Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery (3 page)

“What’s what, doll?” he asked me, his eyes searching my face.

My gaze locked with his, and I almost couldn’t form the words. “You’re in danger,
Dutch.”

His brow rose. “Me?”

“Yes,” I said, cupping his face and feeling a cold shiver take root at the base of
my spine. “And it’s connected to your work.”

His expression softened. “Comes with the territory,” he said, full of that bravado
that makes courageous men say and do stupid things.

Dutch works for the FBI, and although his division is more focused on solving cold
cases than active ones, it still means that he has to deal with the occasional dicey
situation.

But this wasn’t just a dicey situation. This was his murder. And the fact that it
felt so close and so definite left me reeling and panic-stricken. “Dutch,” I said,
my eyes welling with tears. “Please don’t go to work today.”

He looked curiously at me. “Edgar, what is it?”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t find the words to fully describe what I was picking
up in the ether. It was like a thousand warning bells going off all around us, and
I knew with absolute certainty that before the month was out, my fiancé, the person
I loved most in the world, would be dead. I choked on a sob and threw my arms around
his neck, clinging to him, and willing him to stay next to me where I could try to
keep him safe.

Instead, Dutch turned with me still in his arms and sat down
on the chair. He hugged me tightly and tried to comfort me. “Aw, babe,” he said softly.
“Whatever it is, we can figure it out. Tell me what you see and we’ll work on it together,
okay?”

I shook my head and pulled back to look at him. “It’s not anything I can articulate.
It’s just a knowing.”

“What is it you know?”

I wanted to tell him that I saw his death, if only because I wanted him to take me
seriously, but try as I might, I couldn’t hold in the sobs forming in my throat to
speak the truth he needed to hear.

“Dollface,” Dutch said softly, kissing my wet cheek before he hugged me tightly again.
“If you don’t want me to go to work today, I won’t go.”

I lifted my chin from his shoulder. “Really?”

He nodded. “You’ll have to help me figure out what I’m gonna tell Gaston, though,”
he said, referring to the FBI director. Dutch and his entire department were working
a critical case where a suicide bomber had targeted a mall in a city northeast of
Austin.

The bomber and an elderly couple had been killed, and the Austin-based bureau was
trying very hard to hold on to their jurisdiction because both the Dallas branch and
Homeland Security were chomping at the bit to take the case away from Gaston’s squad.

Director Gaston was former CIA, and he didn’t flinch at much, but the director of
Homeland Security and the FBI director in Dallas had teamed up against him at their
first official meeting and that was the wrong thing to do to a man like Gaston. He’d
since dug in his heels and it was no secret that he was determined to hang on to and
solve the case, even if that meant working his men into the ground.

At issue were the intentions of the bomber, who, as it turned
out, was a pretty young girl from Austin who’d been attending college at Texas A&M.
No one could figure out why she’d suddenly strapped a bomb to her torso and walked
into a mall to blow herself and three others up.

The case was a nightmare of unanswered questions, and normally I would’ve volunteered
my services as a professional psychic (I consult with the FBI on a regular basis),
but for whatever reason, my crew—those spirit guides tasked with giving me intuitive
insight while trying to keep me out of trouble—were insisting that I not get involved.

This was problematic because Gaston told me repeatedly that he could really use my
help on the case, and he wasn’t necessarily buying the whole “My spirit guides said
no” excuse.

I could hardly blame him. It sounded lame to my ears too. And I could only imagine
what he’d say when Dutch called him to let him know he wasn’t going into the office.
“Can’t you call Brice and tell him that I have a really bad feeling about your safety?”
I asked, hoping Dutch could simply bypass the director and report to his immediate
supervisor, Brice Harrison, who was far more reasonable with things like this, mostly
because he was a good friend and currently engaged to my best friend, Candice.

Dutch sighed heavily. “If Brice okays it, then he’ll have to inform Gaston, and you
know that won’t fly. Gaston would have his foot up Brice’s ass in about three seconds.”

I swallowed hard. I might be able to convince Gaston to give Dutch this one day off,
but it would come at a price. “Let me try,” I said, holding out my hand for Dutch’s
phone.

He eyed me skeptically. “I can call in my own sick day, Edgar.”

“Could he fire you?” I asked, suddenly worried about office politics.

Dutch shrugged. “He could. But he won’t. If he fires me, he loses you. He’ll probably
write me up, though.”

I held my hand out again. “Gimme the phone.”

Dutch sighed, but he turned sideways to pull his phone out from his back pocket. Just
as he was handing it to me, the cell rang.

I jumped, but Dutch took the device back and after quickly looking at the display,
he answered with a commanding, “Rivers.”

I watched Dutch’s face intently, that awful foreboding feeling never wavering. Five
seconds into the call his expression hardened. “Dammit! Again? Where?”

And I knew. I knew exactly what’d happened. I closed my eyes and felt hot tears leak
out. Tears of panic, sadness, and terrible fear. I wiped clumsily at my cheeks while
he finished the call and sat there numbly for a moment. “There’s been another bombing,”
I said.

He nodded, and pocketed the cell. “I have to go in.”

I wanted to say something—anything—that would stop him from leaving the house, but
I knew there were no such words. Dutch was a cop through and through, and telling
him to do nothing when a crisis hit was like asking a bird not to fly.

“I’m coming with you,” I told him, and he immediately stiffened.

“No,” he said firmly.

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I have to go to the crime scene, and there’s no way I’m letting you anywhere near
that.”

I pushed at his chest defiantly. “Are you seriously
kidding
me? I’ve been to crime scenes before, cowboy. I’m not some wilting flower, you know.”

But Dutch was unmoved. “Remember the footage from the last bombing? Remember how that
affected you?”

I glared hard at him. The footage from the first bombing had
sent me into such hysterics that I’d had to leave the building. “That’s some dirty
pool, cowboy.”

“Abs,” Dutch said with a sigh. “If you go with me, you realize Gaston is gonna pull
you right into this mess, and you know you can’t get involved. Your crew said for
you to butt out, and as much as you’d like me to believe they want you out of it because
you might misinterpret and cloud the case, I
know
it’s because there could be some danger to you.”

Son of a beast. He’d figured that out.

“And,” he went on, “if you’re right and I’m the one with a target on his back, then
there’s
no way
I want you anywhere near me while I work this case. You’re staying put, sweets.”

“But I’m worried about you!” And for the record, I was more than worried; I was flat-out
terrified.

“I’ll be extra careful.”

I turned my face away from him, angry that he didn’t seem to be taking this seriously.

“Hey,” he said, pulling my chin around again so that he could look me in the eyes.
“I will be careful, dollface. I promise. I’ll even wear a vest and keep the guys close,
okay?”

“A vest won’t do a damn thing against a bomb.”

“Exactly my point and why I don’t want you anywhere near this case, Edgar.”

I could see that I was fighting a losing battle, so I said nothing more.

“Besides,” he went on, trying to lighten the mood, “you have a physical therapy appointment,
and probably a lot of other wedding stuff to work on, right?”

I glared defiantly at him. I wouldn’t be doing any of that today.

Dutch took my silence for acquiescence and he carefully got up with me still in his
arms to set me on the bed to kiss me
sweetly before heading to his closet to retrieve his bulletproof vest and gun holster.

I watched him dress silently, taking him in from head to toe. How could I love someone
so completely? There wasn’t a part of Dutch that I didn’t adore with my whole heart.
I couldn’t lose him. It’d kill me.

When he was finished getting himself together, he came over to kiss me again. “I’ll
call you, okay?”

“Every hour,” I replied flatly.

He chuckled into my hair. “I’ll try,” he promised. “And I’ll be careful.”

With that he left me. The moment he was out of the room, I grabbed a pair of jeans,
a sweatshirt, my purse, my phone, and my cane and moved as fast as I could down the
stairs. When I reached the landing, Dutch was already backing out of the driveway.
I waited until his car had straightened out, then hurried out the door.

The stairs slowed me down a little—as they always do—but I managed to get into my
car and start the engine with Dutch’s car still in sight at the end of the street.
He turned right and I backed out of the drive with a loud squeal of my tires. Zooming
down the street, I flew past the stop sign (silently apologizing to the traffic god)
and kept Dutch’s black Audi in my line of sight while letting it cruise ahead well
down the street. I prayed that he didn’t look in his rearview mirror, because my blue
Mini Cooper was a hard one to miss.

I followed him stealthily to the highway, which made it easier for me to hide behind
other cars; then I saw that he was about to turn off onto an adjoining highway. I
eased my car over and settled in, putting two cars between us. As we headed north,
the traffic started to get considerably more congested. I became
aware of a helicopter overhead, then another helicopter and the sound of sirens.

I ignored all of them and kept my focus on Dutch. Very soon the cars in the far right
lane slowed to a near stop and began to put their left turn signals on. The blue and
red flashing lights mounted to the rear of Dutch’s backseat came on, and he took the
shoulder. I eased my car over slightly to watch him zip up the road to the next exit,
stop at the barricade manned by an Austin patrolman. The cop waved him down the ramp
as soon as Dutch flashed his ID.

The minute he cruised out of sight, I also edged onto the shoulder and drove straight
toward the cop—who did
not
look happy to see me. “Lady, this exit is closed!” he barked the moment I pulled
to a stop and rolled down my window.

Fishing hastily through my purse, I pulled out my own FBI ID and waved it at him.
“I’m supposed to meet Director Gaston at the crime scene,” I said, hoping he’d been
told who the head of the investigation was. “I’m with Special Agent Brice Harrison’s
team,” I added. When in doubt drop all the names you can think of.

The cop scrutinized my ID; then he took in my appearance and seemed to hesitate.

I felt my cheeks flush. I was still in my pajamas. I motioned to the jeans and sweatshirt
at my side. “The director told me to get my ass here ASAP,” I told him. (Swearing
doesn’t count when you’re trying to worm your way closer to a crime scene you haven’t
actually been invited to.) “And you’ve probably heard that the director doesn’t like
to be kept waiting.”

The cop actually broke into a grin. “Yeah, I got a captain like that. Okay, go ahead,
but be discreet where you change, okay? I don’t want to see you cited for indecent
exposure.”

I smiled and gave him a two-finger salute, before backing up and weaving around the
barricade.

The crime scene wasn’t hard to spot—I just had to follow the smoke, which led me to
a parking lot filled with smoldering embers. There must have been a dozen cop cars
and another dozen or so black sedans lining the street leading to the decimated building.
At the front of the scene were three large fire trucks, and behind that, three ambulances
and even more cop cars. The fire department was still working to make sure the fire
was completely out, while several paramedics remained on hand to help the injured,
but it was hard to believe that anyone who’d been inside that building could still
be alive.

A crowd of pedestrians had also gathered, most of them with a look of shock on their
faces as they huddled close to one another. Several were even crying. The helicopters
overhead were a mixture of news crews and police, and a row of news vans lined the
street about a block away, many of the assigned reporters out in front of their vehicles
reporting live from the scene.

As I made my way down the side street across from the strip mall, I waved my badge
to several more patrol officers, and was finally directed to a spot just at the corner.
I’d long since lost sight of Dutch’s car, but I knew he was somewhere in the mess
of first responders.

As I pulled into the space, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, because I was a good
distance away from the crime scene, but with an unobstructed view, and even as I turned
off the engine, I spotted Dutch making his way toward a cluster of men I recognized
from his office. Gaston was easy to see with his sleek black hair and handsome face.
Despite the fact that the director was a taskmaster and often manipulated me into
working for him, I liked him. I couldn’t exactly tell you why, but he was an honest
and earnest man, completely devoted to the job of protecting
the innocent and bringing the guilty to justice. I also liked that he didn’t suffer
fools gladly—a trait I’d been accused of on occasion…cough…cough.

While keeping my eyes on Dutch, I shimmied into my sweatshirt and discreetly pulled
on my jeans. Not an easy feat in a Mini, let me tell you. As I was setting my jammies
to the side, I heard a loud rap on the passenger-side window and I think I jumped
about a foot. Immediately locating the source, I hid a groan and undid the lock.