out in people’s heads. I
t feels like I’m eavesdropping.”
Sheila seizes on the obvious. “So this man—he might be one of your customers?”
Ruby frowns. “I don’t think he’s the kind of person who’d be shopping at the Cave. And he’s a big man, muscular, heavy-set, so I’m sure I would have noticed him. I probably encountered him at the grocery store or the mall. It could even be that I touched something he’d had his hands on—a cart or something. If he’d been remembering what he had seen along the path or thinking about his intentions, I could have picked it up.”
“Like a radio broadcast?” Sheila is obviously searching for a way to deal with this rationally, even though she doesn’t believe it. “You’re saying that you sort of, like, tune into it?”
“Something like that, I guess.” Put into words, the whole thing sounds pretty ridiculous. But Sheila seems to be expecting an explanation. “Sometimes a message comes through loud and clear. Other times it’s just a whisper. Or it’s garbled, or there’s static.”
Sheila is studying her face intently. “You’ve never . . .” She searches for a word and comes up with one. “You’ve never tuned into somebody who was planning a murder? Or somebody who committed one?”
“Not exactly. But I have tuned into . . .” Ruby stops, remembering. It’s painful and she winces.
“Go on,” Sheila says, pushing for detail. “Who was it? How did you make the connection?”
Ruby looks down. “Her name was Ellen Holt. She was staying in the cottage behind our shops, working on a writing project. You probably don’t remember this, because it happened over in Indigo, quite a while back. China and I found her body in the basement of an abandoned school.”**
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