(Psychic Visions 01) Tuesday's Child (10 page)

Bill opened the back door to the van. "She mentioned something about it. I haven't confirmed availability yet. I'll have to call her in the morning."

"No problem. This is the same group from last week. They want to work on individual training, so maybe you can see your way into accepting this one."

Bill had a grin plastered on his face. On the inside, though, he was tired of smiling. He was tired of being nice all day, and he was fucking tired of the whole mess. Surely, his luck would change soon and he could split. "No problem. If I can, I will."

"Good enough. We'll see you later then."

Jack headed back into the clubhouse. As he opened the door, a slinky brunette in tight-ass capri pants and a shorty midriff top walked toward him, a tiny white Lhasa Apso sporting a big pink bow, in her arms.

Bill grinned at the beautiful woman walking toward him and stopped loading his stuff into the back of the van to talk with her. "Hi, Caroline."

A bright smile broke across her face. "Thanks for today's class, Bill. I'm just sorry Jared couldn't be here today. He'd have really enjoyed it."

Bill smiled as expected. In truth, if he heard one more thing about her husband, Jared, he was liable to scream. If there was one thing he couldn't stand – it was gushing females, particularly when they were gushing about their males.

Still, he managed to keep an eye on her nicely rounded ass as she walked past to her black Porsche several vehicles down.

He just might have to do something about that...and her.

2:30 am, June 17
^th

Screams echoed in the darkness. Sam twisted and pulled, struggling to get away from whatever held her fast. She couldn't get free. In a blind panic, she realized her body no longer answered to her commands. Her eyes opened. She shuddered. Shearing pain melded with terror as she took in the blood dripping to the floor. It ran down the folds of the floral bedspread to soak into the cream carpet waiting below.

"Please don't...no more." A voice not her own spoke the words in her head. A blow shattered her breastbone. Her screams poured into the small room. Sam barely flinched. Her attacker laughed.

"Like I'm going to listen to you, bitch. You like this. You must. You let that useless husband of yours beat you all the time." His hideous laughter added to her horror. God, how could he laugh at her? He was an animal. She died a little more at his unexpected pleasure. Monster.

Maybe it had something to do with his unseemly pleasure, or maybe it came from her absolute fury at yet another murder, but somewhere deep inside, Sam's consciousness attempted to reassert itself. In a weird way, she became aware of both worlds at once. Her awareness built, a small step at a time, allowing her to put a slight distance between her and the dying woman's. Fog grew between the two realities, buffering her from the poor woman's pain and fear.

Groggy and disoriented, Sam tried to snap out of the psychic episode fully, only to slam back inside the injured woman. Her body lurched uncontrollably. Sam tried to ward off the oncoming blow, but couldn't make the right arm move.

"Stupid woman. What good are those looks of yours now? It's far too late to run away." The fists lashed out, once, twice and then yet again. Muscles tore and internal organs bled under cracked bones. The poor woman arched her back, lifting high off the bed. Both women screamed. Cries echoed inside and outside of Sam's mind, building, and blending into a crescendo of terror.

"Why are you doing this?" Blood trickled down the corner of her mouth. Sam didn't know who spoke – her or the victim. It didn't matter, the words were the same.

"Because I can, bitch." Mocking laughter echoed through the small room.

"But...?" She gasped, fighting the vomit in the back of her throat. "Why me?"

"You're weak. You deserve killing. Staying with an asshole like that. Besides, I hate him. Maybe the cops will think he's good for this one."

"No," she gasped. "Please, don't."

"Too late."

He raised his fist and landed a blow below her eye socket. Bone shattered, making little scrunching noises. There'd be no white knight coming to the rescue. Ever. There was only Sam and she didn't know how to help.

Through the bloody haze, Sam, desperate to take something useful back with her, struggled to open her good eye. Swollen and bloody and not her own, made the job damn near impossible. Light slid painfully under her sore eyelids. She struggled to bring the scene in focus. The bastard was getting off her bed. Blood splatter covered his shirt and jeans. He wore unrelenting black with the blood standing out in dark wet spots. He wore gloves and a ski mask. Same height and same build.

Same energy pattern. Damn, him again. At least she thought it was him.

Only one eye could see. Sam couldn't even tell if this man wore a ring or not. The light in the room started to fade, as if the sun were setting at rapid speed. Except the curtains were closed and it was the middle of the night.

Her vision narrowed, locked on her killer's face. The circle grew smaller and smaller. Sam knew her time was almost over. She could only watch with painful understanding as the circle of light reduced to a pinpoint before finally, thankfully, blinking out. Forever.

It was over.

Sam woke in her own room, minutes later. For the first time, grief didn't overwhelm her. She was angry. She hurt for the victim and her family. But even more, a deep pulsing fury permeated her soul. That asshole had way too much fun doing what he was doing. He had to be stopped.

When she could, she shifted upright. Pain still coursed through her body, but the anger provided a dense barrier, letting her cut through the pain. Inner excitement grabbed hold. This time she'd had some kind of conscious awareness. She'd kept a part of herself intact while living what that poor woman had experienced.

Poor soul. Sam sniffled. Why was this guy doing this? Surely, he had a reason – more than just for entertainment.

Lying back down, she thought about the details from the vision. Once again, the killer had been fully hidden, so no face or ring showed. There'd been light-colored walls, a plain white ceiling, and a cheap floral bedspread. Again, nothing helpful.

It was six in the morning now. Surely, someone would find the woman today? Depression set in.

Tucking the blankets around her, she reached for the phone. There was no answer at Detective Brandt's number. She hung up. Then changing her mind, she redialed and this time left a message. Afterward, she sat, undecided, before dialing the station.

Five minutes later, she was sorely regretting that action.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, could you repeat that?"

"Could you please have Detective Sutherland call me? I know this sounds bizarre, but I can't give you any more information. A woman has been murdered." Samantha tried to keep her voice from showing her frustration. Just going over the details hurt. Damn it, why wouldn't anyone listen to her?

She cleared her throat from the confused emotions clogging it. "Excuse me, could you just pass the message on, please?" She shifted the phone to the other ear.

"I'll see that he gets your message," replied the cold voice on the other end of the phone.

"Thank you," she answered, and hung up. There was nothing else to do.

It took twenty-five minutes to hear from him.

"Samantha?"

"Yes," she answered, relief rushing through her. "It's me."

"And?" he asked, concern in his voice.

Sam took a deep breath, snuffling back tears. "He's killed again," she whispered.

Dead silence.

She scowled into the phone. She could almost hear the gears in his mind churning at lightning speed.

"Did you see him?"

"I saw him, not the ring. He kept his gloves on the whole time." She shivered at the memory, still fresh in her mind. "He wore all black, including the ski mask."

"Can you identity him in any way?"

Sam shook her head then realized he couldn't see her. "No. Not really. I might recognize him by size, carriage, maybe his way of moving. His gaze..." Sam closed her eyes and swallowed hard, hating the fear clinging to her skin. Some belonged to the various victims and to a certain extent – some of it was hers. The killer breathed evil. She got a grip again. "It won't stand up in court, but I would recognize his energy if I ever saw him again – at least I think so."

"What does that mean?" His sharp voice cut through the lines.

She stiffened. "When he kills he lets himself enjoy it. Energy has its own individual pattern and changes with moods, etc." She paused for a moment. "I think I might recognize it again, but I can't say for sure."

"Hmm."

Sam waited in edgy silence.

"Is there anything you can tell me about the victim?"

"Like what?" She relaxed slightly. With it, fatigue set in. She was so tired.

"Like where she lives, a house, an apartment...something to help us find her faster."

Samantha sighed. "When you're being attacked, you don't think, 'I'm so and so and live at 146 Pine Street.' Women think about being rescued, and why them, and toward the end..." Sam caught back a hiccup of a sob. "Toward the end," she continued, her voice a hint above a whisper, "they only think of those they're leaving behind – their loved ones." Sam could barely hear him through the chaos of her emotions, yet, she could sense his sympathy. She could hear him scratching down notes. "He beat her to death."

"He beat her? No knives?"

"No. He hated her husband. The husband beat her so he took her away from him. If that makes any sense."

"Nothing a killer does, makes any sense."

Sam hesitated. "Another thing. Her eyes were damaged. It was hard to see clearly." Sam stared bitterly out the large bedroom window, where raindrops started to ping against the panes of glass. She would see another sunny day, but the poor women wouldn't.

"Can you tell me anything else? Her name? You got the name of the car victim."

"That was different." Violent imagery coursed through her mind. Was there gold to be mined in there somewhere? "Just a minute." Sam closed her eyes, trying to let the images she'd been forcing back, flood her mind. Maybe, there was something useful there. Fists. Blows. Blood. Screams. Red. Pain. Grief. Sam doubled over, gasping at the emotional onslaught. She fought to stay conscious, scared all over again as the pain and images took her back into the horror.
There.
What was that?

A name. Sam fought to leash the demons in her mind, scrambling for the safety of her physical reality, desperately wanting to return to her small cabin by the lake. She shuddered and opened her eyes.

A whitewashed ceiling stared back at her.

She shivered. How could anything so bizarre happen in such a calm and normal setting?

"Sam, damn it, answer me." Brandt's voice screamed through her phone, dragging her attention back to the task at hand. "Are you there? God damn it!"

"Brandt." Sam's vocal cords sounded wrong to her own ears, hoarse and rough. She tried again. "It's okay. I'm here."

"What the hell happened? Jesus, you said just a minute. I thought you'd gone to get something."

Sam frowned. "How long was I gone?"

"At least two or three fucking minutes." His voice calmer now. "I almost hopped into my truck to drive out to your place. Jesus, don't scare me like that again."

Sam shook her head. That long? No, surely not. She stared uncertainly at the small plastic clock on the milk crate that passed for a nightstand.

"So what the hell was that all about?" Brandt blasted her, obviously pissed now that she'd returned.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to worry you. Her husband's name was Alex."

"Husband? Was he the killer?"

"No." She rushed to explain. "That's what the killer wants you to believe."

"So, the husband was a wife beater?"

"I think so."

Silence through the phone as he digested that information. When he spoke again, he was all business. "I've got to take another call. I'll need you to come to the station and give a statement. How about eleven? I'll see you then."

Sam stared down at the dead phone. "Shit. That was so
not
what I wanted to happen."

8:55 am

A
pproaching the same imposing building for a second time was no easier. She glanced at her cheap watch. Right on time. The station had called just over an hour ago asking her to come in for nine instead. Two hours earlier meant two hours she didn't have to wait and worry. Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and walked in.

Her reception, this time, was quite different. After letting the front desk know she was there for her appointment, she was taken to a small room and left alone. Sam shivered as she took in the square table and two chairs. No windows, no couch, nothing to indicate comfort. This appeared more like an interrogation room. Silently, she walked to the far side of the table and sat down. Sam didn't need any other cues to understand she could be in serious trouble.