“I’m glad you think so,” Ruby says wryly, wishing but not believing that Sophia could be right. Ethan Connors considers her a fraud. And he isn’t the kind of man who is likely to change his mind.
Sophia hears her skepticism. “Be patient, Ruby. The detective is capable of more than you imagine. And you are, too. What happened on the trail today was a new experience for you. It signals a sharpening and strengthening of your abilities. Watch for evidences of that—some of them will be frightening, but you’ll learn to handle them. And each time you choose to use your psychic gift deliberately, for an important purpose, you’ll find yourself stronger. You will able to go further, go deeper, do more.” She is emphatic. “Much, much more. It will happen quickly. And soon.” She smiles slightly. “Sooner than you expect.”
Ruby shakes her head. Go deeper? Do more? She feels a touch of vertigo. But I don’t want this, she thinks, almost in desperation. I am so not ready for it.
So not ready.
Chapter Eleven
In Pecan Springs, it’s past three and Detective Ethan Connors is heading back to the police station after a quick Rueben bagel (pastrami, sauerkraut, and melted Swiss cheese) at the Bagel Connection on West Cedar. Lunch was late because he’s spent the past several hours coordinating the Montgomery investigation. Now, as he drives, he is mentally reviewing what needs to be done next—but without his usual enthusiasm. He’s too strung out.
After he found the pink earbuds lying beside a concrete curb on Harper Lane, Connors knew he had to pursue this no-body investigation, whether or not he liked it, whether or not he believed it. As a matter of fact, he does not believe any of this psychic crap Ruby Wilcox is handing out, not for one minute, not for even a fraction of a second—although he has to admit that whatever happened with her out there on the trail seemed pretty convincing at the time.
And it’s not just that he feels personally uncomfortable with all that psychic woo-woo, although he certainly has a right. Over the years he’s been in law enforcement, he has seen far too many screwballs who come forward to “help” the police, each one spouting a favorite brand of psychic mumbo-jumbo—clairvoyance, divination, channeling, ESP, astral projection, precognition, telepathy. For some mysterious reason, psychics are especially drawn to no-body cases, which seem to attract them the way road-kill attracts hungry vultures.
But in Connors’ experience (and he’s had plenty), these weirdos have two things in common.
One, they waste the time of hard-working, already stressed-out detectives, diverting resources that could be directed to more credible leads. There’s only so much time and money available for an investigation, and chasing down psychic leads is a waste of both.
Two, without exception, they have been friggin’ flat-out, full-bore, one-hundred-percent frauds. Not one psychic has ever come up with anything even remotely helpful in the cases they claimed to “assist.” What they are really after is attention—from the cops but even more from the media. Which makes things worse, of course, because the public can never get enough of this crackpot stuff. They gobble up any kind of ridiculous psychic nonsense like it’s candy, so newspapers and the television just keep on dishing it out, the more the better. Bottom line, psychics are money in the bank.
This is the mindset Connors has brought with him into this particular no-body case, which wouldn’t be a case at all, at least for another seventy-two hours, if it weren’t for Ruby Wilcox. The trouble is (and it’s big trouble, the kind you would stay away from if you could) that Wilcox is not only a close friend of the chief, but an unusually attractive, intelligent, and sympathetic woman who gives every appearance of telling the truth. If he’d had less experience with psychic nutcases, he might be tempted to give her the benefit of the doubt. If they had met in different circumstances, they might even have become friends—or more, maybe, although the odds against that happening with any woman seem pretty damned high these days.
And it isn’t that he still loves Carole, either, although it’s possible that maybe he does, at least a little. He’s often lonely and misses having someone to come home to, even though home hadn’t been all that comfortable and welcoming, at least toward the end. He would like to get back into dating, but trolling in singles bars isn’t his style and he’s never gotten the hang of connecting online.
It’s a problem that other guys didn’t seem to have. Take Dylan Miller, for instance, one of the PSPD detectives. He got divorced and now practices what he calls “serial monogamy,” seeing one woman for a couple of months, then switching off to another, then to someone else. “The secret is always keeping a queue,” he says. Currently, he’s dating one of the women in Dispatch while he’s got his eye on Jessica Nelson, that cute blonde crime reporter.
But keeping a queue isn’t Connors’ style, either. Maybe, if he hadn’t cared so much for Carole, it might be easier to find somebody else. But he had, and she was gone, and that was that. Over and done with. He’s smart enough to know that what happened would have happened whatever he did, and that there’s nothing he can do now to change things. At least they hadn’t had any kids, which would have compounded the heartbreak.
And anyway, he couldn’t be interested in anybody like Ruby Wilcox, no matter how attractive he might find her. Somebody who could conspire to fabricate a kidnapping, waste police time and resources, and make a damn fool of herself in the process—that’s not a woman he wants to get close to. Because he is now convinced that she and the so-called kidnap victim—Allison Montgomery—did fabricate it, although he doesn’t yet know why.
But he’s working on it. He’s had a phone conversation with Allison’s housemate, Emily. Prodded, she admits that Allison has been acting restless and discontented for quite some time. According to Emily, she had split up with her boyfriend of a couple of years, had quit a good job, and was talking about moving to Montana or Idaho so she could live “close to nature”—all of which leads Connors to suspect that she had been planning for some time to stage a dramatic disappearance.
He has also connected briefly with Allison’s ex-boyfriend, a good-looking, self-assured guy named Kevin who manages the Tres Hermanos Cantina on Gruene Road. Kevin claims not to have seen Allison for several weeks and to know nothing about a disappearance, let alone a kidnapping. Staff at the restaurant confirm that he had been on the job from five until past midnight the night before. Connors will get somebody to double-check the alibi, of course, but in his judgment, the boyfriend is out.
And there’s more. Allison’s sister Nadine lives in Austin and works in the governor’s office. After a couple of tries, he finally managed to connect with her by phone. No, Nadine hadn’t seen Allison in a month or more. No, Allison doesn’t have a key to her apartment.
The sister had sighed and added, “To tell the truth, I might be a little more concerned if she hadn’t disappeared for two weeks last year without letting anybody know where she was. I keep telling her she needs counseling, but she doesn’t listen. Not to me, anyway.”
As far as Connors is concerned, Nadine’s remark is the last straw, and he’s ready to blow the damned thing off. But the crime scene team has reported that an investigation of the area where he found the pink cell phone reveals that somebody recently hung out under that live oak tree for a period of time after yesterday morning’s rain. The damp earth has revealed an indistinguishable welter of shoe prints, a torn corner of a Jolt energy chewing gum pack (“Each piece contains as much caffeine as a cup of coffee”), and a chewed wad of gum. The fragment of Jolt packaging yields only smudged fingerprints, but the wad will undoubtedly yield DNA. Also, on the path to Harper Lane, they’ve found (and taken a cast of) a print of an Adidas shoe sole in a man’s size twelve.
And there is the pink iPhone, which Connors is now having searched—legally, since police have a right to look at what’s on a phone in an attempt to locate the rightful owner. And the pink earbuds. And the gray van, which one of the Harper Lane neighbors claims to have seen the evening before,
just at dusk. Unfortunately, she didn’t see the driver (male? female?) or notice a license plate or any other distinguishing features about the vehicle, so the report is virtually a dead end. There must be hundreds of gray panel vans running up and down I-35 every day.
And anyway, the confirmation of the van only seems like a corroboration of Ruby Wilcox’s tale of a kidnapping. Connors’ view is far different. In his reconstruction of this case, Allison drives her Trax to the park and leaves it. Wilcox drives the gray van to Harper Lane, where she waits for Allison to plant the gum wrapper under the tree, the pink iPhone beside the path, pink earbuds next to the curb, and at least one clear print of the men’s size-twelve Adidas she is wearing. The two women meet on Harper Lane and Wilcox drives them both away. Leaving her car in the lot to be found, Allison goes off wherever, and the next morning, Ruby brings her cock-and-bull story to her friend, the chief of police.
That’s Connors’ scenario, and the more he thinks about it, the more he’s convinced that it had to go down that way. There isn’t a body, or a kidnapping, or a crime. This is a made-up case with a fake crime scene, fabricated by a couple of women, one of whom needs counseling and the other of whom wants some media attention, probably to give a boost to the astrology and tarot and divination classes she teaches in her shop. He knows about these, because he’s taken a few minutes to check out the Crystal Cave website, which is full of New Age claptrap.
And before the day is much older, he’s putting an end to this nonsense. His next stop is police headquarters, where he’s going to lay the whole thing out for Chief Dawson, start to finish. She might be Ruby Wilcox’s friend, but she’ll have to agree that there’s plenty of reason to bring the woman in for another round of questioning.
And charge her with making false statements to the police.
Chapter Twelve
At Sophia’s house, it’s beginning to storm. Lightning flickers through the bruised-looking clouds, accompanied by a continuing rumble of thunder. The trees toss in the wind, and rain drums noisily on the porch roof. The air is filled with the warm scent of fresh leaves and damp earth.
With a dark fear in the pit of her stomach, Ruby hears the echoes of Sophia’s words. “Each time you choose to use your psychic gift deliberately, you’ll find yourself stronger. You will able to go further, go deeper, do more.”
It’s not what Ruby wants to hear. Go deeper? Do more? I am so not ready for that.
So not ready.
Sophia regards Ruby with a deep interest. “Yes, you are,” she says, in answer to Ruby’s unspoken protest. “You are more than ready. But you are also right to feel afraid. There are risks and threats in any psychic journey, and dangers, too. You can’t escape them. But if you know why this has happened—especially why now—you may be better able to meet the challenge. Shall we try to figure it out?”
Feeling Sophia’s question as a command, Ruby nods wordlessly.
Sophia smiles a little. “Since you saw Allison’s kidnapping through the attacker’s eyes, the experience may have begun when you came into personal contact with him or with something he was touching, perhaps at the same time that he was thinking about his plans. You tapped into a persistent and highly charged energy field created by his thoughts. I wonder if this might have happened at your shop.”
“I don’t think so.” Ruby repeats what she said when Sheila asked her that question. “The guy who abducted Allison is muscular, with broad shoulders and a big torso. If he came into the Cave or Thyme and Seasons, I’m sure I would have noticed. I would remember him.”
“Are there other places where your paths might have crossed?”
Ruby frowns, concentrating. “The vet clinic, maybe? I took Pagan to get his shots last week. I’ve also been to the supermarket and the gym and the library.” She brightens. “Or it could have been at Gino’s. Amy and Kate and I took Grace there for pizza on Saturday—and I had the first dream on Saturday night. I didn’t notice him, but he might have been sitting at a table near our booth.”
Sophia raises her eyebrows. “Or perhaps you sat in the booth he’d just left. Strong feelings—anger, fear, or a dark, illicit desire—can create an intensely negative energy. The more potent the feeling, the more powerful the negative energy. And if it’s powerful enough, the energy can be transferred to things the person has touched or held.”
Ruby shivers. “But why didn’t I connect with it at the time?”
“Maybe because you were busy with your family and other things. It registered, but you weren’t aware of it until you went to sleep and your unconscious allowed the energy to script your dreams. Not just once, but again and again—that night and the next. And the next.”
Ruby shivers. Again and again—that night and the next. That’s what happened.
Pyewacket yawns and stretches and Sophia puts the cat on the floor. “As your abilities grow stronger, you’ll likely experience this kind of thing more often. Instinctively, you reach out, even through your own walls. Born psychics do that, you know, without intending to. It’s an urgency that’s native to us. We simply don’t operate within the same restraints that most people impose on themselves.” She gave Ruby a sympathetic look. “You may find yourself becoming a magnet for other people’s feelings and desires.”
A magnet? “That doesn’t exactly thrill me, you know,” Ruby says bleakly. “I’ll have to learn how to protect myself better.”
“That’s true, of course.” Sophia sighs. “People might be surprised at how often this kind of energy transfer can occur, even for those who aren’t especially telepathic. It might explain some pretty bizarre dreams.” Her expression is serious. “But you’ll learn how to defend yourself against unwanted intrusions. We all do. We psychics, I mean. We have to.”
The rain is coming down harder now, pounding on the grass, bending the flower stalks. The birds have disappeared from the feeder and the wind is whipping the wet leaves on the trees. The rain-washed air smells fresh and sweet, like new-mown grass.
Ruby frowns. “What you’re saying might explain my connection to the guy who attacked Allison. But how was I able to get in touch with her? Out there on the trail this morning, I was her. I could feel his hands, attacking her. He choked her until she passed out, and his fingers bruised my neck.” She lifts her hair and turns her head.
“Oh, dear,” Sophia said softly. “Yes, I see. And then he took her to his van. And then what?”
“He drove her to wherever he’s keeping her, I guess,” Ruby says, her frown deepening. “I’m hoping the police will find the van. That’s probably their best chance of finding her.”
Sophia watches Pyewacket as he goes to sit at the door, looking out into the rainy garden. “Shouldn’t you be helping?” Her voice is disarmingly gentle.
“How can I help?” Ruby laughs shortly. “Ethan Connors told me to stay out of his investigation, and he means it. There’s no way on earth he would ever let me be involved.” She takes a deep breath. “And to tell the truth . . .”
“To tell the truth, you’re afraid.”
Ruby presses her lips together. “I’m afraid of being pulled into him. The kidnapper. Those dreams, his thoughts, the attack on Allison—he terrifies me, Sophia. If I went into his mind I might not have the strength to get out. And it’s not just that. He could—”
Her cellphone interrupts her. She is about to let the call go to voicemail, but Sophia raises a cautioning hand.
“You should pick it up, Ruby. It’s an answer to the question you just asked. ‘How can I help?’”
Ruby rolls her eyes. But the call is from Sheila, so she takes it, putting it on speakerphone and placing the cell on the table.
“Detective Connors just left my office.” Sheila’s voice is flat and uninflected. “He tells me that you identified the location on the trail where Allison Montgomery was abducted. He found a pink cellphone that proves to be hers. Ditto a pair of pink earbuds, over on Harper, where her abductor appears to have parked his vehicle.”
“Connors assigned a couple of uniforms to canvass the Harper neighborhood. They’ve turned up one positive, so far. Around dark last night, a woman happened to look out of her window and saw a gray van parked across the street from her house—and close to where Connors found the earbuds. Unfortunately, she didn’t see the driver or notice the license plate number. Her description is too generic to be very helpful.”
“But it’s a confirmation!” Ruby says exultantly. Allison isn’t going to end up in Connors’ no-body file. He’ll have to pursue the investigation. Seriously.
“It’s a confirmation of the van.” Sheila’s voice has a hard edge. “But not of the kidnapping.”
Sophia nods as if she has been expecting this. Ruby frowns and leans closer to the phone. “I don’t understand.”
“Nobody witnessed a man putting an unconscious woman into that van, Ruby. All we have is a gray van. No victim, no driver, no tags. Just a van.”
Ruby swallows hard. “But I know what happened, Sheila. I’m sure of it. He—”
“Wait.” Sheila stops her. “What I am about to tell you is completely off the record, Ruby. Connors has come up with his own theory of this case. He has decided that you and Allison Montgomery cooked up this stunt between the two of you. Montgomery needed to get out of town for some reason we don’t yet know about, and you were looking to earn some psychic credentials. So the two of you put your heads together and came up with this little psychodrama.”
“Psychodrama!” Ruby exclaims. “What does he say we did, exactly?”
“Last night, you parked the van on Harper and waited there for Allison. She left her Trax in the lot, ran up the trail, planted her cellphone, came through the woods, planted the earbuds, and got into the van. You drove her off to a motel or a friend’s house—someplace she can hide out for a while. This morning, the housemate reported her missing. You came to my office, claiming there’d been a kidnapping. You showed Connors where to find the evidence Allison planted. Plus, you staged some sort of psychic incident on the trail. Woo-woo, he calls it. Psychic claptrap.”
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