Deadly Forecast: A Psychic Eye Mystery (9 page)

I wiped at my eyes, which were misting again. “No,” I said.

“What?” He hadn’t heard me.

I backed up a little from him. “No. If you’re here, I’m here. I can’t sit at home
or in my office and wonder about what could happen to you, Dutch. I’ll go insane.
And you
don’t
know that I won’t be able to stop someone from taking a shot at you. I have pretty
good radar, and right now it’s feeling the ether everywhere around you. The
second
I feel a shift, I’m going to warn you, and maybe that’ll be the key to saving your
life.”

“As long as you’re nearby, I’m gonna worry about both of us,” Dutch said, still fighting
me. “That’s gonna get mighty distracting, Abby, and Gaston needs me fully focused.”

I hesitated for just a moment before I said, “Gaston needs me focused more than he
does you, sweetie.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed. I’d dealt him a low blow to be sure, but it was the only way
I could get him to listen. “Mean,” he said.

I reached for his hand again, and this time he didn’t pull it away. “It wasn’t intended
to be, cowboy. But it
is
the truth. I’m not going anywhere. I’m on this case as long as you are. Period.”

Dutch looked like he was about to say something more, but we were interrupted by a
man dressed in one of those dark blue Windbreakers who sort of pushed his way into
our conversation by yelling, “Rivers, what’s this about another eyewitness to the
bomber?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dutch countered, clearly annoyed by the intrusion.
(And maybe me…)

The man pointed behind him to a row of reporters speaking into their microphones for
the cameras while Brice stood to one side with his arms crossed. “Harrison just gave
a sketch of the suspect to the press!” the man nearly shouted. I noticed a vein throbbing
at his temple and thought maybe he should take a chill pill before his head exploded.

“So?” Dutch replied, with obvious disdain. I didn’t know who this guy was, but it
was pretty obvious he didn’t play for Gaston’s team.

“So?”
the guy snapped (and yes, this time he actually shouted).
“So why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

Dutch crossed his arms too, his face turning to granite. “Don’t know, Willis. Maybe
you should take it up with the director.”

“If I could find Gaston, I’d take it up with him,” Willis growled. That vein in his
temple bulged as it continued to throb, and my radar kicked in.

“Do you have a history of high blood pressure in your family?” I suddenly asked. I
hadn’t meant to—it’s just my radar zeroed in on him and it sort of fell out of my
mouth.

He swiveled large, surprised eyes at me.
“What?”

“High blood pressure,” I repeated calmly. “It runs in your family, right? On your
dad’s side more so than your mom’s, but there’s also heart disease on both sides of
your family and you’ve already been told you’ve got an issue, haven’t you, Mr. Willis?”

“
Agent
Willis,” he corrected, his wide eyes narrowing as he turned back to Dutch, pointed
at me, and snapped, “What the hell is she talking about?”

Dutch’s face remained hard and stoic, but I could tell Willis had just pissed him
off royally. “Seems to me she’s talking about your ticker,
Agent
Willis. Might want to pay attention to her and get it checked out.”

Willis’s jaw dropped and he looked dumbly from Dutch back to me.

“You also carry all of your stress in your chest,” I told him. “That’s not a good
place for it. Especially when you have a family history of high blood pressure and
heart disease. Of course, it wouldn’t be nearly as concerning if you didn’t eat so
much crap.
You’ve been ignoring your doctor’s advice on that front. I think you might be addicted
to salt, and it’s the worst thing for you. I’d lay off the potato chips, French fries,
and deli ham if I were you, sir.”

Agent Willis continued to stare at me openmouthed, but he added blinking to the expression.

“Also, that promotion you want isn’t going to happen. You’ll need to brace yourself
for the news that it’s going to someone younger and slightly less experienced. It’s
why I really think you should try to take care of yourself. It’s gonna hit you hard.”

With that, Agent Willis’s head moved slowly to the left and I saw him eye a guy also
in a dark blue Windbreaker—at least ten years younger than Willis—who was busy talking
to several other agents on Dutch’s team.

“Yep,” I said. “He’s the guy getting promoted. If it’s any consolation, he won’t like
the job as much as he was hoping to.”

Willis’s attention snapped back to me and there was real anger in his eyes now.

“But that could be because he’ll be your supervisor, and I doubt you’ll make it easy
on him.” (Sometimes I have a hard time quitting while I’m ahead.)

“Who
are
you?!” he demanded.

I showed him my badge. “Abby Cooper. FBI civilian consultant.”

Willis blinked again and then something seemed to register. “Hold on,” he said, “are
you that fortune-teller we heard the bureau hired?”

“I’m the professional intuitive they hired, yes,” I said, feeling a little flinty
about being called a “fortune-teller.”

Willis started to laugh, and it wasn’t a nice laugh, and it certainly wasn’t kind.
“Rivers, are you puttin’ me on?” he finally asked.

Dutch responded by offering me his hand. “Come on, Ms. Cooper. We have an interview
to get to.”

I gave Willis what I hoped was my best “You’re a real dickhead” expression and took
hold of my fiancé’s hand. “Good luck with that ticker,” I told him, in my best “eff
you” voice. The humor left him pretty quick.

When we were out of hearing range, I asked, “Who
was
that asshole?”

“That’s another quarter,” Dutch said, reminding me that the swear jar on our kitchen
counter was due a few coins (or $678.75 to be exact…).

“Yeah, yeah. But who was he?”

“Homeland Security,” Dutch told me. “They’ve been trying to weasel in on our case
for the past couple weeks, and after today we’ll be lucky to hold on to it.”

“Who decides if it stays with you guys or gets moved over to them?”

“It has to be worked out at the top, between the secretary of Homeland Security and
the FBI director.”

“Gaston?”

“No, the national director. The problem is that it’s not clear who the case should
belong to, so we’ve been asked to join forces and work the case as a team.”

I looked back at Willis, his hands on his hips while he glared at our departing forms.
“It’s going well, this working together, right?”

Dutch actually laughed. “Peachy. Harrison is close to breaking that little guy’s neck.”
Dutch motioned to the younger man I’d pegged for the promotion.

I read the younger guy’s energy. “He’s hungry and scared he’ll blow this opportunity.
That’s gonna make him a major pain in your—”

“Careful,” Dutch warned again.

I scowled at him. The swear police never cut me any slack. (So I made sure to cut
myself some extra when I could get away with it.) “The
point
is that I’m sensing he’s going to be a thorn in your side.”

At that moment the man in question looked up, and like a hawk seeing two juicy mice,
he started off in our direction. Dutch wrapped an arm around my waist and we shuffled
to his car as quickly as we could, but the Homeland Security agent was closing in
fast.

“Where ya goin’?” I heard Candice ask, and I turned my head sharply. She’d come out
of nowhere.

“We’re headed to Rita’s house,” I told her, continuing my speedy shuffle.

Candice quickened her pace to come up on my side. “Who’re we avoiding?”

“That guy,” I said with a nod toward the agent.

Candice brought her arm up and pressed a button on her key fob. Two cars away, her
Porsche beeped. “My car’s closer,” she said.

Dutch and I didn’t argue. We simply leaned to the left and made a beeline to her car.
She had us in and the engine turned over before the agent really registered what was
happening. As Candice pulled out from the curb, I saw him stop and put his hands on
his hips. I couldn’t help it; I waved at him. Probably not a smart move, but it was
deeply satisfying.

We drove in silence while the navigation system gave Candice turn-by-turn directions
from the address that Dutch had given her. I had to give my BFF props for driving
like a reasonable person, something I suspected she was doing only because there was
actually someone in the car who could arrest her for reckless driving.

We arrived at Rita Watson’s house, which was already surrounded by police and a small
mob of onlookers. “What’s going on?” I asked as we pulled over to the curb down the
street.

Dutch glowered in his seat. “This isn’t us,” he said. “It’s gotta be HS.”

“But Rita didn’t have anything to do with the bombs!” I exclaimed. I could just imagine
her poor son, having to endure this invasion of privacy after hearing about his mother’s
death. It was awful.

Dutch opened his car door. “It’s part of their protocol, Abs. They’ll vet anyone connected
to the explosion in case there’s a possible connection.”

“We have to find Rita’s son,” I said as he helped me from the backseat. I was a little
desperate to find the young man and make sure he was okay.

Dutch and Candice took up either side of me as we moved forward toward the small but
charming home in an older neighborhood that’d probably seen better days. Nearby a
dog barked incessantly, and several neighbors stood on their porches or front steps
talking to one another or gabbing away on their phones. Most of the onlookers wore
eager expressions, almost as if they were gleeful at the chance to witness such fallout
from tragic circumstances.

The whole thing made me sick to my stomach, and yet I couldn’t help looking at the
crowd. Something was drawing me to them, in particular to one young man with curly
black hair, pale skin, and red swollen eyes.

Dutch flashed his badge to several people in those familiar blue jackets with “Homeland
Security” silk-screened on the back; then he motioned me up the walk, but I hesitated.
“Abs?” Candice asked.

I didn’t answer her. Instead I shuffled past the front walk and
headed toward the young man standing alone and slightly removed from the rest of the
crowd. He saw me coming and shifted uncomfortably. I could tell he’d been crying and
my heart went out to him. He looked away and moved farther down from the crowd.

“Hey,” I said when I was just a few feet away. “You’re Rita’s son, aren’t you?”

The poor kid didn’t even acknowledge me. Instead he just stared hard at his front
lawn, as if he hadn’t heard a word I’d said.

For several seconds I didn’t quite know what to say. Rita had asked me to look in
on her son and I could feel his terrible sadness and it broke my heart. But approaching
him would require delicacy…something I’m not especially known for.

“What’s your name, honey?” I said to him. His eyes flickered to me, then away.

“No comment,” he muttered, and I wondered if he’d already been approached by a reporter.

I could feel Dutch and Candice right behind me, obviously letting me take the lead.
“Okay,” I told him, “I’ll do the talking, and you can just stand there without saying
a word. That all right by you?”

He shrugged. “It’s a free country.”

I wished I knew his name—it’d go a long way to making this easier—and then something
weird happened…. I
never
get names…. Okay, well maybe once or twice a year I may get one, but they sure don’t
come easy to me. Anyway all of a sudden the name Brody clicked into my head and I
knew it was his. “It’s Brody, right?” I asked, mentally crossing my fingers.

His eyes flickered to me with a hint of surprise, but then his gaze darted right back
to the lawn. Still, I knew I was on the right track.

“You’re probably wondering how I knew that,” I said.

He glared at the grass.

“I’m not a reporter.”

He glared harder.

“I work with the FBI.”

Not a flicker of interest.

“But I’m not an agent. I’m a psychic consultant.”

His eyes came back to me, and this time they held my gaze. “For real?”

I nodded. “For real.” Doubt clouded his expression. I took my phone out of my pocket
and tapped at the screen. When I had what I wanted on the display, I showed it to
him. “See?” I said. “That’s my Web site. I take personal clients along with occasionally
helping out the FBI.”

Brody took my phone and I said nothing while he skimmed the text. He then handed me
back the phone and said, “I get feelings sometimes.”

I cocked my head. “You mean, intuitive feelings?”

He nodded sadly and his eyes welled with tears. “This morning I tried to talk my mom
into taking the day off. But she said she was booked solid and she couldn’t.”

His lip quivered and his face seemed to crumple in on itself. I handed Candice my
cane and held my arms open wide, and Brody sort of shuffled into my embrace. I hugged
him for a long time, trying with all my might to hold in my own tears, but it was
pointless. His heartbreak was so raw, and so painful, and so guilt-ridden, that it
just tore me apart. “I’m so, so sorry, honey,” I said to him. I could feel Dutch place
a hand on my back and Candice hedged in to stand shoulder to shoulder with me.

At last, Brody stepped back and we both wiped our eyes. “Do you have any place you
can go?” I asked.

Brody nodded toward his house, but he was still too overcome to speak.

“Is anyone going to stay with you?”

He shook his head.

I turned and looked at Dutch. We couldn’t let this kid stay in his house by himself
after what’d happened to his mom. Plus, Homeland Security was currently trashing his
home. I didn’t think they’d pick up after themselves either.

“You hungry, son?” Dutch asked gently.

Brody shook his head, but then I heard his stomach gurgle.