Better Read Than Dead (2 page)

“Kendal?” I asked, my eyes still shut, and my mouth turned down into a hard frown.

“Yeah?”

“After this our little debt is paid in full, okay?”

“No problemo, sugar. See you tomorrow.”

I flipped the lid of my cell phone closed without wishing him good-bye. I was pissed at myself and didn’t trust that I wouldn’t take it out on him. I didn’t want to do the party, and I was mad at myself for caving.

Sitting up straight I flipped off the engine and grabbed my purse off the passenger seat. If only Kendal had gotten my voice mail, I probably could have dodged him until after the freaking wedding. But when my phone rang I’d been hoping it was Dutch, so I didn’t check the number on the caller ID before picking up. I got out of my car and walked grudgingly out of the parking structure and across the street toward my office building.

I live and work in a suburb of Detroit called Royal Oak. I love the town for its rather eclectic nature and the fact that it welcomes the odd, strange, bizarre, boring, common and obscure with equal portions of measured warmth. It is a unique town for that: No one is disenfranchised, from the homeless who seek shelter in the doorways of downtown, to the pierced, “fashion-rebellious” youth who crowd the various clubs and music stores, all the way up to those double-income, minivandriving, two-kids-and-a-Labrador-named-Buddy couples that I tend to look at while stifling a yawn. Everyone is welcome. It’s the perfect climate for a little freak like me.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Even though my profession smacks of surrealism, my life is sadly bland. I live in a small two-bedroom bungalow that’s been undergoing renovations for as long as I’ve owned it, I have a small miniature Dachshund named Eggy and a car with eighty thousand on the odometer, and a wild evening for me consists of watching the ball game with my boyfriend.

At least in the man department I’ve hit a ten on the wowser meter. My boyfriend—the FBI agent, or as I like to refer to him, “Mr. Sexy.”

The title fits Dutch perfectly. He’s tall, about six-two, with light blond hair and incredible midnight-blue eyes. His body would put Greek gods to shame, and his baritone voice has some sort of Pavlovian effect on me—I tend to salivate just talking to him.

He and I first met through one of those online dating services, and the fact that I’d struck a home run with him was apparent to me right away. He took a little longer to come around, although it had helped a bit that at the time I was being pursued by a serial killer—it brought out his protective side. His major obstacle had been warming to my profession—I mean, how many professional psychics have
you
dated?

Luckily he got over it, and we were on our way to advancing our relationship when a phone call came eight weeks ago informing Dutch that he had been accepted into the FBI, where he’s been training in Virginia ever since. He’s due back tomorrow morning, and I’ve been about as patient as a five-year-old on Christmas Eve.

Tomorrow night—Halloween—was our planned reunion, and we had intended to pass out candy to the kids in the neighborhood, then share a romantic candlelight dinner, and the rest of the evening get reacquainted. The French-maid outfit I’d purchased was just one of the colorful ideas I’d come up with for the reacquainting part.

Now I’d have to reschedule. Son of a bitch.

I crossed the street and walked quickly through the rain into the front lobby of my office building. I work in a large, tan brick office plaza, which is a magnificent example of architectural indecision. The building hogs one square block of downtown, squatting its bulky and irregular frame like a giant water buffalo. The structure houses boxy sections, spiked towers and sharply angled corners. It’s an architectural acid trip if ever there was one.

I took the stairs this morning to my second-floor suite. I’m over thirty now, and the prospect of being seen naked again for the first time in three years had been doing wonders to inspire me to take a little Jell-O out of my J-Lo.

Panting, I reached the second-floor landing and walked down the corridor to my office suite, number 222. It’s the one down the hallway and to the right, sandwiched between an accountant and a computer graphics firm. If you have a nose, you can just follow the aroma of the incense I burn on a regular basis. Nothing too frou frou . . . I prefer musky scents. So far no one’s complained, and I’ve taken that as silent acquiescence from my neighbors to continue the practice.

As I rounded the corner to my doorway I noticed a tall figure pacing in front of my door. The thundercloud over my head evaporated the moment I placed his face. “Milo!” I shouted, and ran toward him.

“Umph,” he said as I crashed into him with a big bear hug, squeezing him tightly. “Hey, Abby, I see you’ve gotten your strength back,” he said, laughing.

I backed away and beamed up at him. Milo Johnson used to be a detective with the Royal Oak Police Department, and partners with Dutch until last August, when he’d played the lottery and won big-time. Of course, he’d had a little help from yours truly. He’d played the numbers I’d given him, a notion I was quick to point out. “Here to give me my cut?” I asked with a mischievous grin and an outstretched palm.

Milo’s a gorgeous man. Tall, black and elegant, he has fine facial bones and sumptuous lips that part into a fantastic smile when he’s amused. I was graced with the full grille as he looked at my outstretched palm and wheezed his contagious laugh, while reaching into the pocket of an expensive overcoat. “Actually, yes. After all, it wouldn’t be fair for me to keep all the money when your numbers did the winning.”

In my palm he placed a personal check colored with more zeros than I’d ever seen in my life. My humor faded immediately as I looked from him to the check with a mixture of excitement and shock. “Milo,” I said, a little breathless, “I was just kidding. I didn’t
actually
expect you to give me half.”

“Abby, are you for real? Take the money, girl—and run.”

I stood for a moment bouncing on the balls of my feet. There was close to two million dollars in my outstretched hand, and I noticed how my palms were suddenly sweating with the thought of all I could buy, and how much fun I could have. I wondered if my wealthy sister ever felt this way when she checked her bank balance. The experience was too surreal for me to take in, and I was just about to pocket the check when my intuitive phone began to vibrate on high.

For most people intuition is nothing more than a random thought making its way from the unconscious to the conscious, a commercial break during regular programming; but for me the experience is completely different. My intuition is more like a surround-sound infomercial—and I’m usually a captive audience. Having used it every day of my life for the past four years, I’m now ultrasensitive to the messages, tickling sensations, random thoughts, humming sounds, disconnectedness and physical pressures that affect my body.

In that moment before pocketing the check I got a “buzz,” if you will, like a telephone ringing in the background letting me know there was a message to be picked up. I turned my head for a moment and listened with my mind. My left side felt thick and heavy—my sign for no. I checked the indication by sending out a question in my mind:
Should I take the check?
My left side again felt thick and heavy.

Often I get messages that, at the time, seem off. This one was pure bull.
Why the hell not?
I asked in my head as I looked longingly at the check. Immediately in my mind’s eye I saw an image of a baseball field and a playground. I looked at Milo and asked, “Were you considering donating some money to a baseball field or a playground or something?”

Milo had been watching me intently as my head cocked to one side and I searched out the meaning of the messages coming to me. He now looked a little astonished when I asked this question, and said, “Actually, I was. The Boys and Girls Club in my neighborhood has been struggling financially, and when I was a little kid they were the ones who kept me out of trouble and pointed me in the right direction. A lot of kids in my old neighborhood ended up dealing drugs or dead, and I was lucky enough to steer clear of all that because of the club. I’ve already sent them some cash, but every little bit helps.”

I hungrily looked at the check for another beat, my left side feeling thicker and heavier by the second. Finally I took a deep breath and tore it down the center, then again lengthwise and handed the pieces back to Milo with a chagrined look. “Milo, let’s not give just a little; let’s give ’em a lot and make a damn difference.”

He took the bits of paper from me and asked, “All of it? I mean . . . that’s a lot of money. You could quit doing this and retire to someplace tropical if you wanted to.”

I held my hand up in a “stop” motion. “Please don’t tempt me. Besides, this is what I’m supposed to be doing. I’m meant to be in this line of work, and winning the lottery isn’t going to change that purpose. Trust me, this money will be of better use in your old neighborhood.”

Milo patted me on the back good-naturedly and said, “I always knew you were a sucker for a good cause.”

“I’ll agree with you on the sucker part. You want to come in?” I asked, turning to unlock my office door.

“Wish I could, but I’ve got a meeting with the captain in a little while, and I don’t want to be late.”

“The captain? I thought you quit your job.”

“I did, but losing me and Dutch at once has really hit the department hard. They’ve asked me to consider coming back part-time for a while.”

“Are you gonna do it?” I asked, already subconsciously scanning his energy.

“You think I should?” he asked me seriously.

Automatically I said, “Yes. There’s something they really want your help with, Milo. Something big, and you’re the guy for the job. I really feel like you’re the one who will help solve the crime. But be careful. You’re playing with fire.” At that moment a cold prickle tickled my spine. I didn’t know why, but I shivered involuntarily.

Milo looked at me quizzically for a minute, then soberly nodded his head. “The truth is that retirement is pretty boring, and I could use something to focus on. Thanks, I appreciate the advice,” he said, leaning in and giving me a quick hug.

“Anytime. By the way, Dutch will be back tomorrow. Why don’t we all get together for lunch soon?” I asked as he stepped back.

“That’d be great. Have him give me a call when he gets in, and we’ll set it up. Happy Halloween, Abby.”

I waved good-bye, then let myself into my office. I glanced at the clock and noticed that I’d better get a move on if I wanted to be ready for my one-o’clock appointment. I hurried through the tiny lobby into the back office and put my coat and purse away.

My office suite is set up in a T formation. As you walk through the doorway you enter a tiny lobby with two chairs and a side table laid out with magazines. Straight ahead is my inner office, where I have a computer, phone, filing cabinets and fax machine. To the right of my lobby sits an empty space that at one point was occupied by my best friend, Theresa—a medium who moved to California a few months before—then by a massage therapist who was scared off by the same serial killer who’d put me out of commission for several weeks. I was currently interviewing possible replacements for the space, but as yet no one had seemed like a good fit.

To the left of the lobby was my reading area, a quaint ten-by-eleven-foot space painted a beautiful azure blue with cream trim and wood floors. The room housed two overstuffed plush chairs that faced each other and a small table that held a tape recorder dividing the space between. A large credenza butted up against three enormous windows on the room’s east wall, and the daylight through the windows played nicely over the various crystals I had arranged on top of the credenza. Candles dotted surfaces here and there, a mosaic mirror hung on one wall, and a large waterfall sat in one corner, giving rhythm to the room.

My reading area had always been a source of comfort for me. It was the room where I fully became myself. A place where I wasn’t someone’s neighbor, sister, friend or girl-next-door; but me, Abigail Cooper, professional psychic. Only in this little nook had I never been self-conscious of my gifts. Only here were there never any worries about being accepted or rejected. I could be completely myself, and for that reason it was the most precious space in the world to me.

I paused for a moment in the doorway, letting the serenity of the room wash over me like a cool shower on a hot day. With a sigh I quickly began lighting candles and incense, then picked up a brand-new cassette from the credenza and put it into the recorder. After that I sat in one of the white plush chairs and closed my eyes, getting my mind ready for my first reading.

Now, I’ve read a lot of books by other psychics who say they spend hours meditating before beginning their sessions. I’m a Capricorn, and we just don’t have that kind of patience. For me it’s literally a two-minute routine in my head, where I clear my mind as best I can and focus on the task at hand. Think of it as what you might do before taking a test. You’ve studied, crammed, memorized and prepared, but in those final moments before you’re allowed to turn your paper over, mentally you’re telling yourself, “You can do this . . . piece of cake . . . you know the answers!” It’s a bit like holding a mini pep rally in my head.

At exactly one o’clock there was a small knock on my door, and I hurried out to the lobby to greet my appointment. My one-o’clock was a new client named Cathy Schultz, a pretty girl I’d guess to be in her late twenties with shoulder-length blond hair and bright pink lipstick. We shook hands and I led her into my reading room. After taking our seats I got comfortable, turned on the tape recorder, closed my eyes, focused on her energy and began.

“Cathy, the first thing I want to say is congratulations. Did you just graduate from college or something?”

“Yes, this past August,” she said.