a Touch of Ice (30 page)

“I agree. You have enough going on—first assignment for the department and all.”

“I know. I’m feeling…exposed.”

She nodded. “I get that. What’s your plan for the rest of the day?”

I looked up from loading the dishwasher. “Nothing really.”

She leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. “Un-huh. Start talking.”

One thing about Annie, she knew a blatant lie when she heard one. “Mitch is going to stop by on his way home from the airport

I pointed to her chin where a dollop of caramel had landed. She grabbed her napkin and swiped it across her chin, then grinned. “Guess we know what you’ll be doing this evening.”

“Um-hum. I need to keep busy so I don’t get all whacked out about seeing him. I thought I’d pay a visit to either North Construction or C. J. Builders, see if anything interesting pops up, maybe touch things and test my fingers. Maybe it was the heat causing the distortion in my sight. What do you think?”

“Death.”

A chill skittered along my arms. “Death?”

“Yeah. Yours at the hands of Hayes and Adam when they find out you’ve been investigating on your own.”

“Not investigating exactly. I just want to get a feel for the players. No telling what my fingers will pick up, and it would be an opportunity to test the images I’m getting. See if they’re hazy when I touch people, or just stuff.”

“You could touch me, test out your fingers,” she said then added an emphatic nod. Probably trying to convince herself it was the right thing to do, but the hesitation in her voice told me otherwise. Annie had secrets.

“No. That would be disrespectful to our friendship. And, we’re close. I think I need to test it on something…unfamiliar so I know for sure it’s my fingers creating the image, not my rational thought process.”

“Makes sense. Still—”

“Hayes officially added me to the team.” I poured soap in the appropriate compartment, closed the dishwasher and punched the start button.

She shook her head. “I’m gonna guess he didn’t authorize any solo events.”

“We didn’t discuss details, so I’m free to explore.” I slipped my keys into the side pocket of my handbag and slung it over my shoulder.

“Okay. What’s your plan?” she asked.

“Plan?”

“Yeah. You can’t just go barging in without a plan.”

I shrugged. “I’ll be lost. Ask for directions. Hayes and Adam will never know I did this and it’ll give me a chance to play catch up. Adam’s been working this case for a few days. Knows all the players. I don’t. Puts me at a disadvantage. And with the finger malfunction…”

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re really nervous—make that scared to death?”

“Well, yeah. What if my fingers are messed up and I can’t do this? It’s the first time I’ve been asked use to use my gift—officially. And what’ll it do to my coaching business? I depend on the ESP link to do the right thing for my clients.”

Annie pulled her cell out of her back pocket. “First things first. How about you check in with Adam?”

“No. I don’t want anyone to know. I need to do this. Alone. At least until I figure out what’s wrong.”

She looked suspiciously like she was going to call Adam no matter what I thought, so I kept talking. “How about I promise not to do anything but drive by the offices, maybe park, see if anything interesting happens?”

Both hands were tucked behind my back, fingers crossed.

“Do not get out of your car,” she said as she stood and tucked her cell away. “You can test those magic fingers someplace safer.”

“I’ll be careful.” I pointed to the pocket where she’d slipped her phone. “I can call you if anything looks, or feels dangerous.”

Annie tried to tuck her a curl behind her left ear. It sprang free. “I really don’t like you out by yourself, even for surveillance. You have this way of getting into trouble. But if you have your cell and we’re in touch—”

I tried not to look relieved. “Great. “

Annie’s nose wrinkled up. “You know, your experience with surveillance work is limited. I’m not sure—”

“I am sure. My new phone takes good pictures, so I can document anything suspicious.”

“I’d be a little more comfortable if you weren’t so excited.” Her lips clamped together. “It’s not a thrilling task, and I know you. You’ll get bored, add your own excitement, and all hell will break loose.”

I shrugged, pulled a clip out of my handbag, and clamped my hair in a tail. “You’ll be right there on the other end of your cell phone watching over me. What could possibly go wrong?”

Also by L. j. Charles

The Gemini Women Trilogy

The Knowing

An excerpt

One

“The vision comes with the last snowfall of spring.”

It sounded ridiculous. I knew that. But if I didn’t at least try and explain the creepy things going on in my life I’d never get any help. And I needed help. Desperately.

Dr. Cautell sat across from me. Perched on the edge of her chair and protected by the expanse of her heavy oak desk, she clicked her pen. Twice. Three times. The sound echoed in the silence and skittered along my nerves. Probably one of those torture devices psychiatrists use to make people talk.

It worked.

“Look, this is North Dakota not California. I’m not prone to—" I flapped my hands in the air— “flights of fancy.”

“Tell me more about the visions, Ms. De’brie.” Dr. Cautell looked like someone’s grandmother—not mine. Her gray hair was cut pixie style, and still held remnants of faded blond. Her eyes, a clear, piercing blue, tried to probe into my soul.

“They’ve come every year for the past three years. Wake me up in the middle of the night. I get a clear picture of a murder. Some murder, somewhere.” I licked my lips and wished for a bottle of water. Make that a dirty martini with bleu-cheese stuffed olives.

She inclined her head for me to continue.

“I don’t see the killer. Just the murder. But I
know
what’s happening. Through his eyes, his hands.” I shuddered, all three visions hovering at the edge of my mind.

“Dreams can seem real.” Her voice was soft, soothing, and lightly laced with slow vowels that carried a touch of lament. The Dakota accent. It didn’t put me at ease.

“Nope. Not a dream. I dream all the time. Never remember a thing, well, rarely. This is different. I’m there. It’s like looking through his mind, knowing he’s going to kill. Watching him kill.
Feeling
him kill.”

A martini was definitely in my future, ten o’clock in the morning or not.

“And your understanding is that the murders have happened.” Her face was smooth, not a trace of expression. The woman was the consummate psychiatrist. Could probably win awards for not leading the witness.

“Yes. CNN has confirmed all three of my visions. Usually within a week or two after the snowstorm.” I crossed my legs and my skin prickled against the denim fabric of my blue jeans.

Silence. She was definitely one of those therapists who don’t talk. A real pain in the butt, that. I was here for help. Maybe a question would trick her into offering an opinion—or something, anything other than silence. “What’s the matter with me?”

“Is there something the matter with you?”

I slid to the front of the chair, levered my elbows on my knees and glared. “What do you think? How normal is it to have visions of murders while they happen? And connected to the last snowstorm of spring? It’s loony. I want it to stop. I’m
here
so you can make it stop.”

How dense could the woman be?

She inclined her head again. Big help.

“In May. When it’s time for the snow thing to happen. I get obsessed with the weather station. Listen every few hours. It’s. Not. Normal.”

I slid back in my chair and folded my hands in my lap. Capable hands, strong fingers, short nails without polish. I come from Haitian ancestry. Latte skin, black spiral curls, black eyes, full lips, curvy body, and totally out of place around the Scandinavian population of Minot, North Dakota. I stand out. Probably look crazy just on general principle. Dr. Cautell was doing her best. It wasn’t her fault I’d been born to black beans and fried plantains rather than lutefisk and krumkake. No wonder she didn’t know what to do with me.

“And this last dream?”

“Vision. Dreams are a whole different thing. I think the reason the visions happen when I’m asleep is that my guard is down. Anyway, this year’s vision hasn’t happened yet. They’re predicting snow in forty-eight hours. I. Need. Help. Now.”

She tapped her pen on the pad in front of her and caught her bottom lip between her teeth.

Definitely not a confidence builder.

“I can prescribe a sleeping medication, but no one can keep you from dreaming.”

She couldn’t seem to get off the dreaming kick. I rolled my eyes. Not very adult, but there you go. “Of course not. This is a curse. I’d make an appointment with the local witchdoctor but they’re all in Haiti. At least the ones connected to my family.”

“You have a practicing witchdoctor in your family?” She reached for a bright red coffee mug, gripped it with white fingers.

Damn, I hate when people don’t get my humor.

“Not that I know of. I’ve never been there and neither have my parents. Papa is an accountant and Maman is a baker. Fancy wedding cakes. Wins prizes.”

She set the mug down, placing it just so on her desk. “I recommend you take a short vacation. Visit your family.”

“My family lives in New York. It snows there.”

She reached for her prescription pad. “Take one of these every night for the next month. We can continue with this discussion at your next appointment.”

I nodded, stood, tucked my handbag under my arm, accepted the proffered slip of paper, and glanced at it with professional curiosity. Exactly what I would have prescribed for myself if I thought there was a chance in hell it would help. A sleeping pill wasn’t the answer. I stuffed the script in my pocket and tried to think of something to say, but came up blank. I’d already told her everything that mattered.

I stepped out of her office and the wind whipped around me, sharp and ominous as I unlocked my car and slid behind the wheel. When I started the engine, the bouncy notes of the weatherman’s prediction blasted into the silence. “A cold front is moving in from the north, bringing cooler temperatures and an eighty percent chance of precipitation.”

I flicked the radio off. There was something wrong about a perfectly modulated, cheerful voice predicting the end of someone’s life—even if he didn’t know it. Even if no one knew it but me. I’m apparently a wuss and subject to the whims of impossible demons who’ve made it their mission to curse my life. I needed to find some kind of cure in the next few hours.

I wandered around the house and thought about working, even opened my laptop. No deal. The blank TV screen stared at me, dared me to turn it on. I grabbed the remote. Sure enough, cheery weather guy pointed to the low-pressure area hovering overhead. I glanced out the window at the clouds moving in—threatening as all hell with their fake, white, billowy innocence.

He’s gonna kill. He’s gonna kill. He’s gonna kill.
The ugly, little mantra chanted in the back of my mind like a song that wouldn’t quit. It interfered with rational thought and was insistent enough to get me pacing. Maybe the storm would blow over. My skin crawled, my right eye twitched, and the weatherman blathered on about the low-pressure area.

Not what I wanted to hear. I clicked the TV off, tossed the remote on a chair, and faced the pile of work sitting on my desk. Sheer determination had me plowing through the case I was working on, and several hours later my report was complete and emailed to my client. I have a doctorate in nursing (the management part, not the patient care part) and decipher medical charts for attorneys and insurance companies—whoever has a pesky medical question that needs to be answered.

I stood and stretched, flicked the curtain back and looked out the window. No snow. I sent up a quick prayer to the gods, goddesses, and non-existent family witchdoctor that it stay that way.

I wasn’t hungry so I made myself a martini with precisely seven bleu-cheese olives. I have a weakness for green olives when they’re steeped in the essence of a good martini. And if I do say so, I make an excellent martini. Then I tumbled into bed and drifted into a restless sleep.

I’d made the decision to keep the weather channel humming in the background because I figured if they said anything about snow, it would wake me up.

Wrong.

Several hours later, I shuddered awake from a deep sleep. Sweat beaded on my upper lip and forehead. I grabbed for the bottle of water sitting next to the bed, downed it in single gulp. I closed my eyes and let my attention zero-in on the horror of the vision that woke me.

Damn it.

I stumbled out of bed and jerked the blinds open. No snow.

This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t my normal vision of a murder. Oh, no. Nothing normal like
that
. This was the killer all right, but he was doing prep work. Who knew killers did prep work? Not me. At least not until a few minutes ago. This murder was going to be a stabbing. I let the images run through my mind again, watched him fondle the knife as I looked for a clue. Something, anything that would help someone in authority catch the guy. Hopefully, stop him before he could carry out his plan. I watched him run his finger along the edge of the knife. Felt his anticipation. And even worse, I could smell the sour dampness emanating from his body.

No way could I stay here and wait for it to snow, not with this new kind of vision taking over my crazy, mixed-up, and obviously very sick mind. My skin was clammy, my stomach had knots the size of Texas and the weather guy had upped his prediction of snow from an eighty to ninety percent chance within a few hours. How many hours was anyone’s guess.

The clock read three a.m. There are three flights in and out of Minot every day, and all of them go to Minneapolis. Good to know when you’re hell-bent on making an escape. The first one left before dawn, and that suited me just fine. I got online, paid my fare, and selected a seat. It’d be easier to decide on my final destination when I got to Minneapolis and had time to peruse the options. As it was, I only had a scant half hour to get to the airport. I called a cab, walked through the shower, pulled on some jeans and a long-sleeved white tee, tossed my toothbrush, mouthwash and makeup in a zip lock bag, stuffed the baggie and a pair of pink thongs in my handbag, grabbed a sweater, my cell and computer, and locked the door behind me just as the cab pulled up—an oversized white van.

The driver jumped out, got the door for me. “Goin’ to the airport, Cookie?”

Cookie? Where did this guy come from?
Could have been anywhere. Gray hair, gray eyes, pale skin, beer belly. Normal. A perfectly normal cab driver. No reason to panic.

“Yep. The airport it is.”

The wind kicked up, tossed my chin-length spiral curls around and tore at the edges of my sweater. A chill raced down my spine and I quickly slid into the van.

Death and wind in Minot.

Both unavoidable.

I kept my nose to the window and watched for any change in the weather. I shuddered with cold and wiped at the condensation on the glass. The glow from the streetlamps wasn’t picking up any sparkly, white flakes.

“How’d ya come to be in Minot? Lookin’ like you do, you can’t be from around here. Betcha it was the Air Force.”

Of all mornings, this one came with a talkative cab driver.

“You got it. I followed the wrong man from the Stewart base in New York, and ended up tossing him but keeping my house.”

He wrinkled his forehead and caught a quick glance at me in the rearview mirror. “Most people would’ve moved back to New York.”

Four in the morning was
not
the time to be discussing my failures in life, especially those involving an intimate relationship with the wrong man that still left a raw spot in my heart five long years later. Guess it was time to get over it and move on.

Just not right this minute.

I had to give the cabbie credit, though. It only took him about two minutes to uncover the bad juju in my love life. I’m betting it will take Dr. Cautell longer to home in on whatever is hidden underneath the visions—if I make another appointment. Maybe, with luck, this whole vision curse thing can be solved with a short vacation every spring—no need for a psychiatrist to poke and probe into my psyche.

I crossed my fingers.

On both hands.

The rest of the trip to the airport was uneventful. Well, considering we picked up a family of five on Sixteenth Street. Two kids, elementary school age, both hyperactive. One sullen, pierced, gothic teenager of indeterminate gender and a couple of harried parents. It was enough to insure the meticulous use of condoms—if I ever had sex again. Their odd normalcy made a sharp contrast to the vision that woke me and grated against my already raw nerves.

I fled the cab, leaving the driver with a wave and a big tip, wrapped my sweater tight to my body, and fought the wind as it sliced through my clothes and tugged at my bag.

The first snowflake melted against my hand as I jogged across the street.