Medium Rare: (Intermix) (15 page)

He grasped Rose’s hand, feeling a faint jolt of heat when she pressed her palm against his. He took a deep breath and focused on Cerrone again.

The girl on his other side didn’t seem affected by the cool temperature. Her palm was sweating enough to make his own feel clammy. He really hoped this session didn’t last longer than a half hour or so, or he’d have to wipe his hand on something.

Mini-Augie switched on a CD player at the back and the room filled with the kind of anonymous tinkling music he associated with yoga classes and soft porn.

Cerrone closed her eyes, leaning back in her chair. She didn’t bother putting on much of a show. Her body relaxed almost instantly into a boneless slump, her head drooping forward.

One of the boys started to mutter something, but stifled it when Mini-Augie cleared his throat.

After a few moments, Cerrone lifted her head, although she kept her eyes closed tightly. “The letter
K
. Someone whose name begins with the letter
K
wants to speak to Jessica.”

The girl next to Evan jumped, squeezing his hand painfully. “That’s me,” she stammered. “I don’t know any dead person named
K
, though.”

“Heart,” Cerrone intoned, staring at Jessica. “Maybe heart. Lungs? Kidneys? Is someone . . . did someone close to you . . . perhaps . . . diabetes? Did someone close to you have diabetes?”

The girl still clutched his hand. He tried stretching his fingers to loosen her grip, but she held on tight.

“My Uncle Lyle died from diabetes. But that’s
L
, not
K
.”

“
L
,” Cerrone murmured. “Yes.
L
. That’s right. Do you have any questions for your uncle?”

“Maybe.” Jessica chewed on her lip, obviously trying to think of something. “Well, how’s he doing?”

The boy across the table snickered. Jessica gave him a savage look, then turned back to Ms. Cerrone. “I mean, is he okay?”

Another round of snickers followed until Mini-Augie pushed himself away from the wall. The boys quieted abruptly.

“He’s doing well.” Cerrone’s eyes fluttered. “I’m losing contact. Anything else?”

“Just, well . . .” The girl swallowed hard. “Tell him Jessie sends her love.” She sniffled slightly.

Cerrone nodded, her head drooping again. The girl released the pressure on Evan’s hand marginally, but then took hold again as the medium raised her head.

He had a feeling they were in for a long night.

He was right. Cerrone stumbled through her messages, trying to attach them to the boys, the girls, even to Evan without a great deal of success. Periodically, Mini-Augie loomed over the table to keep the boys in line, but after a while even he began to sag with boredom.

Beside him, Rose sat quietly, watching Cerrone’s face. He didn’t think her shoulders had touched the back of her chair all evening long. Strange that the medium hadn’t tried to give her any messages. Wasn’t she the right type?

Finally, Cerrone relaxed in her chair again, head lolling. Then, suddenly, she sat up very straight indeed. Her body trembled slightly, like a wire pulled taut. Her eyes were more tightly closed than they had been before. “Caroline. Caroline says . . .” she gasped. She wet her lips, grimacing, then took a shuddering breath.

Across from Evan, the boys and their girlfriends were suddenly silent, staring at Cerrone.

“Caroline says . . .” The medium began to breathe harder. Evan watched her shoulders rise and fall, as if she were struggling with something. Maybe she was better at this than he’d given her credit for. At the moment, she looked like she was in touch with some force she couldn’t control.

“Caroline says . . .” Cerrone caught her breath, her face convulsing. “Caroline . . .”

Mini-Augie pushed away from the wall again. “Hey, Brenda, you okay?”

“Don’t!” Cerrone cried, her eyes popping open as her body jerked upright. “Don’t look back!”

She gasped, sucking in air, then sat blinking at the table. For the first time, the boys were completely silent.

“I’m sorry,” Cerrone whispered. “I didn’t . . . That wasn’t . . .”

“Show’s over,” Mini-Augie barked. “Everybody leave now.”

Chapter 16

“Interesting evening,” Evan muttered as they walked toward Commerce Street.

“We seem to keep having them.” Rose kept her eyes straight ahead. The chalcedony pendant bounced against her chest under her blouse.

Grandma Caroline’s pendant.
Caroline says . . .

She took a deep breath and told herself for the dozenth time to calm down. Brenda Cerrone was a wretched medium. She made William Bradford look like a genius. The idea that her grandmother, the celebrated Caroline Riordan, would choose to communicate through such a shoddy vessel rather than the family spirit guide was ludicrous.

But somehow she couldn’t shake the feeling that that was exactly what had happened.

“We need to talk to her,” she blurted.

“Who? Cerrone?” He shook his head. “What the hell for?”

“To find out if she knew Alana DuBois. Even if she didn’t, she could tell us more about the Nightmare’s séances. We need to talk to her.”

We need to find out who Caroline is and what the hell she was trying to say.
Although Rose hadn’t the faintest idea how to ask that question.

He sighed. “Okay, let’s go back and see if she’s still in the building. I have a feeling Augie wouldn’t be too forthcoming if we asked for her phone number.”

Rose grasped his arm as they turned back down the block. The street was fairly well lighted, considering the part of town they were in. She couldn’t see anyone else around. There was really nothing to be nervous about. Really. Nothing.

Up ahead, the door opened at the séance building and the bouncer, José, stepped out. Evan slowed his pace, moving into the shadow of a nearby storefront. Rose peered around his shoulder.

José pulled his wallet out of his jacket pocket and counted out some bills. A moment later, Brenda Cerrone stepped next to him. Evan and Rose leaned closer, listening.

“Eighty?” Cerrone’s voice was higher than it had been during the séance. “Augie said a hundred.”

“He said a hundred if we got fifteen people. We didn’t. Eighty’s your cut.” José sounded bored. Rose watched him tuck his wallet back into his jacket again.

“That’s not fair,” the medium grumbled. “I did all the work.”

“I wouldn’t call that work, Brenda. Count yourself lucky nobody asked for their money back.”

She jabbed her glasses back up her nose. “I’d like to see you do it. Without me, you’ve got no show.”

He leaned past her to lock the door. “Don’t kid yourself. There’s plenty more mediums available. We could hire somebody else easy. On the other hand, you got eighty bucks for an hour’s work. Not too bad.”

Cerrone’s expression seemed to indicate she didn’t agree, but she didn’t say anything more, folding the money and tucking it into her purse.

He gave her a curt nod. “Augie’ll get in touch if he needs you again. ’Night.” He walked away without glancing back.

For a moment, Rose almost felt sorry for Brenda Cerrone, abandoned with her eighty dollars on a semidark side street. Then the medium slung her purse over her shoulder and extended her middle finger at the bouncer’s back before stomping up the street in their direction.

Rose stepped out of the storefront entrance where they’d been standing. “Ms. Cerrone?”

The medium pulled up short, clutching her purse to her chest. “Who are you? What do you want?”

“We were at the séance,” she murmured soothingly. “We just wanted to ask you some questions.”

“I don’t do readings on the street. I’ll give you my card. We can set something up later.” The medium still clutched her purse tightly.

“We don’t want a reading,” Evan explained. “Just some information. We’ll pay you for your time.”

She studied him for a moment, then shrugged. “How much?”

“Fifty and a cup of coffee.”

She let her purse slide down slightly. “Seventy-five. And pie.”

“Sixty-five and pie. Let’s head over there.” He pointed at a café on the next corner.

Seeing Brenda Cerrone in the unforgiving fluorescent light of the diner, Rose revised her estimate of the woman’s age. Judging from the crow’s-feet and the lines across her forehead, she was easily in her fifties, if not older, and the years hadn’t necessarily been kind.

She sat sipping her coffee, a slice of plastic-looking apple pie on a plate in front of her. “What do you want to know?”

Evan took a sip of his own coffee. “Do you know a medium named Alana DuBois?”

“Alana.” She shrugged. “Sure. We’re not buddies or anything, but I know her.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

She frowned. “I don’t know. Last month, maybe. I ran into her at the Nightmare one night.”

“Did she say anything about leaving San Antonio?” Rose asked, trying to keep her voice casual. “Maybe a vacation?”

Brenda shook her head. “Didn’t say anything to me, but like I say, we’re not that close.”

Evan leaned forward. “Did you ever hear her mention William Bradford?”

She gave him a sour smile. “You mean Willie Bradinski? That’s his real name—Bradinski. That’s what Alana said.”

“How did she know?”

“They grew up in the same town. Only he wasn’t a medium then, you know. Just some snot-nosed kid. ’Course neither was Alana. She came to it later.”

Rose started to sip her own coffee then thought better of it. “Did she try to contact Bradford? Once he’d moved down here, I mean?”

Brenda shook her head. “She went to one of those shows once. Said she was going to talk to him afterward, but then she didn’t.”

“Why not?”

She shrugged. “If you ask me, he told her to get lost. But she said he wasn’t the same guy. He wasn’t Bradinski.”

Evan’s brow furrowed. “You mean she was wrong about growing up with him?”

“No. She said she grew up with Bradford, but that the guy she saw wasn’t Bradford. Didn’t make any sense to me. Everybody knows Bradford moved down here. It was a big thing—on the TV and everything. If he wasn’t really Bradford, somebody would have said something about it.”

“The last time you saw her, did she say anything about Bradford?”

“She could have. She talked about him a lot, about how he wasn’t who he said he was. I don’t remember exactly.”

“Was it foggy? One of those foggy nights we’ve been having this fall?” Rose swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

“Yeah, it was.” Brenda shoveled the last bite of apple pie into her mouth. “Cold that night, I remember. That’s why Alana could wear that damn fool cape of hers. Her Little Red Riding Hood thing.”

“Was she going to a séance?”

She nodded. “That’s why she was at the Nightmare, getting the list of customers.” Her lips tightened slightly. “I mean we look at the list of people who have reservations, you know, just to make sure nobody shows up who isn’t supposed to be there. And Alana had people fill out cards, too. I don’t do that myself.”

Right. The sucker list.
Rose carefully avoided Evan’s gaze. “Was there anything unusual about that séance? Anything Alana might have mentioned?”

“Not that I recall.” Brenda tipped up the last of her coffee. “We don’t talk a lot about what we do. We’re sort of professional rivals, you might say.”

Meaning Alana didn’t tell her squat and Brenda probably returned the favor. Rose glanced at Evan. He raised his shoulders in a small shrug.

“That all you want to know?” Brenda jabbed her glasses up her nose one last time.

Rose nodded. “Yes. Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”

Evan pulled out his wallet, dropping some money on the table.

Brenda smiled a bit smugly. “Thanks.” She folded the bills into her purse, then fumbled in her jacket pocket. “Here’s my card. Like I said, I do private readings. If you should want more information.”

Rose took a breath. “Yes, we might. In fact, I was wondering about the séance tonight . . .”

Brenda’s shoulders became stiff. “What about it?”

“Well, about what happened.” Rose tried to smile. “I mean, what
did
happen tonight?”

“Nothing,” Brenda snapped. “Nothing unusual. Sometimes the spirits get a little playful, that’s all. Just a special message for one of the guests.”

“So that last message, where you said, ‘Don’t look back’—was that meant for anyone in particular?”

Brenda shook her head quickly. “I don’t know. The spirits don’t always tell me. I don’t know what that was about or who it was meant for.”

“And Caroline . . .” Rose tried not to sound as tense as she felt.

Her lips became a tight line. “Just a name. From the spirits. Like I said, I don’t know anything about it.”

Cerrone got to her feet, slinging her purse strap over her shoulder. “Tonight wasn’t typical, believe me. Most of the time it’s better. You want a private reading, I could give you a special rate. I have to get home now.” She turned away abruptly, threading her way through the tables with quick steps.

Evan watched her retreating back. “‘The spirits get a little playful.’ I get the feeling that bit of improv didn’t work out the way she expected.”

“‘Don’t look back.’ What does that mean, anyway?”

He pushed up from the table. “Maybe she’s a Bob Dylan fan. You know, ‘Don’t look back, something might be gaining on you.’”

She sighed, getting up herself. “I guess we should just go home. We’re not likely to find out much more tonight.”

“Sounds good to me.” His voice was slightly husky.

She glanced at him. His eyes seemed smoky all of a sudden, heated amber.
Hmm.
She took a deep breath. Okay, he hadn’t forgotten their kiss last night after all. A possibly even more interesting evening stretched ahead.

As they started back toward the parking lot, she found herself rubbing her arms again. The air had grown cool and moist while they were in the café. She glanced up at the streetlight overhead and frowned. Droplets of moisture hung in the air, reflecting the light.

Fog.

Her shoulders stiffened as her throat went dry. She took a deep breath. “It feels like it might rain. Maybe we should get back to the car. Quickly.”

He glanced at her. “We’re not far. Turn here.” He headed up a side street with even fewer streetlights than the one they’d been on. Fog swirled around them now, threads of mist floating across the light.

Rose peered up the block—someone was walking ahead of them. It took her a moment to recognize Brenda Cerrone, stomping along the sidewalk as if she were mentally dismembering the bouncer from the séance.

She paused at the intersection, peering in both directions. The fog was much thicker now, Rose noted, obscuring the street signs. Maybe Brenda was lost.

She started to say something to Evan, then paused.

Brenda stood very still, her head cocked slightly to the side. After a moment, she turned and looked over her shoulder, down the other cross street.

Suddenly, the air was filled with light.

For a second, the medium seemed outlined in blinding bluish white radiance, the kind of light you saw in very expensive headlights and baseball stadiums. Rose looked up in the sky, half-expecting to see a helicopter hovering overhead.

Except . . . Rose blinked, her heart rate accelerating. Except there was no sound, and the light seemed to be coming from
inside
Brenda’s body rather than outside as it should. Her skin glowed like white fire.

Rose began to move forward more quickly, reaching out as if there were something she could do.

And Brenda silently exploded.

Evan yelled, and then he was running down the street past Rose, toward where Brenda had been standing only a moment before. Rose remained rooted in place, too shocked even to scream.

After a few seconds, she forced herself to stumble toward the corner where he stood, cursing softly.

“What happened?” she whispered.

He shook his head. “A bomb? I don’t know exactly.”

She steeled herself to look at Brenda’s remains, then stared into the street.

Nothing. Dust.

“Where is she?” Rose gasped. “What happened?”

He shook his head. “Gone. Blown up. Vaporized. I don’t know.”

“Did you hear anything?”

He stood silent for a moment, then shook his head again. “No. No sounds at all.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something small and black lying next to the curb. She reached for it.

Brenda’s purse, the purse she’d slung so firmly over her shoulder, lay crumpled on the street.

“Evan,” Rose whispered, “something very, very bad is happening.” Her stomach clenched suddenly, and she tasted bile in her throat. “Oh shit.”

He put an arm around her shoulders, turning her gently to the side. “Okay, babe, if you’re going to be sick, do it over there, so you don’t contaminate anything.”

She staggered back toward a storefront doorway. “Contaminate?”

“It’s a crime scene,” he said grimly, pulling out his cell. “The cops will want to keep it clean.”

Rose turned and was very sick indeed.