Mind Games (37 page)

Will the real Diana Racine please stand up.

She waited for the applause to die down. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Before I begin, allow me this opportunity to thank everyone who graciously called the hospital and sent cards and e-mails to wish me a speedy recovery. I’m sorry there weren’t more than three hundred seats in the theater to accommodate all who wanted to attend tonight.”

She warmed the audience by exposing some of the many tricks psychics employ—general comments that applied to almost anyone, with a few solid deductions.

“Of course,” Diana said, “I’m not giving away my act because I’d never stoop to such tactics.” She scanned the audience to their delight with her best deadpan expression. Timing, she determined long ago, was everything for a performer.

“But tonight,” she said, strolling around the stage, “we’re going to try something a little different. As my ad in the newspaper mentioned, I asked audience participants to bring a personal item with them. Obviously, I can’t call on three hundred people, but I’ll do my best to choose as many as possible. Before the show, you were asked to place on a table in the lobby an item you wanted me to read. No one monitored who left what, nor were there cameras to clue me in. You have my word. There’s someone there now to protect your possessions. So let’s begin.”

She pointed to a young woman in the aisle. “My lovely assistant, Missy, collected a few items after you all took your seats and will now hand them to me one by one. As you can see, she’s wearing gloves to avoid contaminating them. I’ll read from these objects instead of reading from their owners. After I finish each one, the owner can either come on stage, or not, and tell everyone how I did. I’ve never done this before. Should be interesting.” Diana directed her next comment to an older lady in the front row. “I may debunk myself tonight, in which case I’m finished. I hope that doesn’t happen because I’m not quite ready to retire.” The woman smiled, and a hushed undercurrent of expectation arose from the audience, eager to be privy to Diana’s experiment.

Missy, Sam Beecher’s college-aged daughter, brought a lace-trimmed handkerchief to Diana, who waited at the front of the stage. “Whoever owns this wears a delicious scent. I hope she shares the name when I’m finished.” The audience hushed in expectation when Diana sat down with her eyes closed, the frilly item clasped tightly in her hand.

“The owner of this handkerchief is about to get married. I’m having strong sensations that something’s not right. She’s very nervous and worried about the choice she’s making.” Diana stopped, tilted her head to the side. “I sense discord in the relationship.” She opened her eyes and surveyed the audience. “You’re skeptical whether the union will last, and there’s a tear on this handkerchief to prove my insight. Your partner refuses to go to counseling or to discuss the problems.” She sat for a moment, still holding the lace-trimmed cloth in her hand. “That’s all I’m receiving. Does the owner of this handkerchief wish to join me on stage and comment on my analysis?”

No one responded, but a moment later a young woman at the end of the third row sprang from her seat and fled to the nearest exit. A young man scurried after her. The buzz from the audience left no doubt what happened.

“Guess not,” Diana said, sure the two people might finally discuss whatever caused the woman’s reticence to tying the knot.

Missy Beecher brought another item.

“Okay, what have we here?” Diana strolled across the stage, holding up the gold item so the audience could see. “Looks like a money clip. In the same way a lace handkerchief leaves no doubt the owner is a woman, I’m comfortable surmising the money clip belongs to a man. No great psychic powers required there.” She winked conspiratorially at a man in the front row. Backing off, she took her seat. Gripping the money clip in her hand, Diana dramatically slipped into a meditative state. Over the years, she learned the importance of a passionate performance, calculating every movement to achieve the greatest degree of tension. But what happened when she received nothing from the objects she held? That had happened many times. Aware she was putting her career on the line with the risky performance, she blocked out everything but what the gold object in her hand conveyed.

“Ah, someone’s playing a trick on me.” She opened her eyes and rose to stroll to center stage, searching the audience. “The last person to touch this was a woman, but it doesn’t belong to her. She borrowed it from her man for the sole purpose of deceiving me.” Diana paused, smiling just enough not to show arrogance. “I can’t tell you how many times someone has tried to mask his or her thoughts or offer me faulty information. I’m sure this lady won’t come up on stage and admit her deception, so I’ll return this to my helper, and the mystery lady or the man to whom this belongs can retrieve it after the show. No questions asked.” She held the money clip in the air, away from Missy, and teased the audience with a smile. “Unless, of course, she has the guts to retrieve it now.” All eyes turned to see if anyone moved. No one did.

“As I thought.” Diana handed the money clip to Missy Beecher. She continued for an hour more, taking one short break. As she surmised, two items offered no insights, and she explained the lack of psychic connection to audience. The other readings amazed the owners of the offered articles, and they praised Diana’s uncanny gift.

Until Missy brought her a gray T-shirt.

“A T-shirt,” Diana said. “How interesting. Who would think.” She placed the article of clothing in her lap and laid her hands on top. A slight tremor turned more pronounced the longer she held it. People fidgeted in their seats and glanced at their neighbors as Diana took deep breaths and swallowed hard, struggling for control. Her eyes opened wide, and she withdrew her hands from the shirt as if she held hot coals. After a minute she lifted it again, walked to the edge of the stage, and looked out into the dimly lit theater, squinting, searching, panning left to right, front to back.

“Could we have the house lights, please.” She descended the stairs into the audience. Scanning the faces one by one, she sauntered up the right aisle, canvassing each row, each side. She saw Lucier move to a rear exit, Cash to another. No one moved, but heads turned following her path, enthralled by the mystery of the gray T-shirt. She reached the end, turned left, crossed the middle section and strolled down the left aisle, repeating her search in the same way. Nothing. No one who even resembled Macon. She glanced to make sure Lucier was still there.

“I wonder if the owner knew what I’d discover by touching this.” Holding the shirt clutched to her breast, she doubled back to the center aisle—still examining the faces—and stepped up onto the stage. Not a murmur disrupted the silence.

“This shirt gives off very disturbing vibes.” She walked to the chair and sat down. Touching the crumpled gray cloth gingerly with her fingertips, she appeared lost in the study of the weave. She never looked up when she spoke. “I see a young boy with an older man. These two people have or had an unusual relationship—an extremely close personal relationship.” Diana stopped for effect. “I see a woman in the picture too, but she’s fuzzy, maybe because the shirt’s owner is unable to…to choose between them, weighed down with divided affections.” After another hesitation, she proceeded as if driven by a force she couldn’t control.

“I read the boy’s emotions quite clearly, though.” She spanned the audience. “He hates both the man and the woman.” Pinching the bridge of her nose, she shook her head. “I don’t know what it means, but I don’t think I can continue because the shirt gives off unpleasant vibes. I doubt the owner would come onstage to explain.”

Words of encouragement sprang from the crowd, urging Diana to continue what they assumed a scandalous mystery. They applauded, captivated by the interpretation of her vision.

“There are times,” she said, “when I feel I must stop rather than unearth something too invasive. I hope you understand. One part of me would like to pursue this item of clothing while another feels quicksand waits.”

She tossed the shirt to Missy Beecher and walked to the front of the stage. “This evening has been very interesting. I thank you all for being such an excellent audience. And again, thank you for your support during a very difficult time. I hope you’ve enjoyed the show as much as I have, and I look forward to seeing you next year during Mardi Gras.” The audience sat in stunned silence, then burst into applause.

Diana walked off stage. No one stood in the wings.

Where is everyone? Why is no one back here?

Feeling safer in front of the audience, she returned for a gracious bow. A glance in back confirmed neither Lucier nor Cash were where they stood a short time before. She retreated through the curtains to backstage.

Aware she was alone backstage, she hurried to her dressing room, heart pounding, every muscle in her body tense. Galen had always been waiting after a performance, but he’d gone home. Footsteps. She turned quickly. A shadow emerged from behind the curtain. Diana lurched back. Only a lighting man. She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding. They nodded, and she practically ran to her dressing room and locked the door behind her.

Disappointment replaced fear. Nothing had worked out as she planned. Did she honestly think Macon would expose himself in front of the obvious police presence? Jump up with some theatrical confession like the climax of a Perry Mason TV script? He had been there. She knew it. Felt his animus in her bones. She didn’t know how, but he’d managed to outfox everyone and watch her make a fool of herself for two hours. How? She’d examined every face. He couldn’t have gotten by her. That wasn’t possible.

But he was there. And he had.

She’d pieced together Jason’s findings with her own discoveries to push Macon’s buttons, putting herself on the line, in spite of Lucier’s objections. Nothing worked.

Jason unearthed everything he could from Macon’s twenty-two-year-old conviction. The computer expert hacked into legal records and newspaper articles, using his considerable skills to gather information. Though Macon had been legally a minor, he was tried as an adult, but the sensational aspects of the sadistic crime breached whatever might have been considered private otherwise and left nothing to the imagination of the reading public. Jason contacted one of the original investigating officers. Though retired, the old cop followed current events and was eager to help.

She went over everything from the cop’s suspicions about the murders of three other local girls to the inferences about the boy, his mother, and stepfather, who disappeared without a trace. Things considered so abnormal, they were mentioned only in whispers.

Facts mixed with past sensations Diana gleaned from the T-shirt developed a picture of Macon’s life no scriptwriter could concoct. Yes, he had brutally savaged her at the cabin. Yes, he admitted to the two murders in New Orleans and others. But what astounded her even more from her deepest perceptions was that Harley Macon didn’t commit the murder for which he had been tried, convicted, and sent to prison for twenty years of his young life.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The Ghost

H
e’d gotten away with it. She looked right at him. For a second he thought she recognized him. He’d never used a disguise before. It was brilliant. The black cop passed right by him without a blink. Even smiled.

Did she really think he was that stupid? He knew her game and blocked her out. Still, he had taken a great risk. What if she had gotten into his head like she did the other morning? He wouldn’t have been able to control the intense pain.

She saw things. Everyone in that audience knew what she implied. Not that it mattered now, but he didn’t want Alice to know. She might understand, might even get turned on, but who could tell about Alice? He knew only that he had to kill Diana Racine. Everything in the logical part of his brain said to get in the car with Alice and head south. But logic had long since taken a holiday. What started as a game—a competition—had escalated beyond reason. Getting Diana Racine had become more important than getting away.

Being with Alice gave the cops two targets. Even with a large shirt, she was hard to ignore. He knew what she was, but so what? No one had cared about him that much since he was a boy. She made him happy. Crazy. They might even have a normal life together.

He chuckled. What’s normal? Maybe if he’d met her when he first got out of prison, instead of after committing two murders and a kidnapping. Both federal offenses with no statute of limitations. If they caught him, he’d never again see the light of day, except maybe for an hour from the prison yard. Death row for sure. Well, he blew his chance to start over. He’d proceed on the path he set. And Diana Racine was his destination.

* * * * *

M
acon sat outside the stage door on a brick wall and waited with all the other groupies. Women looking for the excitement their lives lacked, men—faggots all—adoring, with their pierced ears and bleached hair and effeminate gestures. One would think she was Streisand or Midler.

Diana emerged from the theater and waved to her admirers before being hustled into the backseat of a car and whisked away by the ever-vigilant cops protecting her. Another police car followed, and as they passed, the Volvo, with Alice in the driver’s seat, followed four cars behind, lost in the caravan of departing fans.

Later, at the warehouse, she would tell him where Diana was staying. Then, he needed one person to help him and one more disaster to make sure he had her all to himself. Macon surveyed the lingering fans remaining in the alley, caught the smile directed at him from one of them. Perfect.