02 Blue Murder (34 page)

Brannon had reached the same conclusion.
“Rach. What did you do to him?”

“
Who are you?” I barked,
gripping the young doctor by the shoulders and praying he could
answer.

“
Ken Holtz.”

“
Where are you?”

“
St. Mary’s Emergency
Department.”

“
Who am I?”

“
Um … somebody’s
patient?”

“
Good enough. Who are you
supposed to see next?”

“
Mrs. Patel. She has
congestive heart failure. I need to order her a breathing
treatment.”

I sagged, relieved. Maybe I hadn’t done any
permanent damage.

“
Go see Mrs. Patel. We’ll
take care of ourselves.” Smiling nervously, he stood up and hurried
away.

“
You forced him to forget
you?” Brannon didn’t look much happier.

“
Not on purpose.” Shucking
off the blue paper gown, I pulled my party dress over my head. Then
I stepped into my shoes, forcing my swollen right ankle and
ignoring the pain. “How’s my hair look?”

“
Like
Girl,
Interrupted.
”

“
Gimme your
brush.”

Brannon passed it over. Eager to escape
before Dr. Holtz or one of the nurses returned, I smoothed my hair,
working from feel since the room had no mirror. After a lifetime of
long hair, I was used to fighting these battles, but one of these
days I’d cut it all off and be done with it.

Twisting the mass into a knot, I smoothed
the crown and sides. “Now how do I look?”

“
Like you’re about to do the
walk of shame.”

“
Fine.” Locating my purse, I
slung it over my shoulder. “Where’s my coat?”

Brannon looked chagrined. “In the confusion
– getting you to the hospital – I left our coats in your car. And
it’s been towed.”

That wasn’t exactly a cardinal sin.
Especially to me, who’d just blundered around inside some poor
man’s head with a power I didn’t understand. But to Brannon’s side
of the family, it was a major transgression. The Murrays always
hovered between broke and flat busted. Losing a winter coat,
ripping a contact lens, signing up for an expensive school activity
– all hardcore sins.

I shrugged. “We’ll get our coats back later.
Let’s go.”

The waiting room, almost empty, was
dominated by a blaring TV. Spray-on snow and holiday scenes
decorated the windows. An artificial Christmas tree listed in one
corner, weighed down by foil icicles and plastic Santas. Three
people sat near the tree, eyes on the television. I braced myself.
Even so, seeing Hayden again stopped me dead.

I’d been trying to convince myself she was
nothing special, just an ordinary woman I’d confused with someone
else. But no. Even in profile, with her attention fixed on the TV,
I could feel the invisible pull between us … a strange twisted
fusion like the connection of her Porsche and my Mazda …

Seeing us enter, Zach stood up and smiled.
Warmed by a surge of recognition, I smiled back. He wore a
cable-knit sweater and dark jeans. His black hair was cut shorter
than it had been in 1870, taming those curls into mere waves. He
was taller than he’d been as Dominic – maybe five eleven, with
broader shoulders. So he wasn’t completely identical to his prior
self, maybe because of modern factors – prenatal care, vitamins,
nutritious food …

Josh also stood up, giving Brannon and me a
casual wave. His blond hair was much longer and shaggier than I
remembered from 1870. A faint scar stood out on his left cheek –
another deviation from his prior self. Then again, in Victorian
London we’d enjoyed lives of privilege. Judging by Josh’s
lumberjack shirt, battered jeans and steel-toed boots, his current
life required more from him than brunches and foxhunts.

Hayden, riveted by the TV, was the last to
see us and rise. “They discharged you already?” Judging by her
tone, Hayden knew about the psych consult, or guessed.

“
Free as a bird.” I held up
my wrists to show no handcuffs. “You guys aren’t waiting around for
me, are you?”

“
Why not?” Josh grinned. “My
van’s busted up pretty bad. Hayden’s car is toast. And Zach’s is
barely drivable. Nothing to do but wait for news about you. And
watch this douche.” He pointed at the TV, where Jason Stavros was
appearing on yet another late-night stage.

Unknown until just three weeks ago, Stavros
had become world-famous. As the late show’s host cracked nervous
jokes, Stavros waved his hand over a glass of water, levitating it
above the desk. Then, shifting his mental powers to a stack of
playing cards, Stavros made them float above the stage. First
whirling in graceful spirals, the cards next fluttered like
butterflies, flocking together to assemble a tall, complex figure.
As the audience burst into applause, the host, clearly more spooked
than charmed, paced around the floating house of cards to prove no
strings or mirrors were involved.

I forced myself to meet Hayden’s gaze. Eyes
exactly like Ted’s looked back, so familiar they were disturbing. I
knew why she’d watched Stavros’s performance so closely. Some
people considered him a genuine psychic, an alien, even an angelic
presence. Others assumed he was just another magician feigning
paranormal abilities. Until this moment, I’d belonged in the second
camp. But now I knew exactly what Stavros was.

“
Why does he get to be on
TV?” I asked Hayden. “He’s not half the telekinetic you
are.”